Tumblin' The World Away

Aqua ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆☾ she/her | 30 years old malfunctioner | 18+ | Multifandom Blog | I will go down with this hellsite | This is my emotional support social platform

[tumblin-theworldaway]

CURRENT POSTING SCHEDULE: ON HIATUS new fics every second (or third) Thursday of the month🤞🏽

Fic tags: #aquawrites #aqua the author #postitthursdays #fic rec #comfort fic

AO3 here.

WRITING CHALLENGE (closed)

Story Guide:

Fluff = 🌈

Smut = 💦

Angst = ❤️‍🩹

Dark = 🖤

Omegaverse = 🐺

Daddy or Mommy x Little (different from daddy kink) = 🧸

College/Professor AU = 🖊️

Mob AU = 🔫

Royal AU = 👑

Gladiator AU = ⚔️

James “Bucky” Barnes

Chris Beck

Charles Blackwood

Lee Bodecker

Justin Capshaw

Nick Fowler

Jefferson

Lap Time - Steve Rogers (🔫 🖤💦)

His Special Lady - biker!Frank Adler (💦)

Lost & Found - bountyhunter!Ari Levinson (🖤💦)

Finders Keepers - bountyhunter!Ari Levinson part 2 (💦)

Wildflower - nomad!Steve Rogers (🖤💦)

Bloom - Ransom Drysdale (🖤)

Meet Cute - college!Sam Wilson one shot (🖊️🌈)

Glorious Purpose - Loki drabble (🌈💦) for @bucky-soldat

Dominoes - Baron Helmut Zemo one shot (❤️‍🩹🌈)

Perfectly Docile - king!Sam Wilson one shot Medieval AU (👑🌈)

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen

Aemond Targaryen

Orm Marius

The Only Fear - Jonathan Crane one shot (🖊️🖤💦)

Knowing is half the battle - Gwayne Hightower (❤️‍🩹🌈)

Obsessed- Lieutenant Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd (❤️‍🩹🌈)

Baelor Targaryen imagine

Moodboards

Domestic!Lee moodboard

Apple of my Eye moodboard

Lloyd Hansen x Old Hollywood moodboard

Dark Soulmate AU!Lee moodboard

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Dividers

[aphel1on]

sometimes i get really overwhelmed by love for blorbo and start saying things to myself like I need to gnaw his head off

[jellyeliart]

[afcroyjamie]

[hardyscal]

[betty-not-boop]

Shadow of the Hightower

Sent to the Hightower to serve as a companion to Lord Ormund’s motherless daughter, you expected a quiet life of duty and the chance at a modest marriage. You did not expect to catch the eye of the Lord of Oldtown himself.

pairings: Dark!Ormund Hightower x Lesser Noble!Reader

warnings: dark!Ormund is a warning in and of itself; psychological manipulation and gaslighting; extreme power and status imbalance; age gap; forced marriage/entrapment; obsessive and possessive behavior; mild physical aggression; physical coercion; unwanted physical advances; non-con elements (no smut, just a heads-up for sensitive readers)

words: ~4k

author’s note: I have so many ideas for what happens next, and I really want to write their wedding night to see how that dynamic plays out behind closed doors. But let me know if you guys actually want more of him!

tag list: @yerhina @alaeratrrn @exxotiic

The carriage ride leaves your bones aching, but as soon as the colossal shadow of the Hightower falls over you, all your exhaustion is replaced by an overwhelming dizzying anxiety.

You step out onto the ancient cobblestones of Oldtown, the salty sea breeze immediately clinging to your skin. Above you, the tower stretches so high it seems as though it pierces the heavens, a monument to a family whose wealth and piety are unmatched in Westeros. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, clutching the small lavender sachet hidden in your pocket. It is one of the few comforts from home you brought.

Your father’s parting words still echo in your ears: “You are eighteen now. A woman grown. Serve Lord Ormund’s daughter well, keep your head down, and pray that the Maiden smiles upon you enough to catch the eye of a wealthy knight or noble.”

You are a lesser noble, born to a house with a proud name and beautiful lavender fields but empty coffers. You are here under the guise of an honour; to be a companion and caretaker for Lord Ormund’s toddler daughter, a child tragically left without a mother, since birth. But you and most likely everyone else knows, that you are here to secure a good marriage, completely at the mercy of the Hightower’s hospitality.

A stiff-lipped steward leads you through the winding, cavernous halls and never-ending stairs. The sheer opulence of the keep is suffocating, tapestries woven with gold thread, braziers burning with expensive incense, and statues of the Seven watching your every step with unblinking stone eyes.

You are escorted into a grand, sunlit solar to await the Lord of the house.

The heavy oak doors open, and Ser Gwayne Hightower steps in first. He offers you a warm, handsome smile. "Welcome to the Hightower, my lady. I trust the journey wasn't too punishing?"

Before you can offer your curtsy and reply, the air in the room suddenly grows heavy.

You smell him before you see him. The overwhelming, but soft scent of crushed clove, and citrus oil sweeps into the room, overpowering the gentle warmth of the solar.

The guards at the door snap to attention and Lord Ormund Hightower steps over the threshold.

He is a striking, formidable man, a decade and a half your senior, wearing a pristine doublet of dark grey and forest green. In his left hand, he holds a silk handkerchief pressed lightly beneath his nose, his eyes narrowed in a faint display of distaste, as if the very air of the world outside his tower offends him.

"Cousin," Ormund says, his voice rich and confident. He barely looks at Gwayne. His pale, calculating eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You drop into a deep, immediate curtsy. "My Lord. Thank you for your gracious hospitality."

Ormund steps closer. You keep your eyes trained on the stone floor, but you can feel his imposing height looming over you. He stops just a fraction of an inch too close. You tense, waiting for him to speak, but instead, you hear the softest intake of breath. You stay frozen, extremely aware of the clean, soothing scent of lavender and rainwater clinging to your own skin, praying he doesn't find it offensive, but slowly, Ormund lowers the handkerchief from his face.

"You are a welcome sight," Ormund finally says, as he takes a step back. "And a welcome presence. My household has been... bereft of gentle graces since my wife's passing."

He smiles, a perfectly gracious, lordly expression that soothes your nerves. He gestures to the shadows near the door, and a boy steps forward.

"This is my ward, Daeron," Ormund says, his tone shifting instantly from soft to sharp, expectant.

You look at the boy and your breath catches. It was Prince Daeron Targaryen almost your age, with silver hair and violet eyes. But despite his royal blood, his posture is rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He looks at Ormund with a need for approval, before turning his gaze to you. In his eyes, you see the exact same anxiety you feel twisting in your own stomach.

"It is a pleasure, my lady," Daeron says, his voice polite but strained.

Gwayne steps forward then. "She must be exhausted. The nursery has been prepared, and I am sure little Lady Bethany will be thrilled to have a new companion,”

"Of course," Ormund murmurs, his eyes dragging over your face one last time. "See that you settle in well." He turns mid-sentence and sweeps from the solar, taking the heavy scent of cloves with him. The moment the doors click shut, the suffocating pressure in the room vanishes. Daeron's shoulders slump in relief, and Gwayne lets out a quiet breath, offering you a sympathetic smile before guiding you away to your new quarters.

The next few weeks slip into a quiet, unexpectedly gentle routine. The nursery quickly becomes your sanctuary. Little Lady Bethany is a sweet, lovely child who latches onto you almost immediately, burying her face in your skirts and finding comfort in the soft scent of lavender you bring.

Every afternoon, the heavy oak door opens to welcome the Lord of Oldtown, and every time, you prepare yourself for the imposing, arrogant man you met on your first day. Instead, you are met with the picture of a devoted, grieving father.

He sits in the plush chair by the window, lifting little Bethany onto his lap with a startling gentleness. While she plays with his signet ring, Ormund talks to you, he asks about the songs you hum to his daughter, which leads to long, surprisingly deep conversations about the old ballads of the Reach and the histories of the First Men.

During these visits, you often notice him closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. But in truth you think nothing of it. The nursery always smells of clean linen and the lavender oil you dab on your wrists and neck. To you, it simply seems that the heavy burden of lordship exhausts him, and he finds peace in the innocent, sweet-smelling quiet of his daughter’s room. You begin to admire him, seeing a gracious, intelligent man who deeply loves his family beneath his imposing exterior.

Daeron also makes a habit of slipping through the door, when Ormund is occupied with duties of his court. Without his guardian’s looming shadow, Daeron is entirely different, he is quick-witted, kind and funny. Your friendship with him blossoms effortlessly.

You sneak down to the kitchens to steal warm lemon cakes and spend hours wandering the library, stifling giggles as Daeron dramatically recites terribly written poetry he finds in the dusty archives. Ser Gwayne often catches you both in your mischief. Instead of reprimanding you, the handsome knight always covers for you two, offering a quick wink or even distracting the guards so you and Daeron can make an escape to the gardens.

