doriz

she/her | brazil | 20

[clarkkentluvr]

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗂𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝖢𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 (𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗏, 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗌𝗆𝗌, 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌), 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌?, 𝖧20/𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈!

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 5.7𝗄

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗒𝗒𝗒! 𝖠 𝗅𝗈𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗂𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝖨 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅. 𝖻𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗂𝖽!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍. 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 <33

Clark had made sure to double, no, triple check the calendar.

A rare supermoon is meant to occur tonight.

A year ago, that might not have meant anything to him, maybe he would go outside, stare at it for a few minutes, snap a few pictures, then carry on with his night.

But ever since stumbling upon you on the shore, he's had to take these rare phenomenons into consideration. He knew how full moons affected you in more ways than one. 

He found that out the hard way.

You were drawn to your grotto each time the full moon was out, developing a particular habit of trying to escape the apartment, each time causing Clark the most distress to try and find a way to soothe you while also keeping you contained.

You also became a bit more loopy than average.

Clark likes to call it your moon drunk. You slurred your words saying the strangest, most endearing things to him. It was his favorite when you got like this. So chatty and clingy, just spilling everything that came to your mind.

But the most notable way the full moons affected you was the sudden insatiableness for him that you developed.

It was a fact that he learned after the third full moon with you, something he assumes was when you fully found yourself trusting your nature with him to reveal the full depths of how the full moon's energy affected you.

Usually just before the full moon reaches its apex, you become insistently needy, a fact that you always denied the next day.

At first, Clark was hesitant to indulge you, not wanting to seem like he was taking advantage of your nature, but you were so, so persistent.

And the one time he denied you, you became so pained and humiliated that you locked yourself in the bathroom, wailing and weeping pearls until Clark had to pry open the door and coax you into the bedroom just to stop the cries that were so loud and heartwrenching, he was sure the neighbors heard.

He knew not to deny you again after that incident.

In fact, he made sure to take careful consideration of the full moon nights, either getting off work early or taking the whole day off to help you through your needs.

So when Clark found out through work that there was a rare supermoon approaching, he made sure to call the day off at least a few weeks in advance to help ease you through the effects of however this full moon might affect you.

This would be the first supermoon the two of you experienced together after all.

The only other special full moons that the two of you experienced are the occasional blue moons, which Clark tends to find make you sadder than a typical full moon.

Clark turns over in bed, admiring your sleeping figure. He awoke before you today, not unusual for these types of days, where you tended to stay up all through the night. He took in your beautiful resting features, hoping that tonight would be a supermoon that brought you peace.

You started to stir, rustling around, until slowly peeling your eyes open. The sunlight seeping through the windows caught your attention first, realizing that you slept in later than usual. You rolled over to face Clark's side, smiling when you noticed he was already awake and watching you.

"Good morning love," he says, brushing your sleep-tussed hair out of your face.

"Good morning," you reply softly, nuzzling your nose into his neck, suddenly eager to take in his scent.

"How are you feeling?" Clark assessed while tucking you in closer, his eyes scanning over you. The full moon effects rarely started so early, but he could never be too sure, especially not with a rare one like tonight's. He would have to be extra attentive today.

"Good, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" Clark smiles.

"Yeah." you nod assuredly.

"What else can you feel, hm?" Clark asks back, nuzzling back into you, placing soft kisses to your exposed neck and shoulder.

"I feel," you exhale softly as Clark sucks into the sensitive spot behind your ear and you pull his muscled body even closer atop you, you giggle softly before saying, "Your lips."

"Mhm," Clark mumbles against your skin, moving to kiss lower near your collarbone, "What else?"

You chuckle, squeezing his muscled arms, "And your perfect body on mine."

"And?" Clark sucks on your chest now, not quite reaching your soft breasts. Your fingers entangle into his messy soft curls, pulling his face flush against you.

"And your soft hair and skin."

Clark sighs against you, his warm breath sending a ripple down your spine.

"I think I can also feel you making me salmon for breakfast? Maybe on that strange bread with a hole you like?" You ask with that higher tone of voice that makes Clark fold every time.

It's his turn to let out a small laugh, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes. "A bagel? Is that what my love is craving this morning?"

You nod against him, finally placing a kiss to his awaiting lips. Clark deepens it, chasing the kiss whilst rolling you flat on your back so he hovers over you. "Okay, I'll go make it for you."

"Extra salmon?"

"Of course."

Clark places a few more chaste pecks to your lips before getting up completely from bed. He smiles at the soft whine you let out at his absence.

Clark finds himself in the kitchen taking out all the necessary items for your salmon bagel. On days like these, he usually cooks for the both of you, bringing it back into your bedroom for breakfast in bed, followed by a lazy day and eventful night.

So he's a bit shocked when he feels your arms wrapped around him from behind just twenty minutes later. You snuggle into the hard planes of his back as he works to cut thin slices of fish for you.

He turns around in your arms, holding a small piece of fish in between the pads of his fingers, he brings it down to your lips, feeding it to you. You sigh contentedly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You feeling okay? You're usually never out of bed this fast."

"I know, but it's like I said. I can feel that today's going to be a great day. And I missed you. You were gone too long." You pout.

Clark kisses your pout, before turning around and finishing up your bagel. You follow him around as he makes coffee and your tea, washes the dishes, turns on the tv and finally settles into the couch together.

If his observations are correct, you're definitely more clingy than normal already. But it's not like he minds.

Clark was expecting this to happen.

And its like that for the rest of the day too. You are glued to his side, not even realizing that you haven't broken apart from him since those twenty minutes in the morning. He moves, you move. You shower him with kisses and cuddles, remaining tucked into his side all day and only get up to leave to pee.

Which happens a lot because you've also been strangely thirsty today.

Clark (and you) get up multiple times to refill a large cup of water for you to gulp down in seconds. He's never seen that from you before, but you see nothing wrong with it.

You just smile shyly and hand him the cup again twenty minutes after downing the other. "One more, please?"

It isn't until after your shower, right before sundown, does it seem like you start to feel any outward effects.

"Clark?" you start, approaching him with damp hair and fiddling fingers, quickly glancing out the window and back towards him.

"Yes?"

"I want to go. To my grotto."

Clark's lips curved. 

It's begun. And right on time, too.

"Not today, love. Another time." He meets your stance in the middle of the living room and places his large hands on your shoulders. He hopes you won’t give him too hard of a time on this. He hates telling you no.

"But I feel it, Clark. It's so strong, and it's calling me. I have to go. Right now."

You try to walk around him towards the front door, but Clark is quicker.

He stops you in your tracks with a gentle but firm hand to the waist. "I know, I know. But we've talked about this before. It's too dangerous tonight. It's a full moon, baby, and I don't want you to get hurt out there."

You glance out the window one more time, before facing him with large glassy eyes, and nodding your head in defeat.

"Okay."

Clark's brow shoots up.

That was it? No arguing back? No trying to make a run for it? This was so unlike you to give in so easy. He expected more fight this time around.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't want to get hurt out there." You nod again, walking back towards your room to plop on the bed.

Clark follows behind, studying you carefully. The moon was still rising, at least another hour before its apex. He wasn't sure whether to accept this reaction from you as a win just yet.

He makes sure to watch you cautiously. The next hour passes in a haze of soft touches and murmured words.

You've migrated to the center of the bed, limbs sprawled out like a starfish, your head resting in Clark's lap as he sits against the headboard. His fingers card through your drying hair, the motion rhythmic and soothing. The tv plays some nature ocean documentary neither of you are paying attention to, the soft narration a distant hum in the background.

"Clark," you say, your voice carrying that telltale slur he's come to recognize, "Do you know how many stars there are?"

"I don't, love. Tell me."

"More than I can count on my fingers. And toes. And yours too."

Clark chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mhm. But you know what's prettier than all of them?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. There's a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

"What's that?"

You reach up, fingers fumbling, trying to trace the line of his jaw but missing by a few inches. Clark catches your hand gently and presses it to his face, guiding it to where you were aiming. You giggle, the sound light and airy, and your thumb traces the strong line of his jaw.

"You. You're the prettiest. Prettier than stars. Prettier than pearls. Prettier than anything in the ocean."

Clark feels his heart squeeze at your words. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "Thank you, that's a high compliment, coming from a mermaid."

