Tomcat
Ormund Hightower would do anything for Alyssa Velaryon. Anything but become friends with her dragon. Vermithor feels similarly.
Hey @daenysthedreamer101 this one's for you. I had a similar idea and then saw your post about ten minutes later, and who am I to deny the people?
Part 2 here
A/N: This man. I cannot. He's just so pretty and delicate and he has such big muscles and I want to kiss his nose. Also sorry this is not a Reader x____, I don't do those. You'll get third person and you'll like it!! Also also I wrote a lot of this at work on my phone, then kicked it over to Word for the briefest of proofreads and to get a word count, so... yeah. Also also also, would Rhaenyra name her daughter Alyssa? Unlikely! But they're fictional characters, so they can do whatever I want them to! Warnings: None. Fluff, Wife Guy Ormund, Sunshine Targaryen (Velaryon) OC, Grumpy Vermithor (Boy Cat and His Mommy vibes), fuck the timeline and the Dance (AND WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR NOT GIVING US A GOOD CLOSEUP OF VERMITHOR YET). Once instance of anti-Dornish racism, but like... no slurs, just grumpiness. Word count: 6K
Vermithor liked him about as well as Vermithor liked anyone, which was to say, not at all.
It had started as a joke, in the early days of Princess Alyssa Velaryon’s playful advances toward the future Lord Hightower.
“You must meet him! He is truly magnificent and a perfect gentleman to me. He was my great-great-grandfather’s dragon, you know.”
“Impressive history or not, I’ll wager he still smells worse than a wet dog in a marsh.”
Alyssa laughed. “Well now he will not like you, if you insult him so! And no, my lord Ormund, he does not smell of wet dog,” she scoffed, daring to bump her shoulder against his. To the surprise of neither, she bounced off and he hardly moved, though he did smile. She went on, “He smells of woodsmoke and roast deer and salt and leather and—”
“Dragon?” Ormund cut in dryly, eyebrows raised in answer to his own question.
“Well we cannot all smell of—tulips!” Alyssa fumbled. She had never greatly cared for the feminine art of identifying flowers merely by their aroma.
“Tulips!” It was Ormund’s turn to be affronted. “Good gods, girl!” He immediately realized the error—or at least the informality—of his words, dipping his head in a little bow. “Apologies, Princess Alyssa, I meant no offense—”
She laughed again, throwing her head back before returning her gaze to meet his. “I take none. I may be a dragon and a rather vain creature, but I assure you I am neither thin-skinned nor averse to familiarity.”
It had perhaps been the wrong word, if only just, but she could not bring herself to regret it, not when his lips brushed her knuckles as they parted, even if their stroll ended without their having visited the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor would be there tomorrow.
~~~
“You would tell me if it is foolish.”
“I will tell you it is something I would not do even were my other choice to swim to Essos.”
“Mother!” Alyssa laughed.
Jace and Luke glanced up from their toy dragons, waging a magnificent war against the small wooden boats of the Triarchy, carved by Father, but just as quickly went back to their game, far more interesting than the conversations of courtship.
“Besides, I would fly to Essos. It would be short work for my bronze gentleman!”
“Indeed. And the flight from Oldtown to King’s Landing?” Rhaenyra gave her a knowing look.
“Even shorter.” Alyssa shook her head and smiled. “I fear for their sheep, perhaps, but it is an easy trade.”
Her mother took her hand. “You scheme too much, my little dragon. I wish you might seek for… for a…”
Alyssa laughed again, an easy, genuine thing. “Mother, you speak as though marrying Ormund Hightower is the worst punishment you can imagine.”
“Not the worst,” the crown princess said slowly, “but certainly I would consider it a punishment. You need not do it on my account. It is too much to ask of you.”
“Would you say it is too much, then, for me to ask for a handsome husband? I do not seek him only to secure your throne—though it will help, I grant—I seek him because I cannot help but stare every time he walks into a room, and he is endlessly polite—”
Her mother’s eyes rolled.
“—I know what you would say, but let me finish! He is endlessly polite at feasts and in the box at tourneys and when we dance, but he is not afraid to jest with me, unlike all the others! I am fire and blood, not silk and glass!”
“And he knows it,” Rhaenyra said with a soft smile.
“And he knows it.”
Then Rhaenyra truly smiled, the one she saved for her daughter. “Vermithor will not like him, you know.”