For the first time since arriving, you begin to believe you might actually be happy here and the anxiety that you felt on your arrival has almost completely melted away. Until one night on your fourth week you were walking down one of the grand corridors, carrying a mended cloak for Bethany, when you heard footsteps.

Lord Ormund is walking ahead of you, deep in conversation with a steward. From a side passage, a young, nervous servant girl hurries out. She is carrying a heavy basin of hot water mixed with strong, pungent pine oil and vinegar for scrubbing the floors. In her haste, she trips. The basin clatters loudly against the stone, and the hot, sour-smelling liquid splashes directly onto the hem of Lord Ormund’s velvet cloak.

Ormund stops. The silence that falls over the corridor is freezing. The steward immediately takes three steps back.

"Forgive me, my lord!" the girl sobs, immediately dropping to her knees in the puddle, her hands shaking violently. "Mercy, please, I tripped…"

You freeze a dozen paces away, hidden in the shadow of a stone pillar. Ormund looks down at the weeping girl. His handsome face contorts into something monstrous. His eyes darken and his lips pull back in a sneer of pure, unadulterated disgust. He kicks the bucket at the girl cowering on the floor, who lets out a pained sob when it hits her.

"You ignorant, clumsy little rat," Ormund hisses. His voice is cold, it carries a venom so potent it makes your stomach turn. He steps closer to the cowering girl, looming over her. "I will have you stripped and thrown into the harbor to wash the stink from your skin…"

You take a tiny, involuntary step backward. Your shoe scuffs softly against the stone.

Ormund’s head snaps up. His pale eyes lock onto you in the shadows.

For a terrifying heartbeat, you see the monster looking right at you. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the cold fury vanishes. His features smooth out into a picture of polite grace. The vicious lord disappears, replaced instantly by the gracious, smiling patriarch.

"Ah, my lady," Ormund says smoothly, stepping neatly around the trembling, sobbing servant without a downward glance. He pulls his clove-scented handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his nose with practiced elegance before offering you a warm smile. "Minor clumsiness. Nothing to fret over. Come, walk with me away from this dampness. The air here has grown terribly foul."

You take his offered arm, your hand still trembling slightly. For days after the incident, you cannot shake the image of the weeping servant girl and the monstrous, flat look in Lord Ormund's eyes. It haunts you. Yet, every time you see him in the nursery or the great hall, he is the very picture of grace. He asks after your health with genuine warmth, and he listens to your thoughts with rapt attention. He is so perfectly gracious, so attentive, that you begin to doubt your own memory. Perhaps you misunderstood the situation. Perhaps the overwhelming stress of ruling such a massive city and lordship had simply caused a momentary lapse in his otherwise noble composure.

You try to push the lingering unease away and focus on the real reason your father sent you to Oldtown. During the evening feasts, you make polite conversation with a few eligible knights. One of them, a charming third son from house Rowan, even asks you for a dance and promises to call upon you the next day in the gardens. But the next morning, he never arrives. When you see him across the courtyard later that week, he averts his eyes, and quickly turns in the opposite direction. He is not the only one. Any suitor who shows even a flicker of genuine interest in you soon finds an excuse to keep their distance.

You assume it is simply your lack of a substantial dowry, but the isolation soon begins to spread into your daily routine.

Your joyful afternoons with Daeron are suddenly cut short. Just as you are settling under a tree in the gardens, a steward will appear, bowing deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but Lord Ormund has ordered an urgent review of your High Valyrian translations.” Gwayne, too, finds himself unexpectedly burdened. Whenever the knight stops by the nursery to share a joke and a lemon cake, a guard inevitably arrives to summon him to the armory or dispatch him on a patrol of the city gates.

You never suspect that Ormund is orchestrating it. How could you? He is the Lord of Oldtown, his mind is occupied with trade routes and the Faith, not the social calendar of his daughter's companion.

Yet, as the keep seems to empty around you, you increasingly find yourself alone with him.

It begins with small gestures that leave your head spinning. You tell yourself you are simply unused to the customs of such a big court. He is a powerful lord and you are a lesser noble in his care. It is only natural he checks on you.

One afternoon you are sitting on the rug, humming softly as you braid little Bethany’s hair. You know Lord Ormund has entered the room, but you are so focused on the child that you do not look up at him until he is kneeling right beside you.

"She loves you dearly," he says, his deep voice vibrating in the quiet room.

You look up, startling slightly. A loose strand of your hair falls across your face. Ormund lifts his hand. His knuckles are warm and slightly calloused as they graze your cheek, gently tucking the stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against the shell of your ear for the briefest heartbeat before falling away. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on your face. But when your breath hitches in panic, he merely smiles, a soft, paternal smile and turns his attention back to his daughter. The warmth of the touch remains long after his hand has withdrawn. You felt foolish for the way your heart had begun to race.  

You were in your chambers, brushing out your hair and preparing for sleep one night, when a sharp, heavy knock rattles your door. A guard stands in the dimly lit corridor, his face unreadable. "Lord Ormund requires your presence in his office, my lady."

Your stomach twists into a tight, cold knot. It is far too late for a proper visit, and inappropriate for an unwed maiden to be summoned to a lordly office at this hour. But you have absolutely no power to refuse the Lord of Oldtown. You pull a modest woolen shawl over your thin nightgown and follow the guard through the dark, echoing halls.

When the heavy oak doors of the solar close behind you, the silence of the room is suffocating. Ormund is pacing behind his massive carved desk. The usually pristine lord looks unraveled. His dark velvet doublet is unclasped at the throat, his brown hair is slightly disheveled. Scattered across the desk are crumpled pieces of parchment bearing the broken wax seals of the Tyrells.

"Fools," Ormund mutters, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the quiet room. He doesn't even look at you as you stand frozen near the door. "Surrounded by ignorant, grasping fools who cannot see past their own miserable, petty ambitions." Then he finally looks at you with hard eyes and takes you in. "Pour me a drink," he orders, gesturing tightly toward a silver flagon and jeweled goblet resting on a side table in the darkest corner of the solar. "The Arbor Red. And be quick about it. My patience has been thoroughly bled dry tonight by fools."

You swallow hard, keeping your head down as you cross the room. You can feel the crushing weight of his stare tracking your every movement. You reach the table, your fingers shaking as you lift the heavy silver flagon. The red wine sloshes slightly, threatening to spill over the rim of the goblet. You are so focused on keeping your hands steady that you don't hear him move.

You don't hear his footsteps on the carpet. You only realize he is there when the overwhelming heat of his large frame radiates against your back.

You freeze, the flagon suspended mid-air.

Ormund steps flush against you, entirely eradicating the distance between you. His chest presses heavily against your spine, solid and immoveable. You are trapped between the edge of the table and him. Your breath catches in your throat, a quiet, terrified sound, but you are too paralyzed by the sheer power imbalance to pull away.

Slowly, deliberately, Ormund lowers his head. You feel the faint scratch of his jaw brush against the shell of your ear. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing into your hair.

He takes a long, shuddering intake of breath, inhaling the clean, soothing scent of the lavender oil on your skin. His broad chest expands against your back. As he breathes you in, the rigid, tension in his body seems to melt away, leaving behind something far heavier.

"My lord…" your voice comes out as a breathless, panicked whisper.

"Hush," he commands softly. "They suffocate me with their stench," Ormund murmurs, his lips brushing right against your fluttering pulse point as he speaks.

He lets out a low, rough sigh that vibrates against your collarbone. "Seven hells," he murmurs, his voice stripped of all its polish reduced to a dark rumble. "You are the only clean thing in this rotting, foul-smelling city."

You try to shrink away, to slide out from between him and the table, but the moment you move, his large palms grip your waist with bruising, possessive force, halting your escape instantly. He easily holds you in place with just his hands on your hips, dragging you backward until your lower half is pulled flush against him. You can feel every hard line of his body pressing into yours.

His right hand slowly releases your waist, sliding upward. His long fingers drag possessively over your stomach, the searing heat of his palm burning through your thin nightgown. His hand moves higher, spreading wide as his thumb deliberately brushes against the soft underside of your breast.

"Lord Ormund, please," you plead, your voice shaking. "This isn't proper."

His hand tightens slightly and he turns his head, pressing an open-mouthed, wet kiss against the column of your neck.

Panic finally shatters your paralysis. With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, you twist your body to the side. Your arm strikes the silver flagon of Arbor Red you had just poured. It tips over with a deafening crash, sending a wave of wine splashing across the polished oak table and down the front of Ormund’s doublet.

Ormund flinches, his grip loosening for just a fraction of a second, but it is enough and you rip yourself away from his warmth. You do not look back to see his reaction. You run.