"I'm not a mermaid right now," you say, your voice taking on a petulant edge. "See, no tail. I'm just yours."

"Always," he agrees softly.

You shift in his lap, suddenly restless. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it. "Do you remember the first time we met, Clark?"

"How could I forget?" He watches your face carefully, noticing how your pupils are beginning to expand even further, how your breathing is becoming just a little more shallow. 

"I was so lost," you start. "When I washed up on that shore, I thought they were going to sell me. Or worse. I thought I was going to die. I could feel the air leaving my body, and I was so scared, Clark. I was so scared."

Your eyes are bright now, a sheen of wetness gathering at the corners. "And then you came.. You held me so gently. You said it was going to be okay."

Clark's throat tightens. He remembers it vividly, finding you on that rocky shore, your beautiful tail glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

The way you'd flinched away from him, terrified, your sharp teeth bared. And how he'd spoken to you in the softest voice he could muster, the same voice he used with scared animals, with children, with anyone who needed to know they were safe.

"I thought you were a monster at first," you continue, your words tumbling out faster now, the moon's pull clearly taking hold. "So big. So tall. You were glowing in the light, and I thought, oh no, I've died and now a sea demon is coming to drag my soul to the depths."

"I was not glowing," Clark protests, but he's smiling.

"You were! You were—" You struggle to sit up, and Clark helps you, his hands firm on your waist as you turn to face him. You straddle his lap, your legs on either side of his hips, your face inches from his. "You were so beautiful. Like a prince from the stories the elders used to tell. The ones who come to rescue princesses from sea witches."

Clark's hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you sway slightly. "You thought I was a prince?"

"I thought you were an angel," you correct, your voice dropping to a whisper. "My angel."

Clark swallows hard. "I'm just a man, sweetheart."

"No," you insist stubbornly, shaking your head. "No, you're not. You're so much more. You're stronger than anyone. You're braver than anyone. You saved me. You saved my life. You gave me a home. You gave me everything." Your voice cracks, and a pearl slips free from your eye, rolling down your cheek.

"I love you so much, Clark. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love you?"

Clark catches the pearl with his thumb, brushing it away. "I know, baby. I know."

You press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. "I can't wait to surprise you tonight."

Clark's brow furrows. "Surprise me?"

But you're already moving on, your attention fluttering away like a butterfly. You lean back, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, and start babbling about something else entirely. "The moon is so bright today. I can feel it in my bones. It's singing. Can you hear it? It's singing to me. It sounds like whales. Do you like whales? I love whales. They're so big and gentle, like you—"

"Love," Clark interrupts gently, his hands tightening on your hips. "What did you mean by that? 'Surprise me.'"

You tilt your head, blinking slowly, your eyes unfocused. "Hmm? What did I say?"

"You said you can't wait to surprise me."

Your face splits into a wide, loopy grin. "Oh! Did I say that? I don't know. Sometimes I say things. It's the moon's fault." You nod sagely, as if this explains everything.

Clark's eyes search yours, a flicker of concern mixing with deep affection. He hopes you’re not planning on running away.

Before he can press further, your body does something strange. He feels it. A ripple of energy passes through you, a shiver that travels from your core outwards, and suddenly your eyes are clearing, the dreamy haze sharpening into something else entirely.

"Apex," you breathe, the word barely audible.

Clark glances at the window. The moon has risen high in the sky, a luminous silver disk so large and bright it seems to fill the entire frame. Moonlight streams through the glass, pooling across the floor in a shimmering puddle that edges towards the bed. A beam of pure silver light lands directly across you both, illuminating your face.

And Clark watches as you transform.

You gasp sharply, your hands flying to his chest, and he sees it. Your eyes. The soft color that he fell in love with, that he dreams about, that he's memorized in every detail—they've changed. Your irises have become something otherworldly, a luminescent silver that glows faintly in the moonlight. A shiver runs through you, and when you arch your back, your skin takes on an iridescent sheen, tiny scales catching the light like scattered diamonds along the curve of your spine, your shoulders, your cheeks.

"Clark," you whimper, and your voice is different. More desperate. "Clark. I need you. Oh, I need you."

"Baby—"

"Please. Please, I can't—" You're already moving, grinding down against his lap, and Clark feels the heat of you through both your clothes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad. I need you to help me. I need you inside me."

Clark cups your face, his thumb stroking your glowing cheek. "Slow down, sweetheart. Let's take our time—"

"No!" The word is a sharp sob, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, claws extending just slightly, not to hurt but to hold on. "No slow. No time. Clark, I need you now. Right now. I can't wait. I can't. It's too much."

"Okay, okay baby, let's just ease into it yeah—"

You ignore him, trying to lean down and capture his lips, but he leans back before you can make contact.

You feel your frustrations rise, and try not to let it get to you. Instead, you use your words, your slurred, loopy, words. 

“Did you know that when there's a supermoon, most mermaids enter their mating heat,” you whisper sensually into Clark's ear. 

Clark stiffens. No he did not know that. 

You nod, continuing on, “The supermoon makes it stronger. It makes us just want to fuck, and fuck and fuck. I need you. I need my mate. Please, please, please—"

Clark gasps at your vulgarity. He knows for a fact that you did not learn that word from him and he plans to address your language later.

But right now your hips are moving frantically, your body acting on instinct, and Clark can see the tears starting to stream down your face, each one a perfect pearl that falls onto his chest.

"Please don't deny me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please. I can't take it. I can't. I'll die, Clark. I want my mate."

Clark's jaw tightens. He's seen you desperate before, seen you in the throes of the full moon, but never like this. Never this frantic, this pained, this utterly undone.

He can hear your heart, can feel the fevered heat radiating from your skin, can smell the salt of your tears and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal.

He could try to soothe you. He could hold you, speak to you, try to calm you down. But he remembers what happened the last time he denied you. The wailing. The pearls. The broken sobs that nearly destroyed him.

And the words you just said: I'll die.

There's a chance it's the moon talking, the hysteria of the moment. But there's also a chance it's not. And Clark would never, ever risk that chance.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice like warm honey. "Okay, love. I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

You sob in relief, your hands immediately going to his shirt, trying to pull it off. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—"

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." Clark helps you, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, then working on yours. Your skin is glowing now, beautiful and ethereal, and when you're finally bare before him, his breath catches. The faint scales have spread further, delicate shimmering patterns along your collarbone, down your ribs, curving around your breasts. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Touch me," you beg, grabbing his hands and pressing them to your chest. "Touch me, Clark. I need you to touch me."

He does. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you cry out, your back arching, your hips grinding down harder. He kneads the soft flesh gently, watching your face, gauging your reactions. You're oversensitive, he realizes. Every touch makes you jolt and moan.

"Please," you whimper. "More. I need more."

Clark flips you over gently, laying you flat on the bed. The moonlight streams down over your naked body, making you look like a goddess, like something born of starlight and saltwater. You whine at his absence, reaching for him, but he shushes you softly.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

He trails his mouth down your body, pressing gentle kisses to your neck, your chest, the soft curve of your belly. You writhe beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Let me taste you first," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Clark doesn't wait. He lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up your center, and you scream.

The taste of you is different tonight. Saltier. Sweeter. More potent. It’s delicious. 

He moans against you, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at your folds. You're so wet, so incredibly wet, and you're trembling, your whole body shaking beneath his mouth. He can feel your muscles fluttering, your arousal coating his tongue, and he drinks you in like he's been lost in a desert.

"Oh" you pant, tugging at his hair. "Yes, Clark, please—"

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. Your legs tighten around his head, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He works you relentlessly, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers thrusting and stroking.

And then you shatter.

You cry out his name, your body seizing, your climax crashing through you. He feels you pulse around his fingers, feels the gush of liquid that floods his mouth—sweet and salty and so much of it. He drinks it down, moaning, his eyes closing as he savors every drop.

God you’ve never tasted this good before.

"Clark," you sob, still trembling.

He rises up over you, shedding his remaining clothes in a hurry. His cock is achingly hard, leaking precum, and when he sees the desperate, pleading look in your glowing eyes, he knows he can't wait any longer either.

"I'm going to give you what you need, baby," he says, his voice low and thick with desire. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Please," you whimper, spreading your legs wider. "Please, Clark. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I need to feel you inside me. I need my mate to breed me."