Once more, Alyssa laughed. “I had forgot what we were started about, with all this talk of marriage. Ah, but no, Vermithor will not like him. Big cat that he is, he will bare his teeth and lash his tail and hiss, and he smells of dragon, so Ormund will not like him either, and we shall proceed from there!” Her bright smile would have been enough to light the room had the sun not shone in through the open windows, and Rhaenyra could only return it.
“I wish you luck then, little dragon.”
~~~
“Will you come meet him?”
“Indeed, since he—” Ormund stuttered to stop as he turned to see Alyssa striding up behind him. “Hh-hm.”
Alyssa’s eyes glittered at his obvious discomfort. “My lord, they are riding leathers. It is not as if you can see my kneecaps.” She stopped in front of him, spread her arms, and twirled as if to show off the finest new dress gold could buy rather than a set of aging and slightly dirty leathers. The boots were new, but he wouldn’t even meet her gaze, let alone let his eyes drift anywhere else.
“I… ah…” He finally looked at her, though it seemed to make him even more uncomfortable. “I was not expecting…”
“Did you think I ride sidesaddle? Dear ser, I would not ride a horse sidesaddle, and it is a far shorter distance to fall from my horse’s back than my dragon’s.”
“I suppose…” Ormund frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose I had not considered that.” He offered his arm, stilted and awkward still. “I have not escorted a lady in trousers before.”
Laughing, Alyssa slipped her arm around his. “I assure you, it is quite the same. Though you will not have to suffer long; we shall only walk to the stables, then ride to the Dragon Pit.”
~~~
“You must ride often, my lady. You sit like you were born in the saddle.”
“Ah, so you are looking at me now?”
Ormund blanched.
“I jest!” Alyssa laughed, leaning out of her saddle to knock her shoulder against his. “I am happy you are not too scandalized by my rather masculine skills.”
“You are a Targaryen princess and a dragon rider; I should hardly be surprised if you say you wield a sword as well.”
The spark in her eyes made him blink.
“You do, don’t you.”
She only flashed her teeth in a wild grin and nodded.
“Well. Today I am the fool.”
“Wise is he who knows he has said something foolish and seeks to amend it.”
“Then, Princess Alyssa, I should very much like proof of your skill with a sword.”
“Of course! Not today, but yes, while you are in King’s Landing I shall demonstrate the value of my father’s lessons.”
They chattered the whole way to the Dragon Pit, and he was not insulted when she did not accept his hand to dismount, just as she was not insulted when he offered it.
Ormund Hightower did, however, take a moment to simply… blink… in the face of the yawning maw of the Dragon Pit. “Dragon” was the politest way to describe the smell. Stench. Whatever it was.
Sulfur and rancid meat, rot and ash.
But one look at Princess Alyssa, and he resolved simply to frown and breathe through his mouth.
He forgot to breathe, though, when the head appeared from the darkness of the Dragon Pit’s entrance.
Aye, the color was beautiful; the bronze scales flashed in the sunlight; the teeth glittered like swords; but the eyes were not the calm, thoughtless eyes of a cow, nor the quick, intelligent eyes of a horse, nor the devoted, loyal eyes of a dog.
They were the cynical, spiteful eyes of a cat, but just the eye, as it narrowed and leveled a glare at Ormund, was itself bigger than a whole cat.
Ormund stared, not breathing, the reek—overpowering as it was—forgotten as the bronze dragon’s head snaked closer, followed by barrel chest, broad shoulders, leather wings, iron legs, barbed-whip tail.
His eyes were wide. It was probably unwise to show fear. He did not run, did not cower or flinch, but he knew he would stink of fear as the monstrous dragon’s nostrils flared barely out of his arm’s reach.
“Vermithor,” Alyssa purred. She said something in High Valyrian and the dragon turned his attention to his rider. A hum rumbled in Vermithor’s chest and seemed to shake the very ground as he bumped his nose ever so gently against Alyssa.
She staggered backward, laughing, with the force of it, careful as the beast was.
He purred louder, for purr it was, Ormund realized, watching the dragon and his princess. The dragon’s eyes were no longer full of disdain and dislike. They looked on Alyssa with fondness.
So, an adoring hound for the lady, a scornful cat for the lord. This was not a competition he looked forward to.
He looked back at Princess Alyssa, only to see her on the other side of Vermithor’s head, one hand on his nose, the other scratching under his chin. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t make out the words as she smiled coyly at him over the dragon.
He did not like this.
And very suddenly he remembered to breathe.