You do not sleep that night. You sit on the edge of your bed, shivering in your thin nightgown, watching the moonlight slowly turn to the grey light of dawn.

As soon as the sun breaks over the horizon, you drag your worn leather trunk from beneath the bed. You are leaving. You will face your father’s wrath and return to the beautiful lavender fields of your home. It does not matter that your family has empty coffers, you cannot stay in the shadow of this tower a moment longer.

A sharp knock at the door makes you freeze.

"My lady?" It is the cheerful, airy voice of a senior handmaiden.

You hesitate, your heart hammering against your ribs. You slowly pull the door open to reveal not just the maiden, but a steward and a household guard. In the maiden's arms is a breathtaking gown of smoke grey velvet, intricately embroidered with the emerald green flames of House Hightower.

"What is this?" you ask, your voice hoarse and broken.

"A gift from the Lord of Oldtown, my lady!" the handmaiden beams, entirely oblivious to your horrified face. "And my deepest congratulations! The entire keep is celebrating."

The floor seems to tilt beneath your feet. "Celebrating?"

"Lord Ormund announced it at the break of dawn. His mourning is over. He has sent his swiftest raven to your lord father and already spoken to the Septon." The steward steps forward, bowing deeply. "You are to be wed before the moon turns."

The breath leaves your lungs. He bypassed you entirely. As the absolute authority in the Reach, where the Tyrells aren’t concerned, his word is law. Your impoverished father will surely accept a massive dowry and from the Lord of Oldtown no less, who he holds in such high regards. You are utterly trapped.

Before the maiden can step into the room to dress you. The familiar scent of crushed clove and citrus sweeps through the corridor.

Ormund steps into the doorway. The servants immediately bow and scatter like frightened mice, leaving you alone with him.

He is perfectly composed. The monster from last night is completely gone, replaced by the immaculate, gracious lord you have come to know in the sunlit nursery. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, making him appear open, unthreatening. 

His eyes sweep over your terrified frame, taking in your trembling hands and the worn leather trunk dragged halfway across the floor. A look of sorrow crosses his handsome features.

"My lady," Ormund murmurs, his voice rich and soft. He does not approach you. He purposefully leaves a wide, respectful distance between you. "Did I frighten you so terribly?"

You swallow hard, unable to find your voice.

Ormund sighs, a heavy, weary sound, and lowers his head. "I came to offer my most sincere apologies. When I woke this morning the shame I felt was devastating." He looks up, his eyes meeting yours with such vulnerability that it knocks the breath from your lungs. "The letters from Highgarden, the endless demands of the Faith... the crushing weight of this lordship had utterly broken my spirit. I poured cup after cup of the Arbor Red until my senses were clouded.."

He takes a single, slow step forward. You stiffen, but he immediately stops, raising a hand in a calming gesture.

"I meant you no disrespect. I swear it by the Seven," he says, his voice thick with what sounds like genuine emotion. "You must understand, you have been such a comfort to me since you arrived. You quiet the noise in this keep. Last night... I was a drowning man, and you were the only solid ground. I allowed my desperation to overwhelm my manners. I was a fool to let my affections frighten you."

You stare at him. The sincerity in his voice makes the room spin. Affections? Last night, his large palms had gripped your waist with such force. He had backed you against a table, his voice completely stripped of its polish. But looking at him now, a powerful lord humbling himself before a girl of a noble house of no real consequence, speaking of his burdens with such openness, and a terrible seed of doubt begins to take root in your mind.

Was he truly trying to hurt you? Or was he simply a lonely, exhausted man who had momentarily lost control of his heart?

"I realized this morning that my actions had compromised your honour, and my own," Ormund continues smoothly, his tone shifting into one of noble resolve. "And I could not bear the thought of you fleeing Oldtown in fear, returning to a life of hardship when I could offer you everything. I wished to show you that I do not view you as a fleeting comfort."

He offers you a small smile. "You will never have to worry about your family’s empty coffers again."

Ormund bows deeply to you, the absolute picture of chivalry and grace, before turning and sweeping from the room.

You sink slowly onto the edge of your bed, your legs no longer able to support you. The familiar, overwhelming scent of crushed clove and citrus sweeps through the room, wrapping around you like an invisible chain. You look at your half-packed trunk, then at the magnificent velvet gown draped over the maiden's arms.

[tumblin-theworldaway]

Oh my god. I desperately need more. I felt every word, every creeping sense of dread….and then he would pull the mask back on and it was AMAZING! Your writing is amazing!!! Please do write more for them, you have captured the stressful dynamic so beautifully that it’s haunting!!

[lovebugism]

BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN. (ORMUND HIGHTOWER X WIFE!READER, DAERON TARGARYEN X MOTHER FIGURE!READER PREVIEW) — a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after it.

Daeron’s hands tremble around the leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him, bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man would surely commit, before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms just behind him. Candelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a dark black in the shadow of his eyes.

“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice shaking under the weight of the tears burning in the backs of his eyes.

Ormund’s face softens, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”

“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, shier now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”

Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had been referring to, and had been referring to since he was a babe; whenever the word would tumble accidentally from his mouth, without a second spared for the correction. Daeron might not have been yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that mattered.

But still, Ormund does not soften for it.

“Your mother would be proud,” the man answers, brows lowered as if the answer was plain. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”

Daeron swallows hard; the weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat. His trembling hands tighten around the sword hilt. His teary eyes linger on the steel blade, flickering gold in the candlelight. “No, please, I beg you,” the prisoner pleads. Daeron’s eyes lift to find his and linger there for a long moment. He sees your face in the back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever known since he was sent to ward, and hears Ormund’s voice in his head as he draws the heavy blade back.

Then he strikes.

COMING SOON.

p.s. i don't do taglists (other than my @bugfics account) but feel free to leave a comment here if you'd like to be notified when the fic drops!

[tumblin-theworldaway]

[bookish-bee30]

Hii can you write for Ormund with a new wife who fees betrayed or hurt by her family thats shes been married off? Maybe an engagement was broken off when the Hightowers came calling or something like that?

Hi there! Thank you so much for the request! I had so much fun writing it (I may have gone a bit overboard for a oneshot but it was really enjoyable to write a reader insert.) I hope you enjoy!

Peonies

Ormund Hightower x Reader

Smut, Oneshot, Reader Insert, Slight Yandere! Ormund, obsessive Ormund, wedding night, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, oral sex, masturbation, scent kink, Ormund Hightower is still a manipulative little shit (but that’s fine. We accept his faults)

Summary: Ormund had no intention of arranging a marriage for himself, but after a chance encounter and the ruination of your sister at the hands of another, things change.

Read on AO3

This story is made without the use of Al. I do not consent to having my story put into any ai generative software, to be translated, copied or posted elsewhere without my express permission. I do not claim to own the source material this story is based upon.

It was a silly thing, made with wood and carved with little symbols symbolizing love and unity. Your younger self had carved the busk, the younger self who believed that you'd have a chance to marry for love. After all, it was tradition to carry a carved busk with your beloved's name close to your heart.

How foolish.

And yet you'd kept it. Rubbing out the name of Mason, your former beloved, with a rasp (you would not be so stupid as to have another man's name next to your breast), covering the spot with the name of your soon-to-be husband. But you knew that even with all the scratching and scraping, the wood and your heart would still bear the scars left behind by Mason's betrayal. How could it not? You'd loved… and now you were to be wed to another. Mason? He would stay in Lannisport with your sister Cassandra, the bride he sullied. Until you carved another busk, you would sense his name there, beneath the scratchings. After all, he'd left scars behind on your heart as well as your underpinnings.

The wedding dress was next. You held your arms up above your head like a child as another lady helped you shimmy the dress down, down, down, over your form. Laces were tied, sashes knotted. Effectively, you were secured into the dress that would see you bound in marriage to Ormund Hightower.

Your eyes met your own in the mirror of your chambers. The dress you wore was a pale silver shot silk, a heightened version of the popular gray worn around Oldtown. The dress was laced down the arms and back with similar coloured ribbons. A simple outfit but stunning nonetheless. It showed the wealth of House Reyne had been blended in with the religious morality of the Hightowers. You'd been laced into a gown that represented your family's salvation. And yet you were not happy. How could you be when your family betrayed you for protection, taking happiness from you and the man you would be marrying in a few short hours.

~

Ormund

The day had finally arrived. His betrothed, the Lady Reyne, was one of the most sought-after heiresses in the kingdom, and today, he would place his family cloak over your shoulders and make you his second wife. His patience was to be rewarded very soon. He had planted the seed of this plan only a short while ago, and now it would bear the most delicious fruit. You.

A few months earlier…

The visit to House Reyne's stronghold at Castamere was one of business, not pleasure. Ormund had been dreading the ride through the Westerlands, as it meant many days among men who refused to bathe, inns with low standards of cleanliness, and days smelling of sweat and horse. Disgusting. He wished to be at his home in Oldtown, where the air was fresh, and bathing amongst peers was strongly encouraged.