The words hit him like a freight train. He stares down at you stopping his movements, his heart hammering. "B-breed you?"

"Yes," you nod eagerly, glad that he’s understanding. "It’s a supermoon, Clark. The best time to make babies. Don’t you want me to have your babies?”

Clark inhales shakily. He knows that he has to be especially careful with his words to you right now. The wrong words could set you off completely. 

But this is so new. You’ve never discussed children before, gosh, he didn’t even know if it was possible for a mermaid and kryptonian to have kids.

There's a deep, primal part of him that roars to life at your words, a part he's always kept carefully controlled. But he pushes it down, forcing himself to stay gentle, to stay present, for you.

Besides, the longer he contemplated, the more squirmy you got underneath him. He decides not to overthink it, for both of your sakes. You’ll cross that bridge if when you get there.

“Oh, of course I do, love. I’d want nothing more. You’d be the most beautiful mama,” Clark agrees, finding that the words are more truthful than he’d like to admit right now.

You light up at his words, clearly turned on even more by his agreement, evident by the wetness seeping from your core. You reach up to cup his face, nodding quickly. "Please fill me up."

Clark doesn't need to hear more. He lines himself up, presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and slides inside you.

You both gasp. You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face as he takes you. Your mouth falls open, your eyes rolling back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

"Gosh" you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back. "More, Clark. Give me all of you."

He does. He sinks to the hilt, buried deep inside you, and you both stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. You're clutching at him, your claws digging into his back, but he doesn't feel the pain. He feels your pulse, feels the rhythmic flutter of your walls around him, feels the moonlight on his skin.

"Oh," you breathe, your voice trembling. "Oh, it's so good. It's so good, Clark. You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

"Yes baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel amazing. So wet for me. You’re dripping."

"I'm always wet for you," you pant, your hips starting to move. "Always. I'm always ready for you. I need you inside me. Always—"

Clark begins to move, slow and deep, thrusting into you with measured strokes. He wants to go faster, wants to pound into you, wants to satisfy that desperate, primal need he sees in your eyes.

But he also wants to savor this. To be gentle. To remind you that you're safe, that you're loved especially during this vulnerable time.

But you have other ideas.

"Harder," you beg, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need it harder, Clark. Faster. Please. I'm not going to break."

Clark obeys. He starts to thrust in earnest, his pace quickening, the bed creaking beneath you. You cry out, your head thrown back, your body arching into his. He drives into you deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you shatter again.

This time, you don't just tremble. You convulse, your walls clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. 

And you gush. A torrent of liquid floods around his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking him. He moans loudly, thrusting through it, and he feels your liquid hit his chin, his chest, dripping down his stomach.

"Water," he breathes, suddenly understanding. "All that water you've been drinking—"

You smile sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“Oh love,” Clark groans, his cock hardening and twitching inside of you.

"Taste it,” you insist. “I made it just for you.”

Clark stares down at you, his heart pounding. Your eyes are glowing, your body shimmering, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't help himself. He lowers his head and starts licking the liquid off your skin, moaning at the taste. Sweet. Salty. Perfect.

"Oh my" you gasp, watching him. "Clark—"

"It tastes so good," he murmurs against your skin, his tongue lapping at the curve of your breast. "So good, baby. Thank you. I want more. I need more."

"Yes," you sob. "Make me come again. Make me come again and I’ll give you more. Every drop."

Clark obliges. Anything to get another taste of the sweet liquid you make.

He positions you on your hands and knees, the moonlight streaming down onto your back, illuminating the faint scales that shimmer along your spine. He slides back inside you, deeper now, reaching parts of you he couldn't before. You cry out, your body shaking, and he begins to thrust again, faster this time, his rhythm a little more desperate, snapping against you.

"You're so beautiful," he groans, his hands gripping your hips. "So perfect, baby. So perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you too," you sob, pushing back against him. "I love you so much. I'm so close—"

Clark drives into you, hard and deep, and you climax with a scream. You gush around him, flooding his cock, soaking him, but he doesn't stop yet. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He can feel it building, a pressure in his core, a white-hot heat that's almost too much.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Fill me up, please. I want it."

"Gosh baby—"

"Come inside me," you urge, your walls clenching around him. "Come in me, Clark. Fill me up. Make me yours. I want to feel you. I want to taste you. Please—"

That's all it takes. Clark groans, his hips stuttering, and he comes. He pours into you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim. You gasp, feeling it, and the euphoria is so strong you start crying in pleasure, more pearls falling from your eyes as you shake and tremble beneath him.

Clark holds you steady, riding out his orgasm, and when it's over, he collapses behind you pushing apart your legs and drinking up every last drop of your shared juices. 

He can’t get enough, the taste so addicting, he’s almost upset you’ve never squirted for him before.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice small and exhausted. "I love you so much, Clark."

"I love you too," he murmurs in between laps of your sopping cunt, "More than anything."

The night goes on just like that.

Clark loses track of time. He loses track of everything except you and your divine taste.

You're insatiable. Every time he thinks you're satisfied, your hands find him again, your mouth finds his, your body presses against his. He fucks you in every position—on your back, on your knees, on your side, in his lap, against the wall. He makes you come until you're hoarse, until your voice is gone, until you're shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up. He drinks every single gush of liquid that you produce, licking it from your skin, from his skin, from the soaked sheets.

And each time, you beg for him to do it again.

"More," you pant, straddling him, bouncing on his cock. "I know you want more Clark. Come, I’ll give you more—"

He comes inside you again and again, his seed mixing with your arousal, your liquid, your tears. You release again and again and again as well, leaving everything soaked. The bed, the floor, the walls. Everything is wet, glistening, and beautiful.

Clark's tongue finds you again. He's on his stomach between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth buried in your folds. You're crying, trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair as he works you with his tongue and fingers.

"Clark," you sob, your hips bucking. You felt that this was it, all that you had left to give to him "Clark, I'm—"

You gush against his mouth one final time, letting go of the most release, and Clark drinks it all, moaning like he's tasting the finest nectar, not wasting a single drop. He doesn't stop until you're limp beneath him, your body finally still.

"Just one more" you whisper, barely audible. "Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He slides back into you, fills you, makes love to you one last time. He comes inside you, and you come with him, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

When it's finally over, you're both completely exhausted. Clark holds you in his arms, your back against his chest, your body tucked into his. The moonlight has started to fade, the apex passed, and your eyes are slowly returning to their soft brown.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your hair.

"I'm perfect," you whisper. "That was... that was incredible."

"Was it what you needed?"

You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his. There's something soft and vulnerable in your gaze. "Everything I needed. And more."

Clark smiles, pulling you closer, cuddling you to his chest. "Good."

You rest your eyes, feeling the moon’s effects finally easing down.

“Love?” Clark starts, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you…uh, you’ve nev—never done that before. You know…” He trails off not wanting to voice the actual words out loud.

You grin, hiding your face, “It only happens on supermoons. The energy just makes it easier for us.”

“Oh, I see.”

You turn around, crawling to lay on top of him, face to face, your voice dropping back into that seductive tone, “And we know that men like you get wayyy too obsessed with our taste.”

Clark simply hums in agreement. You were right, he was already obsessed and addicted, itching for more, as if he hadn't gotten enough already.

You continue, “So it’s better that it only happens rarely. Makes us less likely to get used for it.”

Clark's brow furrows, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I would never—"

"I know," you interrupt softly, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you wouldn't. But there are others who would." Your voice drops, a shadow of old pain flickering across your features. "That's why I was so scared when I first met you. I thought you were like them. I thought you wanted me for... what I could give you."

Clark's arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your hair. "I'm sorry anyone ever made you feel that way."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You don't have to be sorry. You're the one who showed me it could be different. You're the one who showed me what love really is." You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, a sleepy smile on your lips. 

"And now you're the only one who gets to taste me. Ever. Got it?"

Clark laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Got it."

"Good." You settle back against him, your ear pressed to his heart. "I'm exhausted."

Clark hums in agreement, his hand finding its way to your hair, stroking gently. "Sleep, love. I've got you."

The next morning, Clark wakes up to you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hand resting on your belly. The sheets are in tatters. The room smells like salt and sex and love.

