• Aemond is very strict. You often have to remind him that he doesn’t know more than the maesters.
• He isn’t particularly verbal with affection. Instead, he shows it through his actions. Your chair is always waiting, your bath is already prepared.
• He hates the idea of anyone touching your stomach except him. Not even your mother or Helaena.
• He takes it upon himself to personally oversee all of your meals.
• He doesn’t tell you, but he worries constantly about childbirth. Knowing your family history, he knows many women never survive it. He rarely sleeps well during the final weeks.
AEGON TARGARYEN
• Has absolutely no idea how pregnancy works or what to expect, but does his best to make you feel happy/comfortable. He uses humor to hide how scared he is.
• After a few goblets of wine he’ll snuggle up to you and rest his palm on your stomach and occasionally even talk to the baby.
• The first and only time in his life he is hesitant about being intimate with you. He’s worried he’ll hurt you and also feels a bit strange about it.
• The baby moving/kicking weirds him out but also fascinates/amazes him.
• No one actually notices, but as your labors approach, he drinks less.
JACAERYS VELARYON
• He is over the moon. He is so proud and wants to tell everyone straight away.
• Starts imagining what kind of parent he’ll be and quietly worries he won’t measure up to the examples he admired
• Over time his anxiety creeps in. He watches your every move and is immediately concerned. Asking, “are you alright? Does it hurt? Should I send for the maester?” You’re fine… but minutes later, he’s asking again.
• If it’s a girl? Forget it. He is absolutely ecstatic. Two perfect princesses. He wakes you up each morning with “how are my favorite ladies doing?”
• Deep down he worries that the child will suffer the same way he did as a child. Made to feel less than, their worthiness questioned.
CREGAN STARK
• He’s always wanted a large family, a bunch of his own little pups. The second he finds out you’re pregnant he is filled with pride.
• He has a massive breeding kink, so he’s even more handsy with you once you’re carrying his child, his praise during sex is on another level.
• He builds the baby’s cradle himself. And carves little wooden wolves, horses, and bears during the evenings. He brushes it off as “just something to pass the time.”
• if you mention craving something once, it’s yours. Whether it’s delivered to your chambers or waiting for you at dinner.
• He’s by your side the entire labor, whether the masters want it or not.
DAEMON TARGARYEN
• Loves taking you flying early in the pregnancy, but becomes increasingly reluctant as your belly grows.
• Becomes more attentive than usual, offering to rub your shoulders/back/feet.
• He’s unexpectedly patient with your changing moods. If you’re angry, he lets you be angry. If you’re afraid, he doesn’t dismiss it.
• Sings/Speaks in High Valaryian every night until you fall asleep, hoping the baby hears his voice.
• He is terrified of losing you, though he’d rather die than admit it aloud. He breaks down in relief once both you and the baby are safe.
HOME IN THREE DAYS. DO NOT WASH ormund hightower x wife!reader
synopsis: returning victorious from the battlefield, the lord of oldtown, ormund hightower, sends a most intricate request to his lady wife
warnings: mdni. spoilers for dance of the dragons, canon divergence, timeline that makes absolutely zero sense but it’s called fanfiction for a reason okay guys pls don’t come at me, oral (f receiving), mentions of war and death, ormund is lowkey a perv, piv, emotional sex, touch of breeding kink, religious motives
word count: 6.8k
a/n: honestly after writing this, all i have to say is enjoy 😭 (and thank you for all the ormund girlies for putting me onto this idea) there are two direct quotes from george martin so ofc all credits go to him 4 that
You are seated in your solar when the letter arrives.
The messenger carrying the sealed parchment bows his head low before placing it into your hands.
“A message, my lady, from your Lord husband.” He declares, the heavy wool doublet covering his frame bearing the flame sigil of your house.
You offer a brief nod of dismissal. He retreats in silence, leaving you with a handful of your highborn companions and servants in the sunlit chamber. You can feel the weight of their wandering eyes and curious gazes trying to discern what exactly your husband has sent. They long to catch a glimpse of the ink, doubtless to trade it for gossip later over their embroidery.
“That will be all for today, thank you.” Your eyes turn to the perfumed women in their vibrant, colorful silks. Your tone leaves no room for argument, and truth be told, none would dare disobey the lady of the castle.