Then he remembered why he hadn’t been breathing.
He did not cough, but it was a near thing.
The purring stopped. The dragon’s head whipped around and he hissed, and that helped neither Ormund’s terror nor the eye-watering stench of the whole affair.
“Oh sweet thing, you must not be jealous.”
If his heart fluttered, daring to believe that Alyssa’s words were for him, then it crashed to the pit of his stomach when the princess went on.
“No man can replace you in my heart.”
And if Ormund Hightower had not been sure the extent of his feelings about Princess Alyssa before, he was when she leapt into the dragon’s saddle and cried something in High Valyrian, and the dragon roared and sprang into the air, and the princess laughed until she was beyond hearing.
~~~
“My lord?”
Ormund had no idea who the princess’s sworn sword was. He should have, he was quite sure, as he stared at the man in the white cloak.
He swallowed, feeling as if his tongue was stuck in his throat.
“Ser Ormund?”
He finally found words. The ones that escaped, rather quietly but with certainty, were perhaps not the ones he would have chosen to share with a stranger whose duty was Princess Alyssa, but they were the only ones he had. “I love that woman, and I shall forever be competing with a lizard for her affections.”
The White Cloak chuckled.
“I regret to inform you that is a game you cannot win, my lord.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Fear not. If I may, you are not the first to dog her steps, but you are the first who she smiles to see doing it. And the first who has met her darling lizard,” the White Cloak finished with a smile.
“I suppose that is… good?” Ormund took a deep, steadying breath that did not steady him but finally set him to retching. “At least tell me you grow used to the stench,” he coughed.
The other chuckled again, shaking his head up at the sky and the sparkling speck that was Alyssa Velaryon and her bronze beast. “Thankfully it has never bothered me as much as some of the others. It does grow… less, I suppose, when you are around it every day.” He looked back at Ormund. “I have yet to stop noticing it, though.”
“Delightful,” Ormund grumbled.
“But come, there is a tavern not far, where they have truly excellent ale, and blackberries on toast.”
Ormund followed rather absently as they led the horses back to the street. “Are you not supposed to…?” He trailed off, sense of chivalry warring with the knowledge that this man’s sense of duty was equal—probably greater—than his own.
“What? Protect her?” The White Cloak snorted. “She’s safer up there than anywhere under my watch. And she always has Vermithor announce their return and then fly a lap so I have time to get back.”
Ormund nodded. There was no arguing with that logic. “And—forgive me, Ser, I feel I should know it, but—your name?”
“Ser Arrun Harrow, my lord.”
“Ah.” Yes, he should have known that. The Kingsguard was the spitting image of old Lord Harrow about twenty years ago. “Again, my apologies. Let me buy your ale as recompense.”
“No apology needed, my lord, but I’ll not turn down the ale.”
~~~
They spent the full afternoon at the tavern, a quiet place and off the beaten path, but quite nice as far as Ormund was concerned. The ale was indeed excellent, and Ser Arrun Harrow full of excellent stories and the occasional bit of advice about his charge.
With sun well on its way to the horizon, there came a thunderous roar overhead.
“Time to go,” Ser Arrun said, standing and dropping a handful of coins on the table. He drained the last of his cup and called, “My thanks, Myreela!”
“Aye, and mine to you!” the girl called back.
Ormund left his own handful of coins and a shout of gratitude. He was quite sure he had overpaid, but he felt the cost worth it and then some, even more so when Ser Arrun caught his eye as they mounted their horses and gave him a quick nod.
“I suspect they keep the place open for people like us, waiting for someone to return from flying. Bit close to the dragons for most folk, and the Dragon Keepers tend to keep to themselves.”
“Well, Ser, you did not overvalue the ale. Nor the blackberries,” Ormund added, letting the pleasant surprise seep into his voice. He was a bit of a connoisseur, after all.
Vermithor was winging his way back toward the Dragon Pit with a speed Ormund could hardly believe.
“By the gods, how does he move with such speed?”
He wasn’t aware he had voiced the question until Ser Arrun said, “He may have some years on him, but he knew war in his younger days, and he flies with joy, the princess says. Of course, she flies with joy too—never seen two creatures so well matched as they are. I think he likes to show off for her.” He glanced at Ormund.
“Just what I need.”
Just then, the bronze dragon swooped straight up into the air, shot a streak of red and gold flames into the sky, then tilted over into a backwards loop. Ormund’s heart stopped and the world seemed to fall silent around him.