He smiles to himself, brushing a strand of hair from your sleeping face. Clark can’t help himself when he reaches over to grab his phone, immediately typing, When’s the next supermoon?

[cintoasted]

TAINTED BLOOD

pairing: ormund hightower x targaryen-niece!reader (reader is alicent's daughter but no major descriptions given except hair)

warnings: dead dove do not eat. dark fic. non con. dub con. incest. (they're second cousins as reader is alicent's daughter) aged up characters. reader is twenty. faux incest. (reader was raised by ormund) . heavy manipulation. coercion. psychological abuse. alluding to grooming? (more so reader is brought up to think her targaryen heritage is shameful and also to follow the faith of the seven - no implication of him wanting reader as a child). drugging with aphrodisiacs. dacraphylia. choking kink (kinda). smut. virginty checking. murder and blood at the start. more book canon rhaenyra taking king's landing. reader thinks team black is evil but is brainwashed into believing so. 18+ MDNI

a/n: if you read the warnings and go ewww, no. leave and block me. if you read this, and go eww but yes pls, come and show me some love. this is almost 7k words guys but please enjoy. barely proofread im sorry guys it was so long and im tired.

you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics

It is quite the thing to never truly know one's father.

There was a time, you believe, when your wide eyes knew him, the white hair and the violet eyes. Days when you were a babe and the comfort of a voice you heard in the womb carried, and you felt a familiarity to him, a warmth when he held you.

But these are all assumptions you make.

You’ve never truly known Viserys Targaryen. You know the stories told to you by your governess, and on the odd occasion your grandsire tended to you in the years he resided in Oldtown, you heard of his greatness from him too.

Even sitting here, under the dim candlelight of the tavern, listening to the sweet melody the bard strums on his lute, you try to paint a picture of him.

Generous. Oh, kind.

These words have been shared by many, and even as the man sings them, as if speaking them into existence, you can’t picture the man he sings of. The man who sired you. The man that sent you away when you couldn’t even crawl out of your own cradle.

A man you only saw twice when you were brought back to King’s Landing. A man that only left the confinement of his chambers once in the three years you’d been at court. Only on the return of his eldest daughter, only to protect her claim to the Iron Throne. A man you barely recognised, grey strings of hair coming out in patches on his head, blackened teeth and a face eaten by disease. He looked like a man already dead, clinging to the last grips of life, decaying before everyone’s eyes.

For a second, you tried to picture him younger, you as a babe in his arms and your tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers. Even then, sitting across from you, the picture could not come to mind. The mere mutter of the word father brings a different image, a man with short mahogany hair, loose curls and deep blue eyes. A statue cloaked in green, a sharp jawline and lips pressed together in a thin line.

Ormund Hightower, a man you haven’t seen for five long years, is the man you’ve pictured for as long as you can remember. The shape of him, standing over you, so vivid in your mind you’re sure you could picture him sitting across from you now.

You wonder how he’s changed.

Have the grey strands taken root in his hair? Have the lines on his face drawn deeper over time? Would he look at you the same? Would he remember the girl that clung to his leg as a child, or the teenager that revelled in his approval of curt nods and brief words? Would he see the woman you have grown into?

You never thought you’d see him again; the night before you left him, he told you so. You’ve thought about it often, the fat tears stinging your eyes and falling across your cheek. The sobs you desperately tried to fight back as you gritted your teeth, ones that broke through your chest and left you quivering as you threw yourself at him behind the closed doors of his studies.

Unbecoming of a woman, you knew that, especially one that was well versed in your faith. You thought he might disapprove of the way you acted, shake his head and tell you so. Yet he didn’t; he let your hands find his shoulders, nails dig into the tunic, piercing into the skin underneath with no complaint. His arms wrapped around you, one hand placed firmly at your back, rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back.

We always knew this day was coming; he reminded you before pulling you away, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold you from him. This is your duty, where mine is here.

You wish you had told him how you wanted to say— wish that in that moment you begged him to let you reside here if just for a few more years. But you have always been destined to return to court, to marry into a noble family and draw new alliances for your family.

Yet in your five years away from home, away from the only family you’ve ever really known, a marriage never came to fruition. Offers came, many were discussed, and one proposal sat over your head for a year, but then came the death of the King, Viserys, and the placement of your eldest brother on the Iron Throne, and House of Arynn decidedly didn’t want to align themselves with usurpers. You’d never say it out loud, but you’d been happy, even if it was only prolonging the inevitable.

Wars bring bountiful amounts of marriages. But wars also bring death, and while you always knew that, you’d never been privy to the sight of it. Not until over a fortnight ago, when you’d been yanked from your bed in the night, forced to leave the confines of the Redkeep with one trusted guardsman with you.

Blood paved your way through the streets of King’s Landing, the Goldcloaks turning on the King’s Guard, shoving their swords deep into their backs. Even at the dead of the night, and on the brink of winter, it had been awfully hot, sweat beading on your head, and at every glance in a different direction you could see why: the glow of a fire bright from above, around almost every corner. The streets of flea-bottom had been a battle to get through, and if it hadn’t been for Ser Ronard protecting you with his very life, it may have been your body bleeding out on the cobblestones.

You dread what they could have done to you. Stripped you, beaten you, and molested your dead body.

They are animals, Ormund’s voice rang in your head and even now as you remember, you feel the ghost of his fingers as they brush your hair behind your ear. Nothing like our common folk.

Don’t they even deserve the mercy of the Gods? You’d asked him.

That is for the Gods to decide.

Ser Ronard clears his throat from beside you, pushing the bowl of stew towards you.

“Eat,” he commands.

You don’t look up, shaking your head.

“My Lord will have my head on a stick if I bring you to him thin as bones,” he grunts out, fingers reaching out for your chin but you flinch out of reach. He points to the bowl once more. “Eat.”

Your hand reaches out for the spoon, stirring the slodge in the bowl. It doesn’t smell right but the last few days you’ve managed to stomach worse just to fill the pit in your stomach.

“It’s not so—” Ser Ronnard twists his head to the window, eyes pinching as if to concentrate.

You don’t hear it at first but the hooves trotting against the ground come quickly. Fast and many.

“Up.” Ser Ronnard is yanking you up by your elbow before you can think, pulling you towards him and charging through the tables towards the back of the tavern.

But the way becomes easily blocked, the townspeople turning against you within an instant, and then you feel it, the hood of your cloak being torn down and your thick locks being lifted for all to see.

“It’s her,” someone points, shouting from beside you. “They are after her.”

These rats are fast but Ser Ronnard is faster, unsheathing his sword within a moment, the sliding of metal being heard like a ringing in your ears and then a slice, the man’s hand falls from your head and onto the wooden floorboard.

“Go.” He tells you, shoving you away and placing his body between you and them.

Them. Vermin. Traitors to the crown. Supporters of Rhaenyra the cruel.

The thoughts are all you can think as you run into the open night, ducking out of the way of light from torches and taking for the trees.

Days and nights spent dressed in beaten-down cloaks and hopping between one town to the other just to keep yourself hidden could all be for nothing. Rhaenyra’s men had been at every town, every tavern, every nook and cranny you had come across. You’d been glad for your dark rouge hair, the thickness of it making it easy to hide the tuft of silver. Easier to blend in with the common people, the rats that swarm these towns.

They support her. You’re not safe with any of them. Ormund had taught you that, had reminded you of the enemy in his many letters. She who shares your blood and your father’s face is not to be trusted.

There’s an evilness in your eldest sister, and your uncle, a taint in the blood. It runs in you as well, but lucky for you, Ormund has been there to protect you from it.

But he’s not here now. He’s nowhere to be seen in the dead of the night as you hide between the bushes. Nowhere to be heard as Rhaenyra’s men surround you and whistle for you to come out. Nowhere to be felt as one of them drags you by your ankle to get you out.

All you feel is the damp ground underneath you, mud taking its root under the your fingernails as you desperately try to scramble away and the man’s hands as they fight against your kicking legs.

He had been right, they’re all savages, every single last one of them. All awful beasts that do not care for the likeness of your blood, not the ones that bow to the false Queen Rhaenyra.

“You wretched—” You try to scream, but his foot catches your ankle, throwing you over onto your front without so much as a struggle.