You can see the light dim behind their eyes, their spirits deflating at being dismissed and denied a glimpse into your private marital affairs. Yet, they all rise quietly, murmuring the proper courtesies and offering to remain at your service. You thank them, as politeness dictates.
Finally, the heavy oak doors thump shut behind them as the last of the ladies files out. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ease, the careful, rigid posture you were taught to maintain since childhood melting away. The remaining household servants are as silent as stone, and they know better than to sneak glances at the parchment. Not that most of them possess the letters to read it anyway.
You shift quietly, settling into the silken cushions where you have sat for hours. Your ringed fingers make short, careful work of breaking the green wax seal; the parchment parts with a soft, crisp tear.
Yet, before you even unfold the missive, it is the scent that finds you first. It is the unmistakable, intimately familiar fragrance of your husband’s scented water—the blend he carries with him everywhere.
In the early days of your marriage, you had often made his habit a point of jest, teasing him for clutching an incense filled thurbil like some prissy lady of the court. But through years of shared bed and counsel, you had come to accept it as an essential part of him; your husband simply possessed a rare appetite for the finer things. For sweetness, mostly. In time, you had even learned to love it, for it spoke so entirely of his presence.
Safe to say, the parchment is utterly drenched in it.
You feel an involuntary quickening in your blood—a sudden warmth spreading through your belly at the sheer intimacy of the vapor. He knew precisely what he was doing, all but bathing the very pages he intended for your eyes.
A breathless laugh nearly escapes you, imagining Ormund clad in heavy steel, quill in hand amidst the dirt of the commander’s pavilion, deliberately dousing the sheet with his essences while soldiers marched and shouted just beyond the canvas.
“Always so mindful,” you murmur to the empty air, for the servants remain as silent as stone and would scarce understand the jest regardless.
Your eyes skim over the lines, a familiar sense of comfort washing over you at the sight of your husband’s heavy script. You fail to stifle the smile that softens your lips.
Much of it is the usual talk of how dreary and dull the campaign has proven. He makes mention of the Queen, his cousin Alicent, his other cousin Gwayne, and Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander whose host they are soon to join. He writes, too, of the battle at Tumbleton that is likely to follow.
At that, your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Ormund is one of the finest soldiers and commanders in the realm, but he is a mortal man still; his flesh can bleed, and his bones can break. And after all it is only natural for a wife to fear for her husband.
Naturally, he complains bitterly of the camp—the wretched stench of unwashed men, muck, and horseflesh that hangs thick over the pavilions. In his words it is utterly unbearable.
He speaks of his squire, prince Daeron as well. Noting that he can spy the nervousness in his young nephew, though both the boy and Tessarion stand ready for battle.
Ready to take the Iron Throne itself, should Prince Aemond fall and the burden descend to them—since word has reached the camp that Aemond has proclaimed himself Protector of the Realm. You care little and less for who sits upon the Aegon's seat, you only pray for your husband to return to your arms in one piece.
And then, at the very end, he closes the letter with something that steals the breath straight from your lungs.
Home in three days. Do not wash.
A sudden heat flushes your cheeks a deep crimson.
He is so terribly sure of himself, so entirely confident that no harm will find him, that Tumbleton will be won, and that he will ride back to Oldtown safe and whole. It is so undeniably Ormund.
You bite your lip, the warmth in your belly turning to a dull ache, knowing all too well that a safe return is a promise no man can truly make while the Dance rages on.
At the end of the parchment, he had signed his initials in a bold, dark hand: OH
You softly traced the ink with the tip of your finger, as if the stroke of his quill could somehow bridge the leagues between you. Yet as the moment of sentiment passed, you quickly folded the sheet, pressing it tight within your fist.
Rising from your seat, you paced over to the hearth. It made your heart ache to tear the missive into fragments, but you cast the pieces into the embers nonetheless.
You watched as the parchment caught flame, curling and turning to gray ash, even as your husband’s familiar fragrance still hung heavy upon your tongue. Alas, you knew the scent of water could never compare to the musk of his skin, or the steady thrum of his heart pulsing beneath your fingertips.
A sudden, dark thought pricked your mind—a fleeting wonder if those ashes were the last pieces of him you would ever hold should he fall in the Reach—but you fiercely willed the shadow away.
No, your Ormund would return to you. Or he would die trying.
You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself. The letter had to be destroyed. Its contents were far too scandalous for any prying septa or maester to accidentally stumble upon.