Part of him wished he'd taken his ward's offer to ride over on dragonback. But only a part of him. He'd only done that once before and found the smell of animal and the scent of smoke, sulphur, and animal sweat to be overwhelming. An executive decision was made thereafter that Ormund would ride with Daeron on Tessarion only for absolute emergencies. This was not an emergency. For now, Daeron could stay in Oldtown while Ormund did his negotiations.

The visit to Castamere was meant to bolster relations with one of the richest families in Westeros, next to the Lannisters. Richard Reyne, the Lord of Castamere had invited Ormund as a gesture a good will and to build a better connection between his family and Oldtown. And by connection, Ormund expected that the visit would probably involve Lord Reyne throwing a daughter at Ormund in exchange for extra funds for the Crown and influence for the Reyne family in return.

Ormund would make considerations, but he was not to be swayed by money. He would not get married without making the decision himself. He had money, if anything, marriage would be for power and power only. He'd been married before, companionably if not happily, to Lady Samantha Tarly. She'd given him four children before dying in childbed. He had no need for more heirs, as he had three sons and his cousin, Daeron. If Ormund was to remarry, and that was a big if, he would have a say in who he married.

Castamere was an ugly-looking castle. Built into the rock of the Reynes' old mine, the castle jutted out like a prominent chin over the lake for which the castle was built, with two towers that stuck out like a large pair of ears.

The gates of Castamere opened like a mouth, swallowing Ormund and his men inside greedily. Ormund thought it fitting, considering how the Reynes' home was built so large, simply out of greed. Yet, he could not fault them. Given the chance to mine enough gold and silver to enrich himself and his family, Ormund would take it.

Richard Reyne met him in the courtyard of the castle, a beaming smile, eyes glimmering like hot coals, arms open wide, as though Ormund was a friend and not a stranger.

"Lord Hightower! It is most excellent to make your acquaintance and to have you here as a guest."

Ormund bowed and faked a smile in return as they both made pleasantries. A couple of members of the Reyne household had come out with Lord Richard, including a daughter.

"This is my eldest, Cassandra. I do not know where my other daughter is, but I am sure that you will meet her eventually," Lord Reyne shrugged. Clearly, Lady Cassandra was the prize, not the other daughter.

Ormund kissed the hand of Lady Cassandra out of politeness. She was pretty, but there was a falsehood to her appearance. Everything about her appearance seemed to have a layer of falsity. He found it irked him. Liars and cheats already surrounded Ormund; hells, he knew himself to be one of them. Yet having a potential wife who'd shroud herself entirely in falsity? Ormund would not have it.

Ormund greeted the other members of the household before entering the building. Inside was just as gaudy and ugly as the exterior; the lower levels growing larger and more cavernous towards the bottom. If not for the extensive renovations and improvements, visitors would probably be unable to tell that the building was housed in a mountain that was once a mine. Ormund, however, could tell. He disliked the building greatly. The air was filled with the cool, dank smell of the lower part of the building, even though the Reynes and their servants clearly tried to cover up the smell with beeswax candles, resinous incense, and perfume. The result gave the essence of a poorly bathed courtier who chose to hide his stench with rosewater. Ormund lifted his silver pomander to his nose and took a sniff, breathing in the familiar scent of cloves, orange peels, and sandalwood; a much-needed, momentary form of relief.

Lord Richard and his eldest daughter bid Ormund adieu in this space, claiming the need to prepare for supper. A servant was called to take Ormund to the guest's quarters. When the servant arrived, he silently began to lead Ormund to the upper levels, thankfully. The passages within the castle wound upwards, and Ormund followed behind. His jaw was clenched, fingers wound tightly behind his back as they walked up the stairs. Ormund found himself glaring at the nameless servant's back simply because he was there. He found himself doing this as he was guided down a hallway, and then suddenly, there you were.

You were beautiful. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Then he noticed how you dressed in finery, your shining hair adorned in a simple yet elegant style that accentuated your delicate features, with a pearl net at the back of your head. You had come from a room with a fragrant bouquet of what Ormund thought to be peonies.

"Oh!" You exclaimed with a startled gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on Ormund's arm, "Forgive me. I was not looking where I was going."

Ormund was so struck by her beauty that he put aside his earlier annoyance, the tension leaving his body.

"That is quite all right. I was not aware of my surroundings either."

The woman smiled shyly, gesturing to the bouquet in her other hand, "The peonies are in bloom. They look like massive snowballs, don't they? I admit I was rather struck by the similarity that I got distracted."

Ormund nodded, struck by her candour.

"I understand, peonies can be distracting. Especially the scent."

"Exactly!" She grinned, "I was in the gardens and saw that they're in bloom. I had been hoping to place some around the castle before our guest arrived—but I guess that is you, is it not?" She bit her lip.

"I am. Lord Ormund Hightower at your service," he bowed.

You gave him your name as you curtsied. As he had begun to suspect, you were the younger daughter of Lord Reyne.

"Forgive me, I would've greeted you with my family, but I have a habit of getting distracted," You blushed, pushing a loose curl behind your ear.

Ormund's mouth parted slightly before he replied, "Do not worry. I am glad to have met you here."

"Likewise." You looked over his shoulder to the waiting servant, "I should not keep you from going to your quarters. I can have one of the other servants send up some hot water for a bath if you would like."

Ormund smirked, "Do I smell that much?"

You tilted your head back and laughed heartily before replying, "No. Actually, you smell better compared to most people who would after a couple days of riding."

"I am glad I meet your approval." He was, Ormund had been adamant on ordering a bath every time they stopped at an inn.

"But in all honesty, I figured that you would probably want to bathe after travelling. I know that I would."

"Then I shall accept your offer." Ormund smiled, the real smile that he saved for private moments before bowing towards you.

You curtsied in return before traipsing away, leaving the scent of peonies, lavender and cedarwood behind. Ormund took a sharp breath in. He tried to memorize that scent, the way you looked when you moved. In that moment, he realized that while he may not have wanted Lady Cassandra, he did want another Reyne. You, with your honest apologies, and guileless speech about peonies. You could be his wife. Yes. You would do very well indeed.

~

Ormund was summoned for supper long after he'd washed and rested. Another servant was sent to bring him down to the grand dining room. Ormund noted that the damp, metallic smell of the castle got worse as he marched down to dinner. At times, he was overwhelmed by it, feeling the urge to gag. His sensitive sense of smell had always been both a gift and a curse. It meant Ormund could better appreciate the pleasures of the world, but it also meant he was sensitive to its displeasures.

The Castle of Castamere may have looked beautiful, but there was a rot beneath it. A dankness that repulsed Ormund. He wished to leave as soon as possible, hopefully with you in tow as his bride. He would not take Cassandra as his wife. Only you would do. Cassandra was symbolic of all the showy displays covering the rot at Castamere. You, were honest and good, and Ormund found himself infatuated with you from one meeting because of those attributes.

The dining room was large, filled with some of the family members Ormund had been introduced to earlier, as well as some other guests. Ormund's keen eyes scanned the crowd to see where you were, only to find something that displeased him.

You were in attendance, wearing an ethereal gown made of light green shot through with threads of pale purple. Your hair was kept in the same hairstyle as before, which Ormund found pleasing to the eye. What he did not find pleasing, however, was the fact that your hand rested gently on the arm of a man of medium build with dark hair. The man was attractive, dressed in a fine outfit of yellow velvet with slashes of bright blue. It was well made, if a bit dandyish. As he watched from afar, Ormund could not help but notice how the man whispered into your ear, causing you to laugh in response.

Ormund seethed, his teeth grinding and his fists tightening into fists. He wanted to be the only person who could make you laugh like that. Ormund wanted to be in charge of your joy and pleasure. This oafish dandy did not deserve even an ounce of your attention.

'No, I'll have to remedy this issue.' Ormund thought, his tongue poking against his cheek as he considered his next move, staring at the couple.

"Ah! Lord Hightower! Glad you could join us," boomed Richard Reyne as he gave a friendly pat to Ormund's back.

Ormund straightened, fastening his fake smile in place before thanking his host. A servant brought over a ray with crystal cups of arbour gold. Both men helped themself to a goblet before continuing their conversation.

"Who is that, I wonder, with your younger daughter? I was so lucky as to meet her on my way to my quarters. I do not recognize the man she is with," he inquired, gesturing in your direction before taking a sip of his wine. It was effervescent, sweet on his palette, an excellent vintage that Ormund would have enjoyed more if he was not so jealous.

Richard Reyne cast his eyes over to his daughter, "That is Mason Coldwater. He's the son of a wealthy textile merchant in Lannisport. They met last year while my daughter was visiting the Lannister sisters," he gave a shrug.