Except for the wild laughter high over the city.
Vermithor completed his loop, flew a lazy circle around the Dragon Pit, and then landed with a grace that could only be described as feline.
The ground still shook, but Ormund had never witnessed a dragon land at anything but a distance he described as “safe” and others (his cousin’s son) had described as “ridiculous,” “cowardly,” and “nearly beyond the edge of sight,” so he suspected it was impossible for the great beasts to land with anything other than an earth-shaking tremor, but the smooth gait of the landing impressed him.
He squashed the admiration for the bronze beast down. He would not admire the thing. It was only an animal. It was his rival. It was—
Vermithor was purring again, as Alyssa, who had dismounted as gracefully as the dragon had landed, stopped by his head and scratched his chin and offered soft words.
Ormund glared.
He heard Ser Arrun snort—at his expense, he was sure—and then call, “Good evening, My Lady! How was your ride?” Then he elbowed Ormund.
The jab at his ribs didn’t hurt, it was not meant to, but it did make him jump, and school his features into something less hostile.
Alyssa looked past Vermithor and smiled her wild smile.
Ormund was finished. That was the end. He would marry this one or not marry at all. There was such joy in her eyes, in her laugh as she gave Vermithor one last stroke of his nose, even in the windblown hair she pushed from her face as she walked away from the dragon and toward Ser Arrun, who held her horse’s reins. A million ways to spend the rest of his life making her smile, making her laugh, flashed through his mind. He would abandon all other pursuits just for that, just for her. Ormund opened his mouth to say… something, he was unsure what, but a blast of hot air pushed the words back down his throat.
Alyssa laughed again, turning back to look at Vermithor.
The dragon was crouched like a cat, with his wings spread wide but not high, and his tail lashing. He narrowed his eyes, Ormund swore, and bared his glittering teeth, and growled.
Alyssa shook her head. “My sweet—” She dissolved into High Valyrian, and the dragon returned his attention to her, demeanor shifting immediately to friendly adoration.
Ormund narrowed his eyes back at the huge beast. Two could play this game. Two would play this game. Only one would win.
Alyssa said something to the Dragon Keepers, and they approached slowly but confidently, speaking to Vermithor and guiding him back toward the Dragon Pit.
Ormund quickly schooled his features again before she turned back to him, still smiling, hair even more mussed after the huff of hot dragon’s breath from behind.
Gods it stank.
But Alyssa smiled at him. “There, now you have met him, my darling dragon.”
“Indeed,” Ormund said, eyes watering.
Alyssa laughed and mounted her horse, and even Ser Arrun smiled a little at the look on his face.
“You recommend I bathe before the feast tonight then?”
“Well…” He did not know what to say to that.
“Oh, fear not, my lord, I am a Targaryen, not a savage. I bathe after I ride.” Then, with another laugh, she spurred her horse into a gallop, leaving the two men to follow.
~~~
Alyssa suspected that a full fortnight of festivities for her uncle’s nameday was excessive, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have to spend time with Aegon, that was for others. She could spend time with whoever she chose—namely, her little brothers—and eat as many sweets as she liked, and stay up as late as she liked. And as a young woman grown, she had the right to do those things anyway, but she had not been grown long, so the novelty still clung to it.
She also never turned down a good feast, or tournament, or a chance to dance with the young lords of Westeros.
And, it meant Ormund was there for nearly a month, and the days full of excuses to spend time with him, though the excuses became thinner and thinner, and were needed less and less, as the days went on.
One morning, on her way to the Dragon Pit for an early flight, she came across Ormund and Ser Gwayne after what must have been a hellishly early bout of sparring. They were both sweaty and panting, but Ser Gwayne said something and prodded at his cousin, and Ormund laughed, pushing the damp hair from his forehead.
Jace and Luke were sparring already as well, with their father watching on, and Ser Criston Cole walking himself through a duel in the other corner. Aemond was no doubt on his way to his lessons.
Alyssa strode through the middle of the yard, Ser Arrun following with a quick shout of “Your guard is too high, my prince!”
“Aye—Aarrgh!” Jace yelped in pain as, apparently, Luke’s blow got around his misplaced guard.
Alyssa laughed and shot a glance at the Hightowers, chuckling as well.
“They’ll be swordsmen yet,” Gwayne said with a good-natured smile. “Just get a few years on them.”
“And a few inches. They may be mighty, but they are small.”