You kick back, and with your nails digging into the soil you try to crawl forward. But he doesn’t let you, and you feel your feeble attempt be stopped as you feel his hands now on your back.

He’s on top of you, weight pressing you down into muck and you hear it, the tearing of your clothes from behind you, loud as he fumbles with his trousers to release himself.

“No,” you plead, tears lodged at the back of your throat. Your hand falls out in front again, dragging your heavy body slightly before you’re pulled back again. “No, please.”

Savages. Worse than you could have ever imagined.

He groans, not out of pleasure and for a second you’re not sure why, as he becomes still behind you. But then you feel it, blood dripping onto your back, and the weight of him being pulled off before his lifeless body is dropped by your side.

“Up.”

The voice doesn’t quite register; it takes a second before it is piercing through the ringing in your ear, and even then your body can’t quite familiarise itself with it. But your body recognises those hands pulling you up, and the feel of the wide shoulders as they encase you. You don’t relax; you can’t, but your arms fall around him, gripping him with a tightness that borders on suffocating.

“I’m here,” his voice soothes you, lips caressing the shell of your ear, his warmth breath against your skin making you shiver. “I’ve got you, my love.”

In your years growing up in Oldtown, you rarely went a fortnight without seeing Ormund. As the years passed and you grew older, he became a prominent figure in your life. The man raised you, alongside your uncle Gwayne, so it’s no surprise the man was always present in your day-to-day life.

But since your arrival at Tumbleton, Ormund has not visited you once.

You hear him, though- the echoes of his voice travelling through the empty halls, and his footsteps in the dead of the night when he paces outside your room. You know the stress he’s under; while you may never quite understand the strategies of war, you can understand the position he’s in. Daeron only holds a small dragon, barely grown, and you yourself have never bonded with a dragon. His final hope resides in your brother, but since his abrupt departure in King’s Landing, you don’t know where he resides or where he will go next.

Ormund and his men are alone.

It’s something you come to make clarity with as the maids tend to you in the bath. This luxury is not promised; tomorrow it could be taken from underneath you.

You hiss when one of the maids’ hands drags the cloth against your bruised hip, twisting your head to look at her. Plain clothes and face, no striking features that remind you of the maids back home. She could be a traitor, you think. A pretender.

You snatch the cloth from her hands but your hand stops for a second, eyes flickering between the other maids that surround you.

You go to bark but swallow, cowering like a beaten dog. “I can tend to myself,” you tell them in a meek voice.

“Of course, my princess.” They all mutter, bowing before clearing out of the room at once.

They stop before the door, bowing once again before scuttering out.

Ormund.

You notice him, dressed in dark green breeches and a pale white tunic, so thin you can see the defined muscles of his chest, all the way to the dark trail of hairs that travel down—

You twist your head away, eyes closing as shame takes over your body.

“My Lord, I—”

“Did he touch you?” Ormund questions, and when you turn around, he’s stood over you.

“My Lord—” you shake your head, shifting forward in the water as if bracing to get out. “I—I don’t—”

“ —Did he touch you?” Ormund’s hands are clenched by his side, fists drawn so tight that they are white. He bends down, falling to his knees and hands coming to grab onto the wooden tub. “That—“ he clenches his jaw, and spits out the next words through gritted teeth. “Did that beast touch you?”

“He didn’t—“ your words get lodged into your throat and you can feel the sob stuck in the back of your throat, clawing to make its way out as you bite it down. “I swear it.”

His eyes darken, the blue irises almost fading to black as you look at them. It brings you back.

Memories of the man before you making you bow before the Maiden for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy on your own soul.

It’s not your fault, he’d tell you, but you need to pray for mercy to not end up like your savage ancestors.

You’d weep, knees digging into the stone floor of the sept, his hand pressed against your shoulder to keep you down.

The words try to break free from your throat now, to explain but tears flood your vision and panic takes over. He didn’t touch me, I swear it, you wish to scream but your voice makes no sound.

“Keep still.”

You do exactly that as his eyes keep you transfixed to the spot, his cold gaze not allowing you to move an inch as his hand reaches underneath the water. You feel it, his soft hand against your knee, slow at first as they part your legs before making their way up between your thighs.

Like a good girl, you take it, biting on the inside of your cheek and keeping your cries to sniffles. His fingertips feel larger than they look, running along your inner thigh as they make their way up and up—

You gasp, and his hand stop against you, cupping your mound with his palm against the top and fingers reaching against your hole. Even with how much you want to, you keep your legs open, fighting against the urge to close your thighs against his hand.

“This is where he would have touched you,” he tells you, through a heavy breath. His finger reaches down and the tip aligns itself with your hole as he continues, “This is where that savage would have taken—“ His eyes fall close, and he lets out a strangled breath, a moment, before the tip of his finger breaches your hole, forcing it open.

You try to keep still but your hips fall back, hands bracing against the sides of the tub as if to escape. But his hand comes against your shoulder, pressing firmly down to hold you in place.

“I need to be sure.” His finger deepens then moves side to side while you hiss and cry at the feel.

“It hurts,” you whimper, scrunching your eyes closed. “Please, he didn’t—“

His finger pulls back, sliding out of your walls as he hushes you, “It’s okay.”

It doesn’t feel okay. His hand rests against your thigh once more, and you can’t help but squeeze your thighs together, trying to force him out.

“You did good.”

—And yet you’re trembling in the warm water, unable to open your wet eyes. Your hands grip onto the edge of the tub still, not sure whether to jump out or to force yourself back under the water.

“Look at me,” he commands, and you feel his wet fingers grip your chin.

You do.

“You did so good.” He smiles, a small proud grin as he wipes the tears that fall against your cheek. “You understand why I had to do that?”

You nod. Unlike your ancestors, you will not be ruined by your own savage tendencies.

“I missed you,” he whispers, face inches from yours, breath fanning against your face.

So close you could kiss him.

Your body goes rigid at the thought.

It’s your blood, you remind yourself, you can control it.

“Didn’t you miss me?” His eyebrows draw together, and his lips twist into a frown.

“Yes,” you let out on a choked sob. “I missed you. I missed home.”

“And home is?” He asks, voice soft and melodic.

“Home is Oldtown. Home is with you,” you tell him.

His hand shifts, cupping your cheek and his forehead falls to rest against yours. He’s close, so close, you hear him as he inhales deeply, breathing in your scent. “That’s my girl.”

A fortnight has passed and still no word from Aemond, and no sight of Aegon.

Disappointments, you hear Ormund scream from the other side of the hall. Idiots, all of them.

You’re not making it any better, not that you can help it. But for the last few nights you’d fallen with a strange fever, sweats pulling you from your sleep and your body burning for no reason at all. Sometimes you have an appetite, and other times none at all. None of the maesters can be sure of the reasoning for it, prescribing you tea at every hour and hoping it will pass. The tea does nothing, and another brew sits cold on your bedside.

They’ve pleaded with Ormund to keep his distance. Told him they don’t want whatever ailment has taken over you to pass to him. Not in the midst of a war. Not when your lives are on the line.

Yet he visits often, not trusting the maids that tend to your bedside or the maesters that have been appointed by his own deceased father. Not to look after you.

Ormund sits now, slouched against his wooden chair, legs spread wide with you perched by his feet, a cushion underneath you for comfort. Rage radiates off him; you can feel it in the way his thighs tighten underneath your head, and you try your best to stop from moving around. But you are restless, mind fogged and skin littered with bumps across your body. You can’t help it, lulling your head to the side to look up at him again.

He sighs, a large breath through his nose and his thighs tighten once again.

“I thought you were trying to sleep?”

You look up at him through wet lashes, fluttering as if to keep them open. You want to sleep, your mind clouded with a tiredness you’ve never felt before but your body is restless and you shift against him to find some sort of comfort.

“Hmm?”

You whine, head rolling around again till your forehead is pressed against the inside of his thigh. “I can’t.”

“I should ask the maesters to brew some tea.” One of his hands falls to the back of your head, fingers combing through the strands, and the feel of the tips of his fingers scratching against your scalp causes you to shiver.

“No more tea,” you mumble against his breeches.

“You barely drank the last.”

You hear a scuffle on the other side of the room, maids following his command you imagine.

You lift your head again, and it takes a second for your vision to clear and for you to fully see him.