Clasping your hands behind your back, you turned your gaze to one of the remaining maids. “I shall be having no need of the bath after supper today.” you declared.
The woman’s eyes sought yours, a flicker of confusion crossing her face at the unusual command, yet she quickly lowered her head. “As my lady commands it.”
“Very well.”
And with that, you turned your back on the hearth and set off toward the quiet sanctuary of your bedchambers.
It is perhaps, the first day that is the easiest.
You go about your usual duties, overseeing the keep and holding audience with the lesser lords in your husband’s stead. You seek out the sept nestled within the great stone walls of the Hightower, lighting tallow candles and praying to the Mother for your husband’s safe return.
Your hours pass largely uneventful. No fresh ravens from King’s Landing or the battlefield arrive to disturb the peace.
The realm is still in great peril, locked in the throes of a bloody succession, yet you are among those rare, fortunate few whose daily lives do not yet feel the cruel shift of war. Your husband’s absence is the only true sign that the world is bleeding.
It is only when twilight deepens into night, and the hour for your evening bath approaches, that you must dismiss your handmaidens once again.
“But, my lady,” one of the elder women frowns, her hands clasped nervously over her apron. “I mean no insolence, but… you have foregone the hot waters since yesterday morn—”
You cut her off with a look as sharp as Valyrian steel, and she freezes instantly.
“I should find it most pleasant if you did not question my choices,” you say, your voice clipped as you force a veneer of stiff politeness over the reprimand. “Thank you.” You offer a single, final nod.
“Of course, my lady.” A sudden heat flushes her cheeks in embarrassment at her own boldness. “Forgive my insolence.” She mutters.
You hum in cold acknowledgment before bidding her lay out your linen shift so you might change for the night.
Thankfully, none of the others dare question you further, leaving you to slide into the great, empty bed in silence.
On the second day, the irritation truly begins to fester.
It is not even the scent of your own sweat or the slight, muskier heat of your skin that unsettles you most, but rather the heavy, lingering glances from both the highborn ladies and the serving girls. The lords fail to notice, of course. Men are blind to the subtle shifts of the solar. But women... women possess a hound’s nose for such things.
“Forgive my curiosity, my lady,” one of your companions ventures during the mandatory hour of afternoon wine and needlework, her spine stiff and a sharp, a calculating glint in her eyes. “But are you... quite well? Has some sudden ague or illness been troubling you these past few days?”
A few of the younger girls stifle titters behind their silk handkerchiefs, while a seasoned lady snorts softly at the sheer boldness of the question.”
“Nothing has troubled me,” you reply coldly, your gaze sweeping over the circle like winter frost. “And I confess I do not fathom what should prompt such a thought.”
“Of course not, my lady. Forgive me.” she murmurs quickly, dipping her chin and retreating back into the safety of the embroidery circle.
Yet, the silence does not last. Once their heads are bent back over their frames, the murmurs begin—whispers that your wits have been murked by the absence of your lord, or that you have simply grown neglectful of your proper duties as wife now that his eye is far from Oldtown.
One or two even dare breathe the word slothful. But they are only whispers, drifting like smoke through the high stone arches.
You owe them no accounting of your lord’s desires. So you let them whisper.
But without a doubt, it is the third day—the very day your lord husband is expected to ride through the gates—that proves the worst.
It is not the ever-growing musk of your unwashed skin that irks you most, but rather the heavy black raven that arrives with the morning mists, bearing tidings of a grim victory at Tumbleton.
The greens have triumphed, or so the parchment claims. In a twist of monumental treachery, the Dragonseeds—Rhaenyra’s own dragonriders—had turned their fires upon her own host.
Yet, despite the grand declarations of victory, the remaining lines are stripped of any joy.
The sack of the town has been anything but a noble affair. It has been an exercise in absolute butchery. Houses put to the torch, infants slain, and women—even holy septas and silent sisters were not spared— being subjected to the brutal whims of a victorious, drunken army. It is a horror to even contemplate, let alone witness.
You feel a sharp pang of selfishness when your eyes skip past the carnage, desperately searching for a single name. When you find it, confirming that your lord husband lives, unwounded, and is already riding hard for Oldtown with a vanguard of his personal household guard, a ragged sob of relief escapes your throat.
The Dance is far from ended, and the realm will continue to bleed. But the battlefield would have to wait. There are plenty of hungry lords and capable men who can take your husband's place in the mud, if only for a night.