“My lord Ormund, do you think it is height alone that wins a battle?” Alyssa stopped and turned to look at him, head tilted.
“It never hurt anyone,” he replied evenly. “Does having the largest claimed dragon make you feel more confident in victory?”
“It makes me feel more confident that I will never have to fight. But I shall concede the point.”
“Are you off to see him?”
“Indeed, but I do recall you wanted proof of my skill with the sword. Or,” her wild smile was back, “are you too tired for a bout?”
Gwayne choked on a laugh as Ormund flushed.
“Indeed not,” he managed. “But I do not know—”
“I would not worry about her, my lord,” Ser Arrun said mildly. “Her father is an excellent teacher.”
“I like to think so!” Laenor added before being cut off by another yelp that was more surprise than pain. “Though perhaps she is a better student than these two rascals!”
The following yelp was most certainly that of her father, as the boys abandoned their practice swords and piled on him in a tangle of vengeful limbs.
“Anyway.”
“Oh, very well,” Ormund said. “But practice swords, and I shall duel you left-handed.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her voice was firm. “And we’ll have to send Ser Criston away lest we offend his sensibilities.”
“Cole!” Ormund barked.
Ser Criston visibly ground his teeth, but his tone was, if not pleasant, then at least not violent, when he said, “My lord.”
“A practice sword for the princess. Then make yourself scarce.”
Ser Criston glanced at Ser Arrun, who must have given him some wordless direction that Alyssa couldn’t see, then inclined his head and turned to the rack of practice weapons.
“The one with the notch near the handle, please, Ser Criston.” He may not approve of her learning the blade, but Alyssa had never felt the need to be rude to him in return. She was a princess; she was above rudeness unless it was acutely called-for. “Thank you,” she said, when he handed her the blade.
He gave her a small bow, then went on his way out of the training yard.
There were still sounds of a scuffle from the corner in use by her brothers and father as Alyssa shrugged off the outer layer of her riding clothes. The jacket was designed for warmth, and she would not need that here. She handed it to Ser Arrun, who in turn walked to stand next to Gwayne and watch.
She twisted, stretched, weighed the blade in hand though it was as familiar to her as the saddle of her horse. Then she frowned at Ormund.
“I said not left-handed.”
“I would hate to—”
She struck without warning, and he dodged, but barely.
Gwayne laughed. “Watch your guard, cousin, or I shall be the next Lord of Oldtown!”
Ormund had not the time for a scathing—or otherwise—remark. He leapt away from Alyssa as she swung again, fast as a viper.
She did not laugh, but the light of battle flashed in her eyes. Her father said that was her greatest strength—her joy, her inability to be weighed down by anything. It made her fearless, he said, but in the best way. It was why she flew with such wild abandon, why she learned to fight. She was outmatched, this she knew, but she could still dance around him, show him she certainly wasn’t helpless even without Vermithor snarling at her back.
Alyssa’s defenses were not too high, that lesson she had learned early and well, but pound for pound, she hadn’t the muscle to block every swing once Ormund had sized her up and began to strike back. He hit like a hammer.
She ducked a high swing and managed to whack him across the shin, only to find herself too slow to block the strike from overhead. Her arms buckled against the crushing force.
As soon as she gave way, it stopped.
“Yield?” Ormund grinned.
“Oh, aye,” she panted.
“Well-fought, my lady.”
“You as well. And I thank you for not going easy on me.”
He bowed a little. “The least I can do, when my competition for your attention is a dragon.”
Gwayne choked on something, a laugh or a comment or pure surprise, and Ser Arrun suddenly became very interested in the stitching on Alyssa’s jacket.
“You are welcome to accompany me, if it would make you feel better.”
“It may very well.”
~~~
It did not.
Vermithor glared at him, but only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
Ormund glared back, also only when Alyssa’s back was turned.
And gods, the smell.
But he accompanied Ser Arrun to the tavern once again, and when Vermithor roared overhead an hour later, they went back to the Dragon Pit.
Vermithor landed with his usual and surprising grace, and he growled at Ormund, and Ormund crossed his arms and scowled back, until Alyssa looked at him, and then he was the picture of polite interest.
But gods, the smell seemed to cling to her.
“I will bathe,” she promised with a laugh, seeing his nose wrinkled despite his best efforts. “I will bathe, and then I shall smell of tulips, or whatever it is, and we shall have a lovely time at the feast tonight.”
“Tulips,” he snorted. “You speak as if you’ve never had a flower garden.”
