ABOUT ME: (late) twenties. she/her. aries. a targaryen coded stark girlie.
WHO DO I WRITE FOR? Daemon, Aemond, Aegon II, Maegor, Aerion and Baelor Targaryen as well as Cregan Stark from HBO's House of the Dragon, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and the A Song of Ice and Fire universe.
Minors do not interact. This blog is 18+. This blog is not spoiler free.
This is basically a blog for everything related to the World of Ice and Fire, with occasional detours into other shows Iâm watching.
FIND ME ON AO3 âą HEADER CREDITS GO TO @sylasthegrim
INBOX: always open for asks!
REQUESTS: open for everyone below except Aegon II.
âAfter two years of marriage and countless disappointments, you and Ormund have learned to lean on each other more than ever. But during your sisterâs stay in Oldtown, a quiet moment with baby Aegon makes Ormund realize that perhaps your prayers have finally been answered.â
Notes: It's very possible, that this is the prelude for another (and steamier) part featuring Ormund and his Targaryen wife. đ
The Hightower has never been louder.Â
Servants hurry through its halls carrying trays of food and wine, maesters whisper among themselves, and somewhere in the lower courtyards, the laughter of princes echoes against the stone. The arrival of Rhaenyra and her sons has transformed Oldtown into something your husband hardly recognizesâa place filled with silver hair, dragons overhead, and far too many people too eager to remind him that the blood of Old Valyria has found its way into his halls.Â
As if he canât see that himself.Â
Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him.Â
The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads.Â
Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryenâlittle Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyoneâs attention.Â
Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegonâs cradle, rocking it slowly as you canât tear your eyes off of him.Â
âTell me truthfully,â he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. âHow much longer must we endure your sisterâs court before Oldtown returns to its senses?â
He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. âI have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.â
You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to himâso untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen.Â
Being far too engrossed by the babe, you donât notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. âThough I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,â he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. âYour sister, your nephews⊠the babe.â
The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters.Â
Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. âYouâve been smiling all day.â
His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. âMhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,â you reply with a smile. âFirst dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.â There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess.Â
You slip your hand from Ormundâs grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly.Â
âI enjoy having them here,â you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. âIt reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so⊠complicated.â
The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too wellâthe look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it.Â
Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. Heâs close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms.Â
You sigh softly. âHe is beautiful, isnât he?â
Aegonâs other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles.Â
âHe has your sisterâs nose,â Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. âPoor thing.â
But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice itâs evident heâs just as mesmerized by Aegon as you.Â
Ormundâs chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying peopleâthe subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knightâs shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles.Â
And lately, there have been changes in you.Â
Itâs been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely.Â
But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you.Â
There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to youâa sweetness beneath it that he canât quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once.Â
âYou have been strangely quiet this afternoon,â you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. âShould I be concerned?â
He remains silent.
Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below.Â
âYouâve changed your perfume,â he mutters, almost in disbelief.Â
You let out a soft laugh. âI have not.â
âNo.â His brow furrows slightly. âNo, I suppose you havenât.â
He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks.Â
âYouâve been sleeping later,â he points out.Â
But you are quick to object: âI have guests to entertain.â
âYou hardly touched your supper three nights ago.â
âI was tired.â
âAnd yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.â
Blinking slowly, itâs evident youâre caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. âMy lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?â
âI keep an inventory of everything,â he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: âespecially yours.â
Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. âAnd what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?â
Ormundâs gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. âI donât know yet.â
Itâs perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.Â
His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist.Â
âYou've been different.â The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if heâs suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. âAnd before you accuse me of imagining thingsâas I know you are about toâI would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than Iâve watched anyone else in this world.â
The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you. Â
He simply breathes you in.Â
Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. Itâs still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed.Â
His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.
âOrmundâŠâ
âTell me Iâm wrong,â he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. âTell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.â But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry.Â
âYou smell different,â he continues.
It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again.Â
âThatâThat is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,â you say, âbut we have been wrong before.â
His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. âI mean it.â
The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. âYou are frightening me,â you admit.Â
Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. Thereâs not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, thereâs only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust.Â
And thatâs what frightens you most. Itâs not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope beforeâthe maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moonâs disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest.Â
You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. âDonât,â you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. âDonât look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.â
A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer.Â
But he doesnât laugh.Â
âMy love,â he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. âIf I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.â
The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely.Â
For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?
The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest.Â
Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time.Â
When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormundâs, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.
âSepton Eustace repeats the widespread rumor that Jeyne Arryn preferred the intimate companionship of other women, then goes on to say it was not true.â â Fire and Blood