"Ah, I see." Ormund did not see. You were the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Westeros, did your father not notice how Mason Coldwater dressed? How his showy display of wealth was meant to entice as well as ensnare? "Are they to be married?"

Richard Reyne laughed, "Oh no, I am sure that wedding bells may be in the future for them, but my younger daughter has always believed that a bond of friendship is important to foster before making any sort of wedding arrangements."

Ormund could agree, but not every person had that luxury, "Do all your children believe this?"

"No, my sons are all too young to marry anyways. They need to sow their wild oats before any sort of decisions are made. Cassandra, however would happily have an arrangement."Lord Reyne's eyes glimmered again with greed, now that he was letting Ormund know his true intentions.

'Good. Better to be honest, rather than to keep skipping over the subject with small talk. But if I had my way, I would have an arrangement with the other Lady Reyne, not Cassandra.'

Ormund sipped his wine and nodded peaceably. Outwardly, Ormund continued his conversation with Lord Reyne, speaking of crops and mining, inwardly he was scheming. Perhaps he could look into the Coldwater boy's past. Ormund knew a few people in his retinue who could be trusted to investigate your beloved with discretion.

When everyone was called down to dinner, Ormund found himself not shocked that he was placed across the table from Lady Cassandra. Luckily, you had been placed in a spot next to Lord Ormund, with Mason Coldwater sitting next to Lady Cassandra. Ormund was pleased by this update, even if it meant that he would have to associate himself with your beloved and your elder sister. The annoyance would be worth it if he could be near you.

The dinner was extravagant, meant to show the wealth of the Reynes as well as the abundance of gold and silver in the Westerlands. Ormund could swear that he could make a gold bar from the amount of gold leaf placed on top of the dishes served at the feast. The table was loud, in raptures of the opulent display of wealth: fresh roast venison, candied lemon cakes, gold covered gingerbread coloured with sandalwood, and other such delicacies were gasped over by all.

You did not seem to care for it, turning your head to whisper to Ormund, "I swear, my Lord, we do not often eat like this. I would much prefer a trencher of stew to some of the dishes on this table tonight."

"What dishes displease you?" He asked, curiosity peaked.

"I'm afraid I'm not a fan of eating gold as I am of wearing it. It feels wasteful. Aspic and jellied eel are also not on my list of favourites," you admitted, looking up at Ormund through your lashes while you cut your food.

"My sister is picky, it is most ungrateful of her to be so in your presence, Lord Ormund," sneered Lady Cassandra as she pointedly licked her spoon clean of aspic.

"Let her be picky, leaves us more to enjoy," guffawed Mason, gesturing at the table before taking a large bite of venison.

You looked embarrassed, shyly going back to eating your food, tucking your head down for the rest of the meal. Ormund felt a strong hatred in that moment for Mason Coldwater and your sister. Because of their sneers, Ormund was denied the pleasure of your conversation, being forced to listen to the other guests' droll words. Tightening his grasp on the silver cutlery, Ormund vowed this situation would not repeat itself.

After dinner, the guests were allowed to mingle around the building before music and dancing occurred. Ormund's eyes found you quickly, sitting on the edge of the room by yourself, Mason Coldwater nowhere in sight. You had your hand pressed against your breastbone as though you were catching your breath or holding something to you. Ormund decided to approach. If he planned on making you his wife, he needed to have some rapport with you. Already, you seemed to like him as an acquaintance, but Ormund wanted more. He wanted for you to burn as hot as he did for you.

"Why are you sitting by yourself? Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, sometimes I find father's gatherings to be rather overwhelming," you pulled your hand from your chest and rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

"I understand. My daughter, Bethany, she does not enjoy parties. She may like the dancing but… the parties themselves do not provide her much pleasure."

You tilted your head up towards him as you listened before replying,"She and I have that in common then. Do you have many children?"

"Four. Poor Bethany is the only woman in a household of boys."

You laughed, eyes closing as you did so.

"Forgive me, but you do not look old enough to be a father of four."

"I married young," he grinned.

"Still. You bear it well. The stress of parenthood does not seem to have aged you," you held your hand over your mouth, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Not that you're old, I mean."

Ormund cackled, "I'm happy my appearance meets your approval," he leaned down to whisper, his mouth almost caressing the shell of your ear, "and I do not mind being called old. Because age means experience."

You shivered. He knew he shouldn't have said such things in your presence, but he couldn't resist, especially seeing your reaction. From his vantage point on the bench, he could see the hairs on your neck standing up on end, goose flesh pricked up in anticipation.

Good. You were receptive to his presence. He could work with that.

You straightened your back and turned to whisper back, "In what? Being old? I'm afraid I have a few years yet before I gather as much experience as you then."

Ormund pretended to wince before changing the subject, "Did you manage to put more peonies around the castle?"

"Only a few bouquets. I did not wish to rob the plant of all of its flowers. I can pick other plants to decorate the home if need be," you rambled.

"Do you enjoy floristry?"

"Yes! Indeed I enjoy everything about plants. While flower arrangement is enjoyable, I love other aspects of botany. In fact, recently I have been experimenting with enfleurage."

"Perfumery? I might have to smell your experiments. I'm afraid my sense of smell is exceedingly strong, so I often have to use pomanders to assist me. Perhaps I can be one of your early customers," he crooned, his voice low beneath the hubbub of the party.

"I cannot imagine how hard it would be to be constantly aware of the smells of one's surroundings. And as for being a customer, I can gift you some as a token of friendship, if you would take it," you offered, eyes twinkling.

If only you knew how much he longed to possess you beyond friendship. For now, he would make do with this. But he took your interest in perfumery and floristry as a sign from the Seven. If they did not wish for you to be his, why were your interests and humor so aligned with his own? Ormund had to find a way to break your entanglement with the stupid fop, Coldwater.

A couple ladies from the party called out your name, forcing you to stand up and make your excuses to Ormund.

"I thank you for your company, my Lord. I will have one of the servants bring some of the perfume to your rooms."

Ormund thanked you, watching as you sashayed away, leaving behind the scent of lavender and cedarwood. Ormund wished he could bask in it. But he knew that with patience, you would soon be his.

~

The moment Ormund was waiting for came not long after the dance had started. Claiming exhaustion from his travels, Ormund left the party to retire to his quarters. He did not dance with you, even though it was one of his dearest wishes. Ormund wished to feel the warmth of your lithe body against his own. He yearned yo smell the scent of your skin. He felt eager to press his hands possessively against the small of your back.

'In time, Ormund. In due time.' Patience was a virtue that the Seven revered highly. Ormund could be very patient when he had a goal in mind.

Having remembered his way to his quarters, Ormund allowed himself the leisure of a slow walk before bed. A walk would clear his mind and allow him to formulate a plan. Yet, Ormund did not need to wait long for an idea to come to him.

Not long into his walk, Ormund passed a shadowed alcove. There were many of them in Castamere's castle. Ormund was not sure but he thought that the alcoves may have once housed candles for miners, the curved shape of the rock allowing for light to reflect off of the cavernous walls. And reflect the light did, onto the writhing bodies of Mason Coldwater and Lady Cassandra Reyne. The couple were kissing passionately as Coldwater rucked up the older Reyne daughter's skirts, rutting himself rhythmlessly into her like a green boy.

'Ah. Now, this is something I can work with,' thought Ormund with a smirk before clearing his throat.

The couple's lips quickly separated, still bound by a string of spit. Ormund felt repulsed at the sight of such a small thing but tried to hide it. When the two saw who Ormund was, they split apart. Lady Cassandra fumbled with her crinkled skirts, while Coldwater tucked his minuscule member back into his trousers.

"Tsk. Lady Cassandra, your father was telling me how faithful and dutiful a daughter you are earlier. I'm afraid this sight has put me in the opposite opinion. What would your sister think, knowing that you ruined yourself with the man she believed to be her beloved—"

"My Lord, I—" butted in Coldwater, his lips quivering.

"I am not done, boy," Ormund snarled, throwing out the word boy as if it was an insult, "You come here as a guest and openly flaunt yourself with your host's daughter? Have you both no shame? No idea of guest friendship?"

The young couple gulped, shuffling their feet awkwardly, cowering beneath the glare of Lord Ormund. He liked that. He was glad to see the two get a dose of the medicine they'd given to you. He ran some of his fingers through his auburn curls before drawing his attention back to the couple.

"Perhaps, then it is good thing that I caught you both."

"My Lord Hightower? What could you mean?" Asked Lady Cassandra, her full lips quivering dramatically. Ormund wanted to roll her eyes.

"As a cousin to the Queen and as a Hightower, I can pull some strings with the local septons."

"Septons—"choked Coldwater.