Alyssa shrugged. “Gardens are not my realm, Ormund.” She looked up at the clouds. Then she smiled. “That is. And I hope you understand that.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying it. “I do. And I would have you no other way.”
Her wild smile was back. “Except perhaps cleaner.”
“Seven Hells, please.”
~~~
He danced with her after supper that night. “Lilac.”
“I’ll not lie to you, I asked my maid and she recommended it.” Alyssa gave him a mischievous look. “I told her I needed to not smell like dragon. Though, I do not think I do most days. I suppose I am used to it.”
“I suppose you are, but I cannot understand how—”
“Oh hush!” She gave his chest a playful smack that lingered a heartbeat too long.
Ormund cleared his throat.
Alyssa blinked. She had quiet forgotten what they were talking about. Lilacs and dragons and Ormund Hightower knew far more about her bathing habits than was proper and—
“Your mother is staring at us,” Ormund murmured, putting an end to her line of thought.
“Oh?” They turned with the music and indeed, Princess Rhaenyra was watching them, hiding a smile behind the lip of her wine goblet. “Good. Perhaps she is getting ideas.”
He returned her mischievous look, a spark in his eye. “I would hate for us to have others concoct such ideas for us.”
“Then tell me now, and I shall tell you mine.”
The music changed, but the two stayed doggedly in each other’s arms. Otto Hightower tapped his brother’s shoulder and jerked his chin at the pair.
“I would build a grand Dragon Pit, but downwind from the prevailing winds of Oldtown, of course.”
Alyssa snorted. “Of course.”
“And whatever your Dragon Keepers would require. And the finest silk gowns as can be had this side of the sea.” Ormund leaned closer, their noses nearly brushing. “And I shall, every day, make you smile that wild, joyous smile of yours, even if it is at my expense.”
“And in return, I would make Oldtown my home, until the Iron Throne passes to me.”
Ormund blinked.
“For that is the other thing I ask of you.” The music was loud; Alyssa’s voice quiet. “When my grandfather dies, some will try to put Aegon on the throne because he is the son of Viserys. But he is not the heir. Grandfather has made it quite clear that my mother is to sit the throne. And I am her heir. That must be something you can make your peace with, or—”
“Make my peace with the fact that our children will sit the throne? Yes, what terrible knowledge. Truly, Alyssa, it had not crossed my mind to rebel against you. I do not know if I could. For one thing, your dragon would eat me and be glad of the excuse to finally do it.”
Alyssa laughed, bright and unbidden out of surprise.
“Having said all that,” Ormund became serious again, “it has been long since Oldtown has had a lady, and I ask if you would consider it. If you would be my wife, and I your husband. Even though all the flowers whose names you do not know will be shamed by your bright smile, I will consider it well worth the cost.”
“Flatterer.” Alyssa wrinkled her nose with a grin. “Yes, my heart. I look forward to it.”
~~~
She woke the next morning with her heart singing. Ormund met her in the stables, and rode with her to the Dragon Pit, and glared at Vermithor when he thought she wasn’t looking. She could only smile when Vermithor growled back.
She flew perhaps longer than she meant, but she truly did not know what else to do with all the unbridled joy she felt.
Ser Arrun was there alone when Vermithor landed. Alyssa cocked her head, more than a little disappointed she could not stand too close to Ormund just to annoy him with the dragon-smell clinging to her like it always did.
Ser Arrun smiled. “He wanted time to ready himself for the tourney. Something about how Ser Gwayne couldn’t be trusted to oversee preparations.”
That sounded like him.
She wore the blue dress, for variety, the blue dress with shimmering bronze thread stitched into it in patterns of scales and flames, and she did something she had never done before, which was refusing to give her favor to the first knight who asked for it (usually this was her father, but today Laenor had suspiciously looked right past her and smiled at his own mother, and Princess Rhaenys had smiled back and bestowed her favor upon him).
By the time Ormund entered the lists, she knew he was frustrated to the point of violence. Certainly he knew of the others who had asked. It would annoy him to no end, to know that others were looking at her, smiling at her, making vain little attempts to woo her, when he was stuck, waiting.
The wait would be worth it. She would make sure of it.
At least, it would be for her.
Ormund unhorsed one of the Baratheons easily. And finally—finally—he spurred his horse to the box.
He pulled off his helmet, hair delightfully disheveled. “Princess Alyssa!”
“My lord.” She stood and walked to the front of the box.
“May I have your favor? I think I shall need it before the day is up.”