By the time night falls, your husband has still not arrived in Oldtown.
No news has reached the gates, and no scouts have brought sign of his riding party.
Your entire day has been spent pacing the drafty halls of the Hightower, seeking out any task to keep your mind from fracturing with anticipation.
You have seen to it that the entire household is in order, the stones scrubbed clean, and every tapestried hall set aright. You have ordered a plentiful feast prepared to greet his vanguard. You even went so far as to take up your needlework, in a desperate attempt to stave off the madness of the wait.
Alas, the effort ended miserably; shaky fingers and an unsteady mind are poor tools for fine embroidery. Sitting with your highborn companions proved more tedious still, and you dismissed them scarce a quarter of an hour into tea-time.
The whole of the castle is charged with a heavy, restless air, every servant and man at arms waiting on a knife's edge for the return of their Lord.
Your nails are bitten down to the quick, and you have endlessly twisted the rings upon your fingers. When the handmaidens arrive for the evening, they practically beg to prepare the bath.
“But the Lord Ormund—” one of them ventures, her voice hesitant.
“Do you suggest you know the needs of mine own husband better than myself?” Your patience is utterly frayed, and you can no longer keep the sharp edge of your tongue from snapping like a whip.
“My lady.” she murmurs, bowing her head in hasty obedience before scurrying away.
“And take away this boar meat. Leave the arbor gold,” you command, and the remaining servants quickly clear the table.
You turn to the household guards standing post at your door—the men in steel who have trailed you through your duties all day. “Leave the chambers. Let no one inside. You are to enter only to notify me when my Lord husband is at the gates.”
The man in the iron half-helm nods, drawing the thick oak doors shut. The heavy latch falls into place, leaving you alone in the awful, suffocating silence. Waiting.
What must have been minutes felt like hours. Time takes on a strange, twisted shape when one is locked in such nervous anticipation. Yet, the sands in the glass trickle down regardless.
Left with nothing but the loud thrumming of your own thoughts, you tried to lose yourself in a leather-bound history, though you managed scarce a few pages before the letters swam before your eyes.
You smoothed the heavy furs and linens upon the high bed perhaps a dozen times.
You combed out your hair, adjusted the laces of your linen evening shift, and even debated opening the door to ask the guardsmen if they had forgotten your command. But you checked yourself, knowing such frantic fretting would be incredibly unbecoming of the Lady of the Hightower.
And still, in that agonizing stillness, the unmistakable musk of your own unwashed flesh caught up with you. It was no longer a mere unpleasant odor. It was a heavy, ripe scent that hung thick in the small hours of the night.
For a fleeting second, you debated calling the servants back to prepare a hasty basin of hot water before Ormund arrived.
But his written instructions had been absolutely clear. Home in three days. Do not wash. He had kept his part of the covenant; three days had passed and he was riding back to you, whole and alive. It remained only for you to hold up your end of the bargain.
You sought the sanctuary of the castle sept once more, then retreated back to your chambers, the chill air of the drafty stone corridors offering a strange, cooling comfort against your sticky, stale skin.
By then, the hour of the owl had long since passed, and still there was no sign of your husband.
You wanted to wait for him—desperately so. You wished him to find you awake and waiting, so that you might see with your own eyes that the Stranger's steel had spared him.
But exhaustion and the tumultuous toll of the day’s anxiety were fast catching up to you. All that frantic pacing, coupled with a belly empty from a lack of appetite, had sapped the last of your strength. With every blink, your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, like lead.
You tried splashing your face with cool water from the basin and flung wide the shutters to let in the midnight breeze, but even the salt and tar air of Oldtown drifting up from the harbor did little to rouse you.
Defeated by weariness, (alas reluctantly) you finally laid your head atop the silken pillows, burying the heavy scent of your unwashed skin into the linen sheets, which your maids had surely doused with an extra measure of rosewater.
You were drifting in that liminal, strange place where one is not entirely awake yet no longer asleep when you heard it—the distinct, muffled grunt of a guardsman greeting his lord, and the heavy creak of oak hinges before the thick door closed once more with a dull thud.
You just barely managed to stir, shifting clumsily beneath the furs to sit up and rub the sleep from your tired eyes.
The chamber was drowned in half-darkness. Most of the candles you had lit hours ago had long since guttered out; only a handful remained ablaze, casting a scarce, flickering amber light across the stone walls.