“Please,” You whine, but he doesn’t listen— he doesn’t look down.

You want his attention— no, you need his attention. You need him to look down at you, to acknowledge your pleads.

Your hands drag themselves up from his knees, fingers running along his thick muscles before wrapping around the tops of his thighs. His muscles tighten, harder than before and he finally looks down at you, nostrils flared and jaw clenched.

“Amused?”

Your hands slide down, releasing your grip and you lean back slightly, dropping your head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what took over me. I—”

His face relaxes and his head lulls back as he takes another languid breath. “You can’t help it.”

You hum, tilting your head to the side.

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

You jump at the sound of the maid placing the tea pot down beside you, eyes falling to her as she pours a cup.

Ormund takes it from her, placing it out in front of you.

“Drink,” he commands, and the second you hesitate he presses the cup to your lips. “Drink.” The firm tone of his voice willing you to his command.

The heat of the tea is bearable, but still a tad too hot as it floods your mouth with its bitter taste. You imagine this is what dirt tastes like, but there's a hint of citrus that helps you swallow it down. You don’t want it, but he pours it into your mouth anyway, eyes glued to yours, eyebrows pinched together, telling you without words to obey him. You do, willing as much liquid as you can down before it comes too much, hot liquid burning your skin as it spills from the confines of your mouth.

He takes the cup away when you start to cough, pushing the cup back into the maid’s hand before giving her a curt nod to leave.

You try to push off him, giving yourself space as you choke on the last bits of liquid that have become trapped in your throat, but his hands come around your arms, keeping you locked in place.

“Breathe.”

You try, letting out a shaky breath, willing the tickle in your throat to dissipate. Eventually it does and you blink back the tears that have swarmed your waterline.

“Good girl,” he whispers, hands pulling you towards him. “Come.”

“I shouldn’t,” you tell him, but your body betrays you, crawling upwards until your head is resting against his shoulder and your legs are perched over his. “The maesters—” the words become muffled as you bury your head in the crevice of his neck. “ —you’ll get sick.”

“That’s my burden to bear.” His voice is soft, and his hand gentle as it falls against your thigh. “You are my burden.”

“Yes,” you answer him, not out of your own volition but a certain pull deep inside of you that speaks to him— that heeds his call.

His hand moves, trailing up your thigh and back down again, the material of your cotton gown following his slow movements. You hum, unbeknownst to you and another sound follows, a low rumble from the back of your throat you can’t place, but you know isn’t right.

“I’m sorry— I—” the next noise is louder, a desperate whimper and you feel a wave of heat flush over your body, dampening your skin.

Everything feels strange so suddenly. The material of your gown feels uncomfortable, almost scratching your skin every time you shift about. His hand— You’ve become deeply aware of Ormund’s hand pressed against you, heavier than before and almost soothing as it glides up the back of your thigh.

You want more, that you’re sure of, but you’re not sure of yourself or the words to ask for it.

What is it you want? These clothes off your body. His hand higher. His hand against your bare skin. Your thighs clamp together at that thought and you feel slick oozing from you as you rub your legs together.

He grasps the back of your hair, detaching you from his neck and forcing you to look up at him. His brows furrow together, but his expression is kinder than before. But it changes, eyes hardening and his muscles becoming stiff underneath you as his eyes trail down your body. Your chest rising and falling, your nipples pebbled underneath your gown, the way the material becomes almost transparent from your wet skin.

A part of you grasps, his darkened gaze and the way his mouth parts as you try to steady your rapid breathing.

Sinful girl, he must think, poisoned by your own blood.

“It’s exactly as I thought,” he states, eyes dragging themselves back up to your face.

“It’s my blood, isn’t it?” Just like your sister. Your elder brothers. Your ancestors. Ormund had been right all along. “Am I going to die?”

He pauses, his hand on your lower thigh tugs your skirts up, allowing the chill of the night air to touch your skin. It feels good, a sort of relief, but only temporary.

Your body freezes when the material reaches higher, lifting over your ankles, shins and then towards the middle of your thighs.

“I think I know a way to help you.” He swallows, and you watch as the bulge in his throat protrudes. “But—” his hand falls against your sweat-covered skin and you let out a small gasp, your skin burning under his touch. “—you need to understand.”

“Please,” you let out between a broken cry. “Please. Please. Please.” You repeat until the words jumble together.

The tip of his fingers slides beneath the material of your gown, and your hand darts out towards it. To stop it, or to push it away, you’re not entirely sure.

The air has shifted; you sense it completely now as you look up at Ormund. The man that raised you, that took care of you as his own, is touching you— his fingers drifting up to a place the septas taught you was for only your husband.

“Your blood craves its own,” he tells you, and you can’t quite understand what he speaks of “But if I’m right—” he bites down on his words, the tips of his fingers hovering up your thighs and over your stomach. “If I’m right, I can help you.”

How? You think to question him but the word doesn’t reach your lips. “Please,” is all you have him, the single word taking over your senses and your mind.

“Your blood…” his eyes widen, and his brows raise as he speaks. “…it wants its own.”

Your mind reels and his teachings ring in your head.

Incestuous savages.

It makes sense. Your body’s call for kin. Your brother and your sister married. Your elder sister and uncle. Even your father married his cousin.

Blood magic and curses, your ancestors have forsaken you.

Your eyes flutter up at him, tears flooding your vision at the thoughts. You can feel it, that very affliction that runs through your veins. Your senses are heightened and your body is burning for a touch of another.

“I may not have Targaryen blood,” he whispers, and his hand drops, landing on your breast, fingers splayed over it. “But you and I share the same blood. I think it could work.”

Your body freezes, his eyes falling to his finger as it moves flicking over your hardened nipple.

The man who raised you. A man you see is more akin to you than your own father, own mother, own brothers and sisters.

“You’re married,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Like that would make it any worse.

His hand shifts from your hair, wrapping around your neck before pulling you dangerously close. You could kiss him, or he could kiss you. As if sensing your thoughts his grip tightens and you find yourself wheezing for breath.

“Or—“ you gasp, hand reaching for his.

He looks down at you, lips frowning and jaw clenching once again into an almost pained expression. “I’d do this for you. Forsake my honour, for you.”

Fat tears slide down your cheeks in sheer horror but your body reacts in a different way, thighs clenching when his finger flicks over your nipple again.

“I could save you.”

He’s right. Every part of you reacts to him like some bitch in heat, craving his touch. Even if your teachings from the seven tell you different. They don’t understand this, they couldn’t possibly grasp the idea of this. Neither could you. It’s only here seeing the way your body trembles and bucks into his touch do you see how right he is.

You don’t want to die.

“Please save me,” you ask him only loud enough for him to hear.

“My girl.”

The words travel through you and you can’t help but shiver against him.

You close your eyes, bracing for the impact of his lips against yours at any moment but it doesn’t come. Only when your eyes open, do you feel his nose against your throat, inhaling your scent like he’s gasping for it.

His lips come after, grazing against your neck, just under your chin where his hand doesn’t cover and then upwards till they finally meet your lips.

It’s not at all how you expect it —but then again you never had much time to imagine much —he’s tender at first, his lips caressing yours, taking his time as he moves against your mouth. Open-mouthed pecks to the corner of your lips, and then your bottom lip until his lips meld into yours and you forget to breathe.

He pulls away, his hand sliding from your throat and his thumb finding your bottom lip, pulling it apart from the top.

“Let me help you.”

He dives forward this time, not so kind as his lips find yours for a second time. Your lips move, not with his but almost against him, intending to push him away. It doesn’t work and your lips part as you feel his teeth nipping at your skin— to speak, only for his tongue to shove against yours, forcing your words into a whine.

What would you have said anyway? No, don’t do this. A part of you still screams, your hand falling against his own as he gropes your breast. But then your thighs shift and you find yourself melting into his body.

Wouldn’t it be easier to forget. Wouldn’t it be safer to let him take care of you?

Ormund’s arm comes underneath you, hoisting you up and himself with you, never once allowing his lips to leave your own. It feels good— dangerously good as his saliva drips into your mouth and his tongue slides against yours. Is this how your ancestors felt the first time they lay with their own blood?

Your back hits silk sheets and cushions as Ormund places you down, breaking apart from you. You lift yourself, hazy eyes searching to find him, only to freeze when you see him undressing himself at the end of your bed.