Alyssa nearly laughed. So he hadn’t done it last night then; he was waiting until after today’s tourney to enquire of his father about a marriage to the Velaryon princess.
“You shall have it.” She smiled and set the hoop over the tip of the lance. It slid to his waiting hand, and she watched as he held it up, ostensibly to admire it, but she knew…
Ormund coughed suddenly, lowering the lance, and shot a very annoyed but fond nonetheless glare at Alyssa.
She laughed, waved him away, and returned to her seat.
Next to her, her mother leaned close. “What did you do?”
“I flew with it this morning. I may have rubbed it along Vermithor’s chin.”
“Little dragon, I do not understand you in the least.” Rhaenyra leaned closer still. “But I suspect a proposal is on the way, if I know Otto.”
“It has already been accepted,” Alyssa whispered back, as a Lannister and another Baratheon crashed into each other. “Only it is perhaps not official.”
“Well,” Rhaenyra took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it, “then I suppose congratulations are in order. And well done, beating Otto to the punch.”
~~~
Alyssa found him after the tourney. He had not won, but it was a respectable showing, and he would not begrudge Gwayne his victory.
“My lord Ormund,” she smiled sweetly, standing outside the tent as his squire helped strip him of his armor, “you seemed distracted after your first bout. Was something wrong?”
“Oh, as you know very well, wild girl.” He waved the boy off. “Go help Ser Gwayne, he has always been inept when it comes to these things.” Ormund shrugged out of another sweaty, stinking layer as the boy jogged away. “Gods.” He wrinkled his nose.
Alyssa shook her head. “Your poor delicate nose.”
“Does it truly not bother you?” He started, incredulous.
“No.” She came closer, knocking her shoulder against his in that familiar way of hers. “It truly never has. But I come from fire and blood, not tulip gardens.”
The glare on his face had no menace in it. “One day, Princess Alyssa, I shall knock you with my shoulder instead of the other way ‘round, and then you shall be sorry.”
“Is it because I insulted your tulips?”
He took a deep breath. “My sweet, I begin to suspect you do not know what a tulip is.”
~~~
Otto Hightower could not have planned a better match given the rest of his life and unlimited coin. As it was, he planned the grandest wedding celebration his brother’s considerable coin could manage. At least, what was left after a fair percentage went to building his nephew’s betrothed a Dragon Pit. It was still a grand and glorious and raucous celebration, with feasts and tourneys for days and days.
Even amongst all his political scheming, when he heard the pair of them talking between dances before the ceremony, and Princess Alyssa flashed Ormund a grin that spoke of trouble and said, “I went flying yesterday afternoon, while you were hunting, and I shall have you know I bathed last night and again this morning, just for the comfort of your delicate nostrils,” and Ormund laughed and pulled her close, Otto Hightower smiled at the simple joy that was… this.
~~~
Vermithor landed, like he always did, with that catlike grace even as he shook the very earth beneath his claws. Alyssa slid down his side and scratched his chin on her way by, speaking to him quiet words of High Valyrian that made him purr and rub his nose against her.
The moment she had her back to him, the bronze dragon bared his teeth and flared his wings and lashed his tail, contemptuous gaze fixed on his princess’s husband. Ormund shot a glare back, then smiled at his wife, then wrinkled his nose, like he always did.
They rode home, and he returned to the study while she stayed in the stable a while, brushing the horses and sneaking treats to her favorites.
She returned, like she always did, striding through the study with its windows thrown wide to the gardens below, in her riding leathers that stank of dragon, with her hair still tousled and windswept and also stinking of dragon.
Standing by the window, he couldn’t help but stare.
Gods, she was beautiful.
Gods, the reek was awful.
But Alyssa just caught his eye and laughed. “Your poor delicate nose, sweet husband!”
“How the entire household does not go running when you return from flying—”
“Oh you bother so much about it! I am on my way to a bath, my love.” Knowing it would annoy him, she stretched to the tips of her toes and kissed his nose.
His nose wrinkled, but there was still a fond look in his eyes.
Alyssa smiled and started up the stairs, casting a glance over her shoulder. “And you are welcome to join me, should you be able to tolerate the smell.”
She shrieked with laughter and ran as he bounded up the stairs three at a time behind her.
Very aware of the smell of dragon, and somehow not caring, Ormund Hightower caught his wife around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her, laughing, to their rooms and the waiting bath.
His doublet had needed washed anyway.