Ormund waved his hand casually. "A special license will be procured for you both tonight. In the morning you will be married in a quiet ceremony before you leave for your honeymoon in Lannisport. As I am an unwilling witness to this disgusting display, I can say your marriage is already consummated." Ormund rambled off.

He felt quite pleased with himself for coming up with a plan that benefited all parties.

"Now to prevent scandal, I'm afraid the hasty marriage will still prove to be quite shocking to the masses." Ormund's eyes once again fell to Lady Cassandra, who was beginning to understand the formidable man Lord Hightower was beneath the green velvets of his doublet, "However, I will speak to Lord Reyne about a solution that will protect the Reyne family from ruin caused by your moral failures."

"Yes, my Lord." Bobbed Lady Cassandra in a curtsey, her face blanched.

"You are most kind, Lord Hightower," thanked Coldwater through gritted teeth.

"Excellent," Ormund smiled wolfishly, his teeth bared like a predator, "I will go make the arrangements. You both should get some shut eye. If you're prepared to fly with the owls at night, best be prepared to soar with the eagles in the morning," he rubbed his hands before turning back to the ballroom, "and by the way, don't expect a massive wedding attendance. I'm afraid that most of these partygoers will not wish to associate themselves with you both from now on," he bit out over his shoulder.

This was proving to be a productive evening.

~

"My eldest daughter did what!" Lord Reyne yelled out in the privacy of his office.

"I am just as shocked as you, Lord Reyne, believe me. I was just trying to head back to my chambers when I came upon the couple."

"The scandal of this…I don't know how I can—" Lord Reyne grunted as he slumped in frustration into a nearby chair.

"I can make arrangements with the local Septon. We will have the couple leave to Lannisport after their vows are said."

Lord Reyne wiped his sweaty forehead, "but what of the rumours."

Ormund pretended to pace in thought, enjoying the theatricality of the moment. He was finding quite a lot of pleasure in this. Who knew that when his Uncle sent Ormund to Castamere that he would have such fun.

"Ah. I think I have a solution that may work, but I'm afraid it may be disagreeable to you," Ormund turned his face away from Lord Reyne, feigning reluctance as he leaned his hand on the mantle of the office's fireplace.

Richard Reyne straightened in his seat, his knuckles paling as he gripped the arms of his chair, "Tell me, my Lord Hightower. Your guidance is extremely helpful in this matter."

Ormund looked over his shoulder, "I could marry your younger daughter, in exchange for your investment in the kingdom, as I'm sure you hoped for your other daughter."

"But she was so set on marrying Mason Coldwater," Lord Reyne responded.

"Could you wish to bind your younger daughter to the man that sullied your other child? I would not bind my daughter to such a man. But to protect your family, I would bind myself to your younger daughter, give her the courtly wedding she is due, and cherish her better than any husband would."

Lord Reyne looked up at Ormund, his eyes glowing with unshed tears of stress, face filled with hope, "Would you do that for my family?"

Ormund smiled, his eyes lowering to Lord Reyne, feeling himself pull in the snare he had set.

"Of course."

Hook, line, sinker.

~

The marriage was held at first light, with only Lord Reyne and Lord Ormund to witness the hasty ceremony. A carriage had been packed with all of Cassandra's worldly goods, dowry not included.

Ormund had expected your reaction to both the wedding and to your new betrothal. Clearly, you had some affection for the Coldwater boy. Ormund imagined the conversation revealing your sister's betrayal had been utterly devastating. He'd wanted to comfort you, to hold you in his arms, stroke your soft hair and tell you that all would be well. But he could not. You had hidden yourself away in your chambers, where the only sign of life within was the sound of your sobs.

"She will come around, you'll see, my lord." Richard Reyne said, trying to appease his daughter's affianced.

He did understand. Even though he wished to wring the necks of your sister and her new husband, he understood that you needed your time. What made him angry, was the pain that they'd caused you. For that, Ormund would despise your sister and Mason Coldwater for the rest of time. Especially since now he had been robbed of extra time with you before he left for Oldtown. Ormund had planned to woo you, to shower you with gifts, honied words and hidden caresses, but no. You had hidden yourself away because of the pain and humiliation you'd experienced.

When he eventually left, as his duties in Oldtown could no longer be delayed, you did not even come to say goodbye. Your father gave your excuses, claiming you had a headache, but that you looked forward to seeing Ormund in Oldtown ahead of the wedding.

"Oh! Before I forget," Richard Reyne reached forward and pressed a small glass jar into Ormund's hand, "She said that this was for you. That you would know what it meant."

Ormund opened the jar. A wave of delicate scent cascaded over him: peonies, lavender and cedarwood. The scent of a first meeting, of the kindling of friendship. He grinned.

~

You

A little part of you died the day your sister got married. One part was because you were not there. You may not have been every close but you wished to at least attend her wedding. But perhaps it was for the best, since the moment you heard who the groom was, you collapsed to the floor of your father's office.

"Your sister has put our family in danger of social ruin. You know you will have to help us rebuild our reputation, don't you?"

You shook your head, not from lack of understanding, but from disbelief

Your father sighed with exasperation believing you to be ignorant, "Lord Ormund has made the sacrifice of offering for your hand. I had hoped he would be married to your sister but…"

Your back straightened with realization, "I'm the leftovers at the feast. I'm what remains," you remarked sardonically.

Your father's eyes widened, "Now, now, my dear! It's not like that. Lord Ormund is—"

"A good man who's been forced to help us because my sister could not let me have one thing for myself. One thing. And she stole him, like she's stolen everything," you hissed, feeling years of anger bubble up.

Cassandra had always been harsh to you, yet your father's favouritism had spared her from the world's cruelties. And now you and poor Lord Ormund were to be placed as human shields. What must he think of your family? You could only begin to imagine. An elder sister who gave herself publicly to a man considered to be her sister's betrothed? The Hightowers were a religious lot. Their ties in the Faith of the Seven were numerous and strong. By marrying Lord Ormund, you would benefit your family with connections and protection from ridicule. But him? He would only have you and the dowry you brought. What a pitiful pittance for such a sacrifice.

"I know this new engagement is a bit shocking but eventually you will see that everything is for the best."

You bobbed your head in acknowledgment, "Can I leave now? I wish to retire to my chambers."

"Of course, my child," your father cooed as you exited the office.

The next few days of Lord Ormund's visit flew by in a blur of depression and an ocean of tears. You did not leave your chambers for anyone or anything. Not even your beloved flowers. You felt bad, of course, that you did not give Lord Ormund much in the way of hospitality, but you did not have the energy to do anything other than cry.

On the day of his departure, you remembered the promise you'd made to Lord Ormund: the offering of the perfume. Your current experiment had been put aside in your time of grief but… you looked towards your dressing table where there was a pot of perfume pomade that you'd made the previous year. It still bore the fingerprints from when you occasionally applied it. You would give Ormund a fresh jar before your wedding, but for now, this would have to do.

You pressed the jar into your maid's hand, ordering for it to be brought to your intended before he left, with the understanding that he would know what it meant. You did not watch him leave from your room, nor could you have done so anyways. Cassandra's rooms had the better view, and while she had gone to live in Lannisport, her rooms remained untouched. You were still set aside in favour of her, even though you were making a sacrifice because of her folly.

~

You did what you could to plan the wedding from a distance while still taking time to heal at Castamere. You'd never made such arrangements before and found the whole situation overwhelming.

"You must push yourself out of this sadness, my child. Lord Ormund will expect your assistance in ruling Oldtown. If you cannot handle a wedding, how can you help him?," Your father lectured you one morning over breakfast.

You put down the cup of tea you were drinking delicately back on its saucer, but you could still imagine the sound of porcelain sounded like swords clashing in the quiet of the room.

You poked your tongue in your cheek, restraining yourself, "I can run a household fine enough, father. I cannot simply just learn to plan a wedding without assistance. Did you plan your wedding to mother?"

"No. I had her do that. She had help from your grandmother," he shrugged.

"Exactly. I have neither."

It was eventually decided that you would go to Oldtown to assist in preparations. You had never been farther than Lannisport, so the journey down south provided you with much diversion. Throughout all of this, Lord Ormund wrote to you. His letters were well written and eloquent, showing you his scholarly and artistic nature. You never knew how to reply. How could you? He was only being kind to you as he had been when he visited. You imagined that in another life, you might've come across Lord Ormund at court, rather than during his disastrous visit. Maybe then you both could have a marriage built on something other than the ruin of a reputation. From what you gathered from your few experiences with him, Lord Ormund and you had much in common. Surely, that could lead to happiness in marriage, even if he'd initially come to Castamere to court your sister.

You could not be positive. Your father made a massive show of lecturing you throughout your travel to Oldtown about the importance of deference and obedience. He saw Lord Ormund's proposal as an opportunity for advancement. Richard Reyne did not see how he was pushing you away for the sake of his greed. That is what hurt you the most. The betrayal of your sister and Mason, your arranged marriage by your father, all of it came down to greed.