You fall backwards, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.

Better to not look. Better not to think.

You feel the weight of the bed dip by your feet, and your body moves on autopilot, heels digging in to push yourself further up the sheets. You’re stopped though, one hand finding your ankle yanking you right back down.

He tuts, and you feel the weight of him over you, crawling till he’s hovering directly above you. His hand lifts your skirt, throwing the material up until it’s bunched around your waist.

“Do you think I want to do this?” He questions, and you feel his breath against your face. “Hmm?”

You shake your head.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” his voice stern as his forehead presses against your own. “Look at me.”

Your eyes open to a blackened gaze peering down at yours.

“Do you think I want to do this?”

“No,” you answer, tears clawing at the back of your throat. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’m doing this to help you,” he whispers, lips pressing against yours again. “I’m doing this to save you.”

He lowers himself against you, and you realise how bare he is as you feel his harness against your inner thigh. You’re not sure how you pictured it, but the length of it against your thigh brings fear to your mind.

“Let’s get this off.”

You feel the gown being torn from your skin, and you find yourself lifting your body off the bed for him to pull it off your shoulders.

You don’t even have time to think before you’re being shoved down, lips finding your own and thighs being pried open. His body falls between your legs, hips pressing down against yours and you feel him there. Hard, thick and leaking.

But you also feel yourself. Slick covered thighs that fall around his hips and a drenched cunt that oozes with the feel of him sliding against it.

He was right, he’s always right.

Your hips buck up to him, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, your hole clenching around nothing as the tip of him catches your entrance. Your body wants this, it’s leaking all over him and when he pulls away, you let out a pathetic whimper.

“Hush,” he whispers against you, breaking his lips away from your own. “You’ll get what you desire.”

Then you feel it, his tip sliding against your folds with precision, slowly and then even slower over your sensitive nub. Your body reacts literally, mouth falling open into a whine or a moan, you’re not certain you can separate the two but it makes him smile. You feel it, lips widening against your cheek and it leaves you confused, opening your eyes to be sure it’s true.

Your lips fall open to speak, to question him but the words die on your tongue as he lines himself up against you before sliding in with one full thrust.

His lips fall open on yours, a sigh escaping him while a cry escapes you.

It hurts. Your walls feel like they’ve been forced open and the wetness does nothing to prepare you for him. Tears kiss your cheeks and your teeth grind against each other, forcing the sobs down.

He moves, dragging his dick out your walls before he’s shoving himself in.

“It hurts,” you let out through a choked sob, your whole body freezing underneath him. Your hands find his shoulders, pushing him back but his torso is like a stone wall that won’t let up —except from his hips that roll as he slowly slides in and out of you.

“Shhh.” His lips press into your cheek, then the corner of your parted lips. “It’ll feel better soon. I swear it.”

—So, you try to keep quiet, sucking in harsh breaths and letting out shaky sobs that have your body frozen against him. It hurts, and you feel like your walls are being torn open from the inside and he keeps going.

In. Out.

In and then out.

Your breathing steadies and your chest begins to settle. The pain is still there, but it’s faded and when his cock drags against your walls, you feel yourself tighten around him.

“See,” you hear his voice in your ear, and his lips follow, settling below and kissing the delicate skin there.

“It feels—”

“I know,” he replies, his voice different— grittier. “Told you didn’t I?” —and you hear it again, caught in a groan, coming from the back of his throat. “Making you feel better?”

You nod, a sick moan spilling from your lips is the only answer you can give. Slick is pouring out of you again, and you forget that it was ever painful to begin with and you also realise when he speaks once again, it does something to you, nipples becoming oddly more sensitive and cunt squeezing him.

It does something to him too, you feel it in the way he changes his pace, and his hands fall down to your hips to keep you glued to the bed. He’s only doing this for your own good, you remind yourself but the way his thrusts become faster has you thinking differently.

“Please,” you plead with him, legs falling around his hips, hooking behind them. “My Lord, plea—”

“Sire,” he snaps, teeth pressing against your skin. “Please, sire.”

His hand comes around your throat, and he presses his forehead against yours, lips parting.

“Please, what?”

“Please—” your words get caught as he delivers a nasty thrust against you.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Please, sire.”

You let the words out between a gasp, before he’s shoving your thighs down further, his cock reaching a point so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Please,” you beg between strangled sobs. “Please, sire. Please. Please…”

“My good girl.”

Your walls tighten and you’re sure if your body could have its way it’d keep him there, his shaft stuck inside you, every ridge and vein imprinted into your very walls. You should feel ashamed at the thoughts, and maybe when you recover from your sickness you will, but right now all you want is to break underneath him.

—And some part of you does, a tension in your stomach snapping and a body-numbing feeling taking over you. Blood rushes to your head, and your vision becomes cloudy as you look up at him. You think you’re saying something, lips open and tongue moving. Maybe not even words, maybe a string of sounds that blur into one.

Then relief.

A relief washing over you that you haven't felt in days, all while his cock continues to rut into you with a vigour that borders on cruel.

It’s him giving you this relief, his cock spilling inside of you, letting out steady ropes of his seed until you’re full of him. It feels good and your restless body relaxes underneath him, taking everything he has to offer you. Every bit of him until your moans turn to gentle sighs and there’s nothing left for him to give.

“You feel better, don’t you.”

He doesn’t ask, he states it like he already knows like he can read the expression on your face. You wonder what you look like right now, hair tangled and face covered in a mix of dried tears and sweat.

You nod, and your eyes close for a second.

“Yes,” you answer him. “Better.”

And you think that’s it, the end of it.

But as the seconds pass you become acutely aware of how he’s still buried inside of you and how hips, even though they turned into an almost slow drag, haven't stopped moving for even a moment.

“We should keep going then,” he says, and his weight becomes heavier, more relaxed as it falls on top of you, trapping you completely underneath him. “Keep going till you’re cured.”

You open your mouth to speak, to protest—

“ —Till we are certain.” His hips shove into yours, rougher than before and you feel his seed drip out your walls and over his cock. “We want to be certain, don’t we?”

Your lips close, words you were about to say becoming a distant memory as you nod in agreement.

Because Ormund is right. He’s always right and your walls leaking out all over him proves it.

Better to be certain, then to wake up craving more.

tags: @sincerelybambii

divider by @ chrisssiren

[somnoshy]

oh dada

I LOVE THIS OMSGSGS

yes computa.. good computa..

[promotional-dvd]

Their baby feeling talkative

ft Baelor, Maekar, Dunk, Cregan and Gwayne.

Warnings: none i dont think? just babies. gwayne having daddy issues. breastfeeding. trying out a new format so bare with me pls and thank you <3333

Baelor

You had been invited to a tourney celebrating the birthday of Lord Lannisters youngest daughter and truthfully you were eager to attend. Even if you didnt know the girl since giving birth to your own daughter a few moons ago you hadnt had much chance to leave the walls of the Red Keep and desperately wanted to get out.

Baelor steps out of the carriage first and takes Aeva from you, cradling her in one arm and helping you down the wooden steps with the other. She coos as he adjusts his hold to have his arm underneath her and her leant on his chest. The position gives her a great opportunity to look around the new surroundings and she squeals excitedly at everything she sees.

“She is talkative today.” Baelor muses, looking down at the smiling babe.

“Quite. Here I can take her.” You reach up to grab her but he stops you.

“Its quite alright, I can hold her. The journey has been long your body doesnt need anymore strain.” He presses and tender kiss to the back your hand before you walk up to the greeting party.

“It is an honour to have you here Prince Baelor. And you, Princesses.” Lord Lannister says standing tall beside his family.

“Thank you for hosting us,” Baelor says only to be cut off by an excited squeal from the babe in his arms. She has recently started making more clear noises- ahhs and oohs -that were not just crying and seemingly gets a lot of joy out of doing so. Aeva babbles relentlessly and happily, a constant stream of garbled noises interrupting any conversation being had and drawing all attention to her.

Walking through the halls of the castle Baelor questions her. “What has gotten into you today my love? Hmm? You are not giving any one else the chance to speak.” He tickles her belly playfully causing her squawk out a laugh and throw her head back.

