⠀×⠀headcanons on ormund h. x wife!reader . ✚ a mini-scenario.
📽️ 𝓮’s navigation. house of the dragon s3.
wc. 1.7k
a／n. s3 ep1 and ormund’s 3 seconds of screentime is the only reference for this, might turn out to be 100% inaccurate to ormund’s character. out of the millions of times i’ve planned to post fanfics on this tumblr and didn’t, ormund hightower of all characters, is the one to break the cycle, lmao. also, i am a chronic italics over-user, sorry !
×⠀i have to hop on the bandwagon and agree on ormund’s obsession over the scent of his wife. in the summer, you’ll carry a simple crème handkerchief with a lace border and your initials woven in white silk, which barely contrasts. sometimes, you’ll bring another. you know your lord husband.
×⠀in the summer, or even the warmer weeks of spring, ormund neglects refuses to bring a handkerchief of his own. he has an admirable sense of patience, the man will wait until you use the handkerchief to pat at the sweat on your neck or forehead at least thrice, THEN and ONLY then does ormund request to “borrow” a handkerchief. which is code for ~ i am about to SNIFF the fuck out of a piece of fabric that carries the scent of my wife’s sweat, of all things ~
× ormund’s an odd man.
×⠀i imagine a servant says, “m’lord, i’ll make sure to prepare a few handkerchiefs for warmer weather.” ormund’s response is a simple, “‘tis quite alright, no need.” which, this time, is code for ~ please, don’t ruin a good thing ~
×⠀will swap your pillows on occasion. and, ormund is known to slide the pillowcase off of your pillow and pack it to put on HIS pillow when he’s away. once again, ormund’s an odd man.
×⠀prioritizes going to the sept at least thrice a week; on the morning of sermons, of course, and for prayer, confession, and contemplation on the other days. prefers to go together. ormund adores the idea that that’s a staple in your marriage.
×⠀at the sept, ormund presses the tip of his unlit candle to the flame of yours to light it, every single time. in general, i imagine you and ormund often sit shoulder to shoulder, to the point where while you’re in two chairs it appears as if you’re both in one. in particular, you and ormund sit in each other during sermons. while the septon speaks, you’ll fold your hands in your lap, and ormund slips one of his hands into yours. you held one of his hands in both of yours once, under the table at a feast; held it there and toyed with ormund’s fingers and rings. he’s so into it, so he silently requests it 24/7. not to mention the scent of your hands lingers on his.
×⠀i imagine closeness in general is another ‘thing’ ormund adores. in a physical and mental sense. he abhors the idea of having a wife he doesn’t know and vise-versa. and i mean know know. not the relevance of your house in the grand scheme of the realm and its political landscape, or the relationship of your house to the hightowers. important, true. but, that’s far from all there is to it. he’s interested in you as an individual. therefore, you and ormund are close. very close.
×⠀as a result, you’re one of the few few people that’s aware of how outright odd ormund is. or rather, the fact that he’s a professional nerd. he’s into all sorts of stuff: science, literature, theatre, even … beekeeping.
×⠀in less than three minutes, he’s able to point out any constellation at night. is an encyclopedia trapped in the body of a man. recalls the details of wars from ages prior to his time. recalls the entire hightower bloodline. almost recalls the entire bloodline of your house. can draw an accurate map of westeros by hand. recalls obscure facts about random animals. ormund reads a lot, is open to any genre, and provides 10 out of 10 commentaries.
×⠀ormund’s commentaries are reserved for nights, before bed. you’re in bed, back against the headboard and bundled in a blanket. ormund’s pacing, with a towel tied around his waist. or an open robe, silk in hightower green or plain black. straight out of the washroom. your husband is 35 minutes into a long-winded review of a romance novel one of the maesters recommended. yes, romance.
×⠀ he appreciates the fact that you listen, and in turn, is an amazing listener. granted, you are also a professional nerd.
×⠀the conversations that take place in your chamber are entertainment at its finest. it ranges from questions as to the creation of mankind and animals, or lord so and so’s subpar swordfighting skills, to daeron’s newfound knack for spear-fishing. when one of you climbs in bed and leans against the headboard, it’s a telltale sign that it’s three-hour-conversation time. sometimes, ormund pulls you to sit on him during it, and absentmindedly tugs at the ends of your hair or the lace lining of your sleepgown.
×⠀wait !! back to the ‘closeness’ thing. that man stands so close to you. all. the. time. and invites you to do the same! denies the concept of personal space.
×⠀while he’s at his desk, he initiates the classic™️ sit on his lap while he does paperwork. i imagine you’re well informed on issues of the realm and politics in general. so, sometimes the pair of you discuss the recent events in westerosi politics. when ormund leans back, he pulls you back to lean on him.