Even through the gloom of the late hour, you could make out the great shadow of his figure moving about the room, his movements weary but urgent as he unbuckled and discarded the heavy sword-belt from his hips. The Valyrian longsword of his house Vigilance, which he cherished so deeply, fell to the ground with a dull thud.
“Ormund?” you breathe. The name is both a prayer and a question.
A desperate thing you need to hear spoken aloud to believe. You need to know that it is truly him standing there before you, alive in the flesh, at the foot of that shared bed which has stood cold for far too long.
Your vision is still blurred with sleep, but the moments that follow unfold with such fierce intensity that you know you will remember them for the rest of your days.
In two long, hurried strides, he collapses onto the silken sheets atop you.
Once again, it is his scent that finds you first.
Except this time, it is no spiced water or pleasant courtly incense, all of that is buried beneath an overwhelming stench of dirt, stale sweat, and the unmistakable, coppery tang of blood. Whose… you pray to the Gods, is anyone’s but Ormund’s.
Your hands scramble for leverage, finding the damp nape of his neck and gripping him so fiercely that it must bruise. The skin there is slick—either with the sweat of the road or from some futile, hurried attempt to wash away the field of battle before reaching your chambers.
Perhaps it is both. But you care little and less. He is your husband. Your Ormund, here in the flesh, breathing and alive, smelling of what all men smell of when they have looked upon the face of death and survived.
A sudden rush of tears gathers in your lashes, and a ragged sob threatens to tear from your throat at the pure, blinding elation of his presence.
Narrowly escaping the butchery of Tumbleton and witnessing thousands of men yield up their lives has awakened something primal within him. You can feel it in his shallow, ragged breaths, and in the way his calloused hands grip the bare skin of your arms, even through the heavy layers of your linen shift.
His touch will surely leave marks—blooming into dark blues and purples on the morrow—but you do not care. You would let him carve a place for himself inside your very ribcage if he wished it.
You feel that same desperation as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the heavy, ripe musk of your unwashed skin like a drowning man catching his last taste of air.
“Ormund.” You speak his name again, clearer this time, the certainty finally settling into your bones. He is here. With you.
You card your fingers through his tangled hair, which hangs damp and messy with sweat, pulling him closer still—impossibly close, until there is not an inch of air between your bodies.
He is heavy, his armor-stiffened frame nearly crushing you into the bedding, but you do not mind. If the ceiling were to collapse upon you now, you would die content.
“I prayed...” you murmur against the rough stubble of his cheek. His eyes remain closed, his lips silent; he says nothing, needing these few stolen moments of quietude to wash the horror from his mind. “I prayed every morrow and every twilight to the Seven, begging them to return you to my arms,” you confess, your voice shaking with the weight of the tears you can no longer hold back.
A half-choked laugh escapes him at your words, a brief flash of delight breaking through his exhaustion at the knowledge that you kept him in your prayers, that you had spoken to the Seven with his face in your mind.
Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.
He nearly groans at the thought, the holy words a stark contrast to the butchery he has just left.
Instead, he buries his face lower, pressing his lips straight against your collarbone. He inhales the deep, unmistakable scent of your skin—the salt of your sweat, the rich, built-up musk of three days without the basin. To a highborn court, it might seem uncouth, but to him, it is simply, purely woman. And woman means alive and real.
To breathe you in is to know he has escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger and found sanctuary in the arms of the one he loves.
What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
In this singular, breathless moment, Ormund feels the truth of those words more fiercely than ever before.
He has won his share of victories, commanded hosts, and broken lances in grand tourneys, but none of it compares to this. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms or the lands beyond could make him feel more entirely alive than the strain of narrowly escaping the slaughter, riding his stallion hard through the night even as his thighs ached and his sore muscles screamed at him, begging him to simply stop, to yield to the weariness. But he could not. He would not.
Not when you were waiting for him in the Hightower, his lady wife, keeping your quiet vigil until he could return to the warmth of your shared bed. Your shared life.
“Husband,” you nudge his head with a gentle hand, attempting to draw him back only for his grip to tighten. “I have not...” Your cheeks flush a hot, sudden crimson. “I have not bathed,” you admit quietly, the confession tasting heavy on your tongue. “It is most unbecoming of a lady—”
For the first time that evening, he raises his head and pierces you with his gaze. Those familiar eyes, which you have looked upon a thousand times before, are lined with a solemn, bone-deep tiredness, frayed at the edges by war.