~

Ormund

Now

Everything was running according to his plan. The guests were on time, people were sat according to station and rank, the Sept had been decorated with fragrant flowers according to Ormund's orders, and his children were all behaving. His cousin and squire, Daeron, stood by his side, ready to assist in the cloaking ceremony. All they needed, was the bride.

Conspicuously absent was your sister and her husband, but you could hardly fault Ormund for not inviting them. It wouldn't be appropriate. And besides, it had taken an enormous amount of effort for Ormund not to castrate Mason Coldwater with Vigilance, his sword, during their previous encounters. Their sinful presence would be better suited for Lannisport.

You had arrived a few weeks previously to prepare for the wedding, as according to your father, you had found it difficult planning from a distance. Even then, due to the limitations on Ormund's schedule, he was unable to spend as much time with you as he had wanted.

He'd wanted to seduce you in the way he'd imagined, with ballads and words of courtly love that you would surely find it hard to resist. Ormund would show you the still room and private gardens he'd had built just for you. But that could wait, those were your wedding presents, and Ormund did enjoy a surprise.

On some lonely nights, when the day had been especially long and frustrating, he would apply some of the perfume you'd given him to his wrist. Then, he would lay back and hold the scented skin to his nose while he pumped himself into his fist until he climaxed. Even though his thoughts of you were completely sinful, Ormund could not help himself. He was weak, but only for you. Ormund would pray for salvation each day, knowing that until the wedding day, he would have to curb himself.

But now his salvation was here.

The light of the Starry Sept was no match for your beauty as you walked down the aisle on the arm of your father. Your face had been demurely covered by a lace veil, your cloaked shoulders emblazoned with the silver, red, and gold lion of the Reynes. Beneath all of that, you shone like one of the stars painted on the ceiling of the Sept. It wasn't just your dress, with its silver threads that made Ormund think so, it was you. You were finally going to be his, and nothing could keep you away from him.

~

You

The ceremony was long. You knew it would be from the few weddings you'd attended over the years. Even though you and Ormund truly did not have to do much.

At least not yet.

Anxiety and curiosity filled the pit of your stomach. You had been told by your Septa of what the next part of the marriage would entail, but not much else. It made sense, of course, Septas took a vow of chastity so they could hardly give advice to their charges.

You hoped Ormund would be gentle with you. That it wouldn't hurt too much with him, and that maybe he would be able to put aside thoughts of your sister while he did so. You wondered if he imagined he'd cloaked her instead of you at the altar. You would not fault him for that. Perhaps it was best she was not invited for the sake of propriety, it would cause too much pain for all involved.

After the ceremony, you, your husband and your new family were swept away to the wedding feast. The tables were heavily laden with food and drink. They seemed to be simple and delicious fare with high quality ingredients and spices that lingered in the air. Thankfully, the dishes were not laced with gold leaf like the dinner on the fateful night before everything changed.

During the feast, your nerves steadily worsened. Your eyes focused on the table ahead of you as you sipped at a delicate pumpkin soup and nibbled at the dishes spread in front of you and Ormund. He seemed to sense your nerves simply from your body language.

"Are you alright, my love?" It was the first time he had ever called you that. You found you did not mind it.

You leaned close to whisper in his ear, "I'm afraid I am a bit nervous for the bedding ceremony," you murmured hushed voice.

"Ah. I see." He said, smiling at you with his mouth closed before he leaned in to whisper in return, "we do not do such sinful ceremonies here in Oldtown. No need to fret. It will just be you and me."

His voice was warm in your ear, caressing down your neck deliciously like it had done the time you'd spoken on the bench.

His words did not make you any less nervous. You fidgeted with the silky fabric of your skirts, crumpling it in your fingers.

~

Once the feast finished and dancing had commenced, Ormund stood to his full height, offering you his hand. Ormund's children and ward had been sent to bed after the feast. You found you missed their company and conversation. Young Prince Daeron and Bethany were particularly sweet and obliging, ensuring your comfort above all else.

"Shall we leave before the crowd gets rowdy?"

Your throat tightened. Of course he would want to make sure the marriage was fully legal before everyone was too drunk to care. You felt thankful he was protecting you from the lecherous hands of party guests from outside Oldtown who expected a traditional bedding ceremony. You coughed into your fist to relieve the tension before nodding and taking his hand. Ormund smiled.

Your father had long since left to mingle among the crowd with your brothers in tow. He would not be guiding you to your new quarters. Instead, a septa and some servants followed behind, her grey habit swishing on the floor with a shushing sound. Even with the sound of the music and merriment in the hall, the silence between you and Ormund felt deafening as you walked towards a door surrounded by tapestries.

"Our chambers," Ormund announced as he gestured for the servants to open the door.

You furrowed your eyebrow and looked up at Ormund, the firelight from the room catching the red of his auburn hair as you entered the room, "Will we not have separate chambers?"

Ormund looked at you quizzically as he removed your arm from the crook of his elbow, "would you like for us to have separate rooms?"

The door clicked shut. You both were alone for the first time. Even with the heat of the blazing fire, you shivered.

You bit your lip, "I thought… I don't know what I thought," you shook your head and began to remove your jewelry at the mirrored vanity placed at the centre of the room.

"Clearly something is on your mind. I am your husband now, you should feel free to tell me your thoughts," Ormund had walked up behind you and began plucking at the pearl pins in your hair.

Each pin landed in a porcelain dish with a resounding tink sound. Such a small noise felt so loud in the silence of your new chambers.

"That's the thing. I know you did not want to be my husband in the first place."

Ormund's fingers stopped picking at the pins, "What or who gave you that idea?" His voice sounded different, curious but with a darkness to it that made your skin prickle. He continued removing the pins with a new quickness of manner.

"My father. He said you had come to Castamere to marry my sister, that you married me only for the sake of our family's reputation and money."

Ormund did not speak. Not for a long while, you could feel the warmth of his chest against your back as he finished removing the last of the pins, running his fingers through your hair now that it was free from the confines of the pins. His fingers scraped and massaged against your tender scalp, relieving the tension you did not know you'd held in that place. Then, you felt his head rest on your shoulders, his lips caressing the shell of your ear and neck before he responded with a heated whisper.

"…Your father, is a fool. I have only ever wanted you."

"What? Me? I don't understand. My sister is far more beautiful and accomplished than I. Even when she was ruined she would still be considered a catch," you muttered, feeling the familiar sensation of self loathing flow through you.

Ormund considered your words before replying, his fingers now occupied with unlacing the ties of your dress until it sagged to the floor. He did the same with your stays, unlacing them until the only thing left on your body was your chemise and stockings. You wanted to ask why he was doing this when a maid could do the job just as well, but you'd already asked enough questions.

“Your sister uses her beauty as a weapon to ensnare men and bewitch them to her wicked intentions. Whereas you, your beauty is without artifice. You are exactly who you are, without lies or apology. You think I wanted her? If I did, I could have easily had her. She gave herself up to your feckless boy, Mason Coldwater, easily enough. But I never wanted her. I wanted you the moment you ran into me, babbling about peonies.” Ormund drawled, turning your body around tilting up your face to meet his intense gaze.

His thumb moved up to rub against your lip. It was callused. You found you did not care, in fact the sensation of his finger, rough from years of training with Vigilance. The feeling, the raw tenderness of it made your breath quicken. A shiver ran down your spine, making your nipples pucker through the fabric of your chemise. Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your chest momentarily, caught by the heavy movements of your bosom.

He smirked before leaning forwaas his nose traced yours, “Because you do not lie. I am surrounded by liars and cheats. I, myself, have had to lie regardless of my morals for the sake of my people. But you, you’ve never lied a day in your life. Have you?” Ormund’s words hit you deep in your chest.

"I've made small lies. Lies to myself mostly I have come to realize," you admitted, voice cracking as your nose pressed against his cheek, your mouth nearly touching his.

"About what then? Confess to your husband," he murmured his voice thick with arousal as he laced his fingers through your hair.

"Lies of omission. Lies about my feelings—"

"Feelings?"

"About you. About all of this. That I—oh to hells with it!" You swore before lurching forward, unable to take the anticipation any longer, pressing your lips to Ormund's.

You'd never kissed anyone before this. Not even Mason. Had you been anywhere but Oldtown, you would've kissed Ormund at the altar, but that did not happen. Oldtown was too old fashioned. Perhaps your boldness surprised your husband, because he stilled for a fraction of a moment, before kissing you back with an equal ferocity. You were a quick learner, and found that Ormund was an excellent teacher. He was right, age does bring experience.

His fingers, still laced into your loose hair, tugged. You moaned at the sensation, allowing Ormund access to your mouth. It was a strange sensation, but you welcomed it, and tried to mimic his movements. Ormund made a groan of approval into your mouth before breaking the kiss to press his lips down your jaw. You rolled your head to the side, giving him access to your neck and shoulder.