×⠀likes to lift you up on your horse’s saddle. yes, he is aware you’re capable. no, he doesn’t care. even if your heights are similar, he likes to stand in front of you to shield you from the sun.
×⠀but! disclaimer! despite all of that, ormund swears he’s far from a diehard romantic. tries to convince you, tries to convince himself. hell, he even tries to convince daeron. daeron, for one, is NOT convinced. neither are you. what sort of man refuses to sleep when his wife has a headache, and instead is dedicated to rubbing your temples until you manage to fall asleep. a romantic one. what sort of man slides one of his rings on a thin chain for you to wear as a necklace, and plays with it when you’re in his lap. a DIEHARD romantic one.
×⠀still, ormund denies denies denies denies. daeron stares at ormund like he’s the lamest person ever.
×⠀ormund is a kisser, through and through !! in the morning. in the evening. in the night. in dreams, even. proper dreams and daydreams. if you’re going to separate for the day, he’ll linger until you kiss him. if you somehow miss that hint, no problem. ormund’s got it, he’ll simply interrupt you for a kiss. and! a peck rarely ever does the trick. the KING of “you know that wasn’t a proper kiss” or worse, the command ver., “kiss me proper, y/n”.
×⠀right. ok, i’m about to foam at the mouth. do with the #kingofkissing ormund what you will.
×⠀HE’s the one with a hand infatuation in the relationship. or, more so, his infatuation manages to outdo yours. as a result, ormund gifts you a lot of rings and bracelets. knows your preference for gold over silver, or vise-versa, and abides by it.
×⠀will signal daeron over in the middle of a meeting to murmur, “daeron, go find my wife.” everyone else supposes whatever their lord whispered was a simple ask, like a request for daeron to bring another carafe of wine. wrong! lord hightower’s intense separation anxiety is at an all time high.
the hour is late. ‘tis so late the perpetual scuffle of feet on the castle’s cobblestone floors finally subsided an hour or so ago. the faint creak and metallic clang of the guards’ armor on the other side of the broad bedchamber door serves as the backdrop to the murmured, though still spirited, conversation. your and ormund’s words are even the more muffled by the mound of pillows that surround the pair of you.
one of the wider windows at the chamber’s far side is cracked open at ormund’s request, another of the man’s particularities; he appreciates a gentle breeze after an especially hot bath.
as is one of the customs of the marriage, one of you, you on this particular night, is leaning on a pillow propped against the ornate headboard. while ormund lies on top of you, snug between your legs, with arms wrapped around either side of your thighs and waist. the stubborn stubble on ormund’s chin and jaw skims against the skin of your stomach through the thin silk of your sleepgown each time he speaks.
“oh! your cousin gwayne received correspondence from alicent, at last. i meant to mention it earlier,” you say. your husband’s stare latches onto you, thick brown brows raised ever so slightly in inquisition.
“you and gwayne,” ormund replies, “my cousin gwayne. send each other letters. like, to and fro constant correspondence,” he asks, as if to confirm that he’s heard what he thinks he’s heard.
he has not heard at all what he thinks he’s heard.
there is an instance of silence between the two of you.
“ormund,” you trail off, “no, i don’t regularly send letters to ser gwayne. why would i, gwayne lives not even a hour’s time away. i do keep constant correspondence with the dowager queen, and when free time is tough to come by, alicent sends her greetings to me via the letters she sends to him.”
he nods, and runs a hand over his face. the friction of palm to stubble creates a subtle scratching sound.
meanwhile, you’re left to wonder whether your lord husband has somehow contracted selective listening.
after awhile, those blue eyes latch again on your own eyes; it’s clear as ever that a bullshit question or comment is 100% brewing.
“my love, have you ever kept correspondence with my cousin ?.. my cousin gwayne, i mean,” he asks. in response to that, you let out a wholehearted laugh and press a hand to ormund’s shoulder to push him off, albeit he doesn’t budge. not even an inch.
“no, not that i can recall,” you say incredulously, “if i ever do, rest in knowing it’s on the simple account of cousin-in-law camaraderie.”
“do you possess not even a half a morsel of interest in your other cousin’s comings and goings,” you ask.
“there is nothing new under the sun that alicent and those three hellspawn haven’t done,” he waves a dismissive hand.
“alicent’s pair of hellspawned sons, you mean. sweet helaena is no trouble. and actually, the news regards alicent’s father, your uncle the lord hand.”
with a melodramatic groan, ormund turns to lie on his back, between your legs still. he reaches back for your hands to raise to his head. it isn’t until you start to rake gentle fingers through those brown nearly but-not-quite curls, that he’ll sigh out a, “very well, i suppose i shall hear it then.”