Yet, at the very same time, he looks utterly, fiercely alive, the sharp line of his nose and the strength of his jaw all too intimate.
“You received my letter.” He states, his voice gruff and thick with the dust of the road. His fingers do not cease their exploration, trailing over every inch of skin and linen they can find, before his hand bunches up the heavy fabric of your shift within his fist.
“I did.” You reply softly, your eyes dipping toward the sheets, but you feel the firm pressure of his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin up into stillness.
“Look at me.” He commands. The words bear the weight of a lord, yet they sound far more desperate than any commander who has just tasted victory should ever sound.
You can see it takes everything within him to restrain from simply crashing his lips against your own. “I have ridden hard across the Reach to be here. I have escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger, I have left my men and my host behind, all to return to your side. To rest in your arms. And no one, not the septons, not you, dear wife, not even the Gods themselves will forbid me the luxury of gazing upon you or breathing you in.”
Before you can offer any further reason or protest, his calloused hands bunch the linen of your shift upward, pulling the fabric past your hips and exposing your bare skin to the chill air of the chamber.
Beads of perspiration still cling to your brow, and your fingers instinctively seek leverage, carding through his tangled auburn locks as he bends his weight down between your thighs.
“Husband—”
He groans at the title, his mouth pressing fiercely against the soft flesh of your inner thighs. He marks you with the heat of his lips, tasting, touching, and inhaling sharply as the ripe, unwashed musk of your intimacy and sudden arousal mingles in the heavy air.
“Gods be good,” he rough-whispers against your skin, just loud enough to pierce the quiet of the room. “No host, no King—not even the Seven themselves could have kept me from this. From you.”
He takes his time, deliberately savoring every stolen second, his tongue tracing the tender skin just on the cusp of your heat while he buries his face deep against you.
“I thought of you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your thighs as he presses a trail of slow, heavy kisses upward. “I thought of you every single wretched hour upon the road. Amidst the reek of horseflesh, muck, and dying men. Amidst the blood of the field, and the fires of the dragons.”
The confession is a heavy, ragged thing, and your breath hitches sharply—not merely from the mounting pleasure, but from the raw weight of his words.
“I closed my eyes and thought only of your smile, your touch... the sweetness of your cunt.” As if to prove his point, he presses his face entirely into the soft folds of your womanhood, inhaling your deep, concentrated musk before his tongue flicks out with a sudden, devastating stroke.
An unrestrained cry escapes your lips, echoing off the high stone arches.
“Only you... my lady wife...” he mutters against your wetness, his tongue exploring you with a fierce, starved hunger. “I prayed to the Mother to keep you whole... prayed to the Father to make your womb fruitful and clean, so that my seed might finally take root within you.”
At his words, a sudden tremor ripples through your entire body, and your thighs instinctively clamp tight around his head as the heat begins to break over you.
“Ormund!” You cry his name, the sound laced with a desperate, breathless heat that echoes shamelessly through the quiet bedchamber.
The household guardsmen standing post beyond the thick oak doors will have surely to play the fool on the morrow, but you care little and less for the gossip of smallfolk.
You can think only of your husband—of the wet fire of his tongue between your thighs and the bruising grip of his fingers pinning your legs wide to keep you open to his hunger.
He works you apart with a starved intensity, making you unravel from the seams, pulling you apart thread by thread as the coil in your belly tightens to an agonizing point. Ormund had ever been skilled at bringing you to your peak with his mouth, but tonight the familiar rhythm is entirely transformed. Gone is the careful, courtly teasing of a lord in his solar; this is something primal. Fierce, and animalistic. Born from the mud and blood of the battlefield.
Seven forgive us, the thought flashes like a desperate prayer in the dim recesses of your mind.
He is not merely pleasuring you; he is quite literally drinking you in, drenching his face in the ripe, unwashed scent of your climax and indulging in every slick, heavy stroke.
Your vision begins to swim, the amber candlelight blurring into streaks of gold as he drives you ruthlessly toward the edge.
“Come for me, sweet wife...” his voice buzzes low against your skin, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze. “Let me taste you... bury me in your scent...”