"Good girl," he purred in between kisses, his hands travelling to your chest, before resting on your thighs. He lifted you onto the table of the vanity. "But you said you lied to yourself about me, I want to know those lies," he said as his mouth feasted on your exposed chest before he grabbed at the hem of your chemise and ripped.

You gasped. Heat ran through you, straight to your core, whether it was embarrassment or arousal, you did not quite care in the moment.

"Oops," he grinned unapologetically as he pressed his mouth to one of your nipples.

"I—" You stammered, undone by the sensation and by the fact that you were practically bare, save for your stockings, in front of your very clothed husband.

"Tsk, that's not a confession, my sweet," he said as he took the same nipple into his mouth and sucked.

You gulped, gasping in breath, trying not to focus on the sight of Ormund suckling on one nipple, before switching to the other.

You screwed your eyes tight and tried to formulate words, "I lied to myself, thinking that I was not affected by you. But I am. I've been attracted to you for a while. I was angry at my father, my family for breaking all the promises they'd once kept, I used that as a shield from my feelings."

Ormund chuckled against your breast, the sensation buzzing through your whole body. He pulled away from your chest

"I knew it."

Your eyes fluttered open, "You did?" You questioned.

"Yes. I knew that if I waited, you would come to me with the truth when you wanted to share it. And for that," he said as he spread your thighs apart, kneeling between them, "you will be rewarded."

"What do you—oh," you moaned, hands bracing on the table behind you as Ormund's mouth descended onto your mound.

The feeling was indescribable. You'd never so much as touched yourself in that area before, and now Lord Ormund, your husband, was feasting on it as if starved. He lapped and sucked, inhaling deeply as he did so, his muscular arms tugging your body closer until your body was on the brink of falling off of the table. You let out a small squeak.

"I have you," he chuckled.

"Yes, I think you do," you giggled breathlessly as you moved one hand to brush a lock of his hair from his brow.

He pressed his head into your palm, kissing it before standing to his feet.

You tilted your head up, confused, "where are you going?"

He smirked, "Not far. I am undressing."

"I can help you," you offered earnestly.

He shook his head, "Another time, I fear if you do so now, I will combust."

"And I have not been set aflame by you? Does not seem fair," you pouted.

"Do not worry, my bride, I will not neglect you for long," he took your hand into his, the same one that had brushed hair from his brow. He kissed it again, before taking your index finger and middle finger into his mouth and sucking.

"What are you—"

"Shhh, my love. So many questions," he soothed, as he took your fingers and aligned them with your centre, "I want you to touch yourself while you watch me."

"But I've never done that before."

He was already unbuttoning his jerkin, "You'll learn. In and out. Like a needle and thread."

"Sounds painful."

"Try it. You might be surprised."

You shrugged your shoulders and did as bid. Your fingers slid easily into your core. At first it was an odd sensation, then you found it to be rather pleasant. You looked up from your fingers and moved your gaze to Ormund. It was as though he was eating you with his eyes while he pulled the last stitches of clothing from his body.

And his body…. it was magnificent. You'd known his height, his strength, but it was an entirely different thing to see him naked. He was muscular everywhere you looked, his body tanned from days spent training outside with his sword. And speaking of swords… you could see where the Hightowers got their name from.

"Wow," You said, mouth dropping open in awe, "you're beautiful."

Ormund prowled towards you, his muscular body caging around your seat on the vanity table. His left hand traced down your body, leaving tingles and heat in its wake, before meeting up with the hand inserted into your core. He pulled your fingers out before inserting them into his mouth once more.

"I couldn't resist. Do you think you're ready, my sweet?"

You nodded. You'd been so afraid before but Ormund had made this all seem so natural. Inevitable. Like everything you both had gone through had come to this conclusion.

"Yes."

Ormund smiled before he kissed you gently on the mouth before lining himself up to your centre. Then, slowly but surely, he pushed himself into you. You threw your arms around his shoulders and held him tightly as you kissed him through the experience. At first, you felt a bit uncomfortable, but as he began to move, the pain left in favour of pleasure. Each time he thrusted into you, the vanity table shook. Pins fell to the floor as your hips rolled in return, trying to meet Ormund thrust for thrust. He groaned into your mouth before moving his head down to your neck.

He did not kiss you there, no. Instead you could feel him breathing heavily, inhaling deeply as he pushed into you faster and faster, his free hand moving down to press against the bundle of nerves between your thighs. Your hips bucked into his violently at the sensation. Beneath you, the table had begun to crack. You could hear the leg supports and the top giving out.

"Ormund?"

"Yes?" He asked, his voice foggy from pleasure.

"The table. It's breaking."

"Let it break. I'll buy a better one."

The room was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping against one another, the uncontrollable moans escaping from you both, and the scent of lavender, peonies and sex. It was heady. Inside your body, between thrusts, you could feel your core fluttering. The feeling was new and wonderful. As if he could sense how you were feeling, Ormund moved his head from your neck to stare intently into your eyes as he pounded into you before pulling you into a heated embrace.

"You're mine," He murmured against your lips, "you've always been mine."

You nodded, trying not to break the kiss, but that wasn't enough for your husband.

"Say it," he growled, nipping at your lip as he ground his hips against yours.

"Ah—I'm yours," you cried out.

That seemed to please Ormund, as he kissed you with a renewed vigour as he pistoned himself into you, moving your right leg onto his shoulder to pound deeper inside of you. This new angle was too much, the sensation seemed to overwhelm you to the point where your head tilted back as you reached your peak. Your whole body shook as pleasure pulsed through you. Ormund was not far behind. He continued to pound into you, seemingly mesmerized and aroused by your loose and satisfied form on the tabletop. When he reached the precipice of his pleasure, it was with a loud cry. You could feel his seed shoot into you, your internal walls soaked in the evidence of your husband's pleasure.

For a moment, you both stayed in place, catching your breath on top of the creaking vanity table.

Ormund looked down at you tenderly as he picked up your naked body from the table, carrying you to the bed and laying you on top of the sheets, before pulling off your stockings and tucking you in. You watched his naked body as he grabbed your ripped chemise from the vanity table, examining it closely before nodding in satisfaction. To your dismay, he walked over to a coat rack in order to put on a bathrobe.

"Where are you going now?"

"To give evidence of our coupling to the septa and to order a bath for us. I'm not letting you leave this room anytime soon."

You smiled, "so long as you come back."

"Wild horses could not tear me away."

And they would not. Ormund kept his promise, and while he spoke to the septa, you left the bed. Reaching into the pile of forgotten clothes, you grabbed your stays and tugged out your old busk. Earlier in the day you could not imagine parting with it, but now? You threw it into the fire before climbing back into bed to enjoy the comfort of your new beginning.

[tumblin-theworldaway]

[diviniyae]

floral dividers

credit not needed. recoloring welcomed. feel free to edit as you need!

[vhagar-balerion-meraxes]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON S03E04 - “Tumbleton”

[ladystoneshart]

unironically I think this might be my favourite dragon design in anything ever like this thing looks like it's a part of nature not someone's prize horse/nuclear weapon

[actualmagus]

Little Theepthealer

[tumblin-theworldaway]

[donesparce]

you dont need the butter pillow you dont need the butter pillow you dont need the butter pillow

[donesparce]

all i'm getting from the tags and replies on this post is the butter pillow has cast a devious spell on most of you. you have fallen for the trap of the butter pillow.

[lumi-lex]

the spooning into prone sex, where their warmth was at your back but now their weight and their warmth are pressing you into the mattress. their mouth right by your ear whispering praise between their moans and kisses and bites to whatever parts of you they can reach

[stargirl-and-potts]

HEY when Grace nopes out of his first spacewalk and then accidentally snaps back and goes flailing out into space. That’s him doing the book cover thing!

It’s a tribute (˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥)

(gif from @emziess here!)

[kyuurius]

That’s savior grace guys! Let him be

[tumblin-theworldaway]

Someone needs to dress up as septa and punish Ormund with a hickory switch and maybe step on him a little bit

Ummm…wow.

Well, they would certainly have to match Ormund’s level of freak to be able to get away with that. Idk, consensual S&M?! But could his ego take that?

(Lowkey though, before the show started I was already on the Ormund x reader roleplaying bandwagon!)

But yeah, if he keeps traumatising Daeron, I might just grab Tessarion or Sheepstealer (my babies 💙💙) and we can barbecue him ourselves. It’s more practical, don’t we think?

Thank you anon for this thought provoking and….deeply concerning ask! 🤭🥲 Please send more 🤣

[xpechorin]

canon

[justpostsyeet]

Nobody :

HotD showrunners : Let's put Gwayne Hightower in situations