His words, matched with the fierce, unyielding work of his mouth, finally topple you over the edge. You break with a ragged cry of his name, your fingers knotting tight in his hair as you instinctively grind your weight against his face.
He does not stop. Continuing his relentless strokes even as the climax ripples through you and you ride out the peak of your release. The firm muscle of his tongue drives through your sensitive walls, your juices slicking his cheeks and spilling onto the linen sheets beneath.
Your thighs tremble so fiercely you are certain your legs will no longer bear you. At last, after what feels an age, he comes up for air, though he keeps his face pressed close against the soft mound of your womanhood.
The damp hairs there are heavy with the rich, concentrated musk of your arousal, and you feel the hot expansion of his chest as he breathes it deeply into his lungs.
“Always so good for me...” he murmurs, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin while you are still reeling, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Through the faint buzzing in your head, you fail to notice him reach for a square of clean linen discarded by the bedside. You only realize his intent when you feel the cloth pressing against your center. You hiss softly at the contact, your flesh still far too tender from the peak of your release.
“Ormund?” Your eyebrows furrow in the gloom. “What are you—”
“Shh, let me,” he hushes you, his voice thick, and your wits are far too scattered to offer any true protest, nor do you truly wish to do so.
You feel the slow, deliberate swipe of the linen through your folds. You think at first he means to clean you, but as he pulls the cloth away and brings it directly to his nose, the truth settles into your mind.
He is gathering the very essence of your release, letting the fabric drink it deep so that he might preserve it—a token of your flesh to carry with him into the mud and smoke of the next campaign. A soft moan escapes you at the sheer, desperate intimacy of the act.
Yet, you have little time to dwell upon it as his hands are already framing your waist, urging the linen shift up and over your head, before he turns to frantically strip away his own heavy doublet. You lend your shaking hands to the task, helping him loosen the laces until the wool drops somewhere to the floor.
Your bare breasts are caught in the amber glow of the candlelight, and you watch Ormund's gaze fix upon your perked nipples. Reaching out, you catch his calloused hand and guide it to your flesh. He takes the weight of you, squeezing and caressing the soft curve with a starved sort of reverence.
Alas, his patience has reached its end. The heavy, rigid evidence of his hunger presses hard against his breeches, and he makes hasty work of the laces, cursing softly under his breath as he discards the last of his garments into the shadows.
He takes his manhood into his palm, giving it two firm strokes before lining himself up with your entrance. You bite your lip, your body slick and more than ready to welcome the familiar, heavy stretch of him filling you up.
“Tonight,” he murmurs, his words catching you off guard in the dark. “If the gods should grant me, as their humble servant, a reward for serving the Realm and the true King... I pray it be the planting of a son inside your womb.”
His hand reaches up, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead. “Do you understand, sweet wife?” he whispers, leaning down upon his elbows, his weight pressing you into the bedding as he kisses the corner of your lips. “That you will grow round and swell with child... so that the next time the war calls me away, you will ever have a piece of me with you.”
Before you can muster a breath to reply, he drives forward, pushing deep inside and bottoming out with a barely suppressed groan. A sharp cry escapes you at the sheer, sudden width of him stretching your sensitive walls.
He gives you no time to adjust to the intrusion, mercilessly beginning to pound into you, the cords and tendons in his neck straining with the sheer force of his movements.
Your head is thrown back against the pillows, and he chases your mouth with his own, sealing your lips in a desperate, hungry kiss—a fierce clash of teeth and skin. In his starved frenzy, you are certain he would eat you alive if he could, losing himself entirely within your flesh to wash away the memory of the sword.
“Please, Ormund!” you cry his name for what feels the thousandth time that evening. Your nails claw at his bare skin, gripping his back in a desperate attempt to pull him closer still, and this time it is you who buries your face against him, inhaling the sharp, earthy musk of his sweat-slicked skin. “I need you to—”
“Hush, sweet girl, I know...”
He slows his frantic thrusts for a brief moment, focusing his strength to set a steadier pace, finding a deeper, more deliberate rhythm. With every long, unyielding push, he ensures you feel every single inch of him.
The old endearing term brings a sudden flock of memories rushing back to you—sweet, distant memories of the days when he was still courting you in the high gardens of Oldtown.
“I know...” he whispers hoarsely against the column of your throat, and your thighs lock tight around his hips, anchoring him to you.
“Give me your seed, husband,” you manage to gasp against his ear, the ragged shakiness of your voice betraying the depth of your undoing. “Please, by the gods—I need you, I need it inside me—”
He groans fiercely at your words, at the sheer intoxication of being buried deep within your warmth after weeks of staring into the dark abyss of death.
He feels the sudden, heavy quickening in his blood, signaling that his release is near. He is a man of formidable stamina, possessed of a soldier’s hard-bitten body, but tonight he is reduced to a mere mortal. Acutely aware of the frailty of his flesh and the preciousness of this life.
He manages only a few more messy, desperate thrusts before you feel the sudden, hot pulsing of his release spilling deep inside you, the thick ropes of his seed coating your inner walls.
You wrap your arms and legs even tighter around him as the phantom touch of his climax triggers your own second peak of the night, your body shuddering in perfect unison as you hold him fast, willing him never to let you go
When you part at last, you are both a tangled mess of limbs, reluctantly breaking your interlocked lips to catch your breath. Ormund rests his heavy head onto the pillow beside you—his rightful place—and does not hesitate for a single beat before pulling you securely into his side.
Your soft breasts press flush against the hard, unyielding plates of his chest as he idly cards his fingers through your tangled hair.
For a long while, you remain wrapped in silence, the quiet of the chamber filled only with your heavy, ragged breaths, the musk of your passion and shared lust thick in the air. You glance up, noting the faint smile that softens his tired eyes.
Finally, it is you who speaks first, breaking the serene calm of your shared silence. “Never, ever even dare to leave me again.” You push yourself up slightly, cupping the rough stubble of his cheek with your palm.
He presses his face into your hand, planting a heavy kiss there. “You know I cannot promise such a thing, sweet wife,” he replies solemnly. “Duty...”
“Your duty,” you begin shakily, your voice thick with emotion, “is to be by your wife’s side. Here in Oldtown.” You finish the thought, tilting your chin slightly.
A huff of quiet, weary laughter escapes him at your words.
“You think I jest—”
“No, my sweet wife, it is not you I laugh upon. It is simply...” He pulls you back down against his bare chest, his embrace iron-tight. “It is simply that duty is no simple matter. My family needs me, needs us. The realm and the King—”
You know he speaks the truth. You know he is bound by an unbridled sense of holy purpose and devotion that is utterly unbreakable, with his love for you coming second only to the honor of his house. At times it angers you, but a part of your heart understands that it is a thing so deeply ingrained into Ormund's bones that he cannot help it.
“Who will defend honor, hm? Righteousness, justice—” he reasons softly.
You sigh, the fight draining from you. “All I wish...” you begin, all your barriers and defenses melting away from your gaze, leaving your rawest emotions laid bare before him. “All I mean to say is... I wish it did not have to be you.”
He smiles at that—one of those easy, confident smiles that are so entirely him, making your chest squeeze with a painful fondness. The green silk of the pillows beneath your head suddenly feels as soft as a cloud, and you let out a long breath, settling back into the quiet.
“I know... sweet girl... I know...” That is all he offers, knowing too well that he cannot give you the false comfort of a lie.
After a few moments, you feel his calloused hand trail down from the curve of your hip to where the slick evidence of your coupling still lies fresh. He plunges a finger between the folds of your center, gathering the mixed cream of your releases. At the sudden intrusion, your hips instinctively buck against his hand.
He beams at the movement, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. “Always so jumpy for me…”
You can feel the battle-worn stiffness and the lingering shadow of death finally washing out of the room as he brings his hand back up to his lips, not hesitating for a moment before pressing his fingers into his mouth to taste you.
“You are utterly depraved.” You manage to whisper, watching him lazily lick the pads of his fingers.
He ignores the reprimand, choosing instead to anchor you even closer into the warmth of his chest.
“We will bathe on the morrow, together,” he promises, his voice dropping into a sleepy rumble. “Oh... and remind me, sweet wife, to order a thousand squares of linen from the merchants, so that every last one of them might be drenched in your scent.”
“Ormund.” You let out a breathy laugh at the sheer absurdity of the idea, but as you gaze into his dark eyes, you realize he is entirely serious.
“This way... I shall carry a piece of you with me into the field. Everywhere. Always.” he reasons, pressing one last, lingering kiss into the crown of your head. Finally, his heavy hand moves lower, his palm flattening out to trace the soft skin of your belly. “And you of me.” he whispers against your ear.