“Perhaps she is trying to save us from tedious small talk. She far cuter and more interesting than anyone else here.” You smile up at her, stroking over the brown curls on top of her head.

Aeva runs her chubby fingers through the coarse hair of her fathers beard still mumbling quiet ‘ba ba ba’s to herself. “Mm.” He smiles fondly at her, pressing his lips gently to her forehead. “Just wait until she can actually talk. I fear we will have our hands full.”

Maekar

You sit up against the headboard with Rhae held against your chest having her last feed before shes put down for the night, the dim candle light making your own eyelids feel heavy. She suckles happily cooing against your breast while her hand busies itself toying with your hair. Maekar climbs into bed next to you groaning as the movement aches his limbs. He looks upon you both face as hard as ever but you can see the love hidden in the scowl.

“The others never made that much noise.” He refers to the constant humming coming from the tiny babe and watches her with a curiosity.

“I know. Perhaps she is just more vocal than they were.” You ponder, thinking back on your five previous babies, how tiny and fragile they were.

He scoffs. “Have you forgotten about Egg? That boy wouldnt shut up. Still wont.”

The last part is mumbled under his breath but you hear it nonetheless and elbow him playfully. He holds out a finger which she quickly grasps onto. Her tiny hand wrapping around his finger and gripping with a strength that should be impossible for someone so small. A cheerful gurgle leaves her throat as she pulls away from your breast, looking over to her father with wide eyes before yawning loudly.

“I think someone is ready for bed. Unfortunately my love you need to be burped first.” You sit her up in your lap and begin patting her back.

“Here, let me.” His hands are almost as long her, you think as he lifts her effortlessly to rest her head on his shoulder resume the soft pats on her back. He paces the room with her in his hold, her tired eyes looking at him from where she rests on his shoulder. He talks to her with a voice far to gentle for the man nicknamed The Anvil and she responds in kind- you fall asleep to the sound of their voices drifting around your chamber.

Dunk

“Look, these plants are important. If any of us catches a sickness these can relieve the pain.” Dunk holds up the leaves to the babe wrapped to his chest stares at them with intrigue. “N’keep an eye out for any lavender, your mother asked us to find some.”

“Aaaahhhhhh!” Otis claps his hand excitedly and squeals, flailing his little legs as Dunk continues his journey through the dense forest. Its times like this that Dunk was thankful that you lived on the road. Your boy had recently discovered how to yell and did so at every waking opportunity- luckily no one would be disturbed by it along the dusty roads you travelled.

Otis shrieked pointing a chubby arm infront of him with all the might he could muster. “What is it boy?” Dunk asks scanning over the plantlife beneath him. Its not until he looks up that he knows what caused such commotion.

A butterfly.

Fluttering its colourful wings just a few feet before them, landing occasionally on the delicate flowers running along the path before hopping to the next. It moved around with such ease among the calm of the woods.

“You like the butterfly? Pity your mother’s not with us, she could probably tell us what kind it is.” He says to himself trying to recall everything youd told him about the creatures before.

“Aaaahhhhhhh!” He made grabby hands and wiggled in the wrap wanting to claw his way out to investigate further.

“You cant touch it boy, theyre delicate things. Just for watching.” His fathers words dont stop his valiant effort as he continues yelling into the vast forest.

Cregan

Cregan had been away for a week or two tending to his duties as Lord of Winterfell. He hated when they took him away from his family but knew he had no choice, and you always gave him such a warm welcome back- especially your youngest Lyanna. It was the first time he had been away since her birth and its safe to say she had missed him. With your other two fast asleep she had all of her fathers attention. She sat on Cregans chest as he lays in the soft bed, babbling and patting his face which now has a healthy coating of stubble on it.

“Did you miss me?” Cregan asks to which the girl squeals in delight and continues smooshing her hands over the new texture on his cheeks. “Ill take that as yes. I missed you too.” She speaks to him in her own language- seemingly having a lot to say to him - not caring about the drool coming from her mouth. He does his best to wipe it away as she never ceases moving her mouth, cooing into the cloth before trying to eat it.

“Ive never heard her make this much noise.” You say, watching from by the hearth how he handles her so effortlessly. “I think shes trying to figure out how she feels about your beard.”

He chuckles causing Lyanna to bounce slightly. “Aye, it will be gone on the morrow girl, do not worry about it too much.”

At the sound of your voice she turns to look at you cooing happily when she spots you. You walk over to the bed now clad in only your nightgown and kiss her hair. “I dont she minds the beard.” You suggest. “Neither do I.”

“Good to know,” He sends a sublte wink your way before turning his attention back to the babe. “What do you think, hm? Should I try it out?” Her senseless babbles grow louder. “Yeah? Perhaps I wont shave tomorrow.”

Gwayne

“I know its… irritating, isnt it?” Gwayne speaks directly to the red haired babe playing on the floor before him who chatters excitedly. “The man forgets to send me even a raven for my nameday, but has no problem sending one when he needs something from me.”

Aemma clumsily crawls closer to him, settling into his lap, his hand naturally going across her front to hold her there. She tilts her head back and chirps at him. “I know, its terribly rude. And hes your grandsire. But its fine, you have us, thats enough isnt it, my girl?”

She giggles, reaching up to try and grab the hair thats fallen infront of Gwaynes face. “Of course it is.” His smile no longer carries the sadness it did moments before as he gazes down at her.

She lets out a sweet coo. “Is that so?”

Another cheerful gurgle accompanied with her shaking her head. “Wow, I had no idea that babes had such wisdom. I might have a miniature maester on my hands here.”

He continues engaging in this nonsense conversation happily, hanging on to every random yell and noise and considering it with deep thought, taking time to think of his responses. Hed do it forever if it meant seeing that bright smile on his girls face.

[marblethickets]

Tender Heresy (4.7k)

⟡Pairing: (Ormund Hightower/Targ!Reader, Gwayne Hightower/Targ!Reader) ⟡Summary: Married to Ormund Hightower in the middle of a war, complications arise when your past with his cousin won't leave you, and your sister cannot save you. ⟡Content Warning: 18+ MDNI (smut), dubious consent, degradation, non-linear narrative, Targ!Reader, no use of y/n, love triangle, moral ambiguity, arranged marriage, bodily fluids, emotional infidelity, scent kink, premature ejaculation. ⟡Additional Notes: This is the first part of an ongoing WIP. Reader is unnamed and her physical appearance is pretty nondescript, but she's established as Rhaenyra's younger sister and is loosely implied to have light hair. AO3 Link

⟡Moonbloom

A maid prepares your husband’s bath by tossing dried petals over the water’s surface. Steam fills the chamber, scented faintly with lavender and thyme. It brings you to tourney days and merchant stalls, of flowers and perfumes sailed to King’s Landing from the Reach.

These gave my mother terrible headaches, Gwayne once said, holding a wilted moonbloom upside down by its stem. They grow like weeds in gardens along the Honeywine.

Your eyes slide to Ormund as he removes a robe from his shoulders. In his bare figure, you find no flaw. His skin is unnaturally smooth, absent of coarse hair even above his cock. Soft as it is, he makes no move to cover himself– even when he catches you looking.

A man’s nakedness is not new to you, but you can count on one hand the men you’ve seen before: a glimpse of Uncle Daemon abed with a serving girl, when you’d burst into his chamber without knocking; a flash of bloodied groin from a guard, who’d taken a sword to his thigh; Gwayne sprawled bare in the Kingswood, complaining of dirt and grass.

Willing further recall away, you set about removing what remains of your dress. A maid assists you with your gown while Ormund watches from the bath. You push your smallclothes from your hips; your arms slip out from your shift. Both garments fall to a pool at your feet, leaving only the veil on your head.

Made of lace and embroidered with small beads, it has a light weight that feels heavy on your head. You reach to remove it– Ormund stops you.

“Keep your head covered,” he demands. “I find your hair a reminder that I’ve exchanged vows with a product of incestuous sin.”

“Very well, my lord.” You move your arms over your chest instead.

Bare before each other, Ormund’s gives you a quick, assessing look. Strangely then, he descends into a lecture of your house’s indecency and impropriety, all while lathering his chest with a soap that makes his skin shine obscenely. And though he’d stepped into the water flaccid, his cock seems to harden the more poorly he speaks of your line.

In another time, your father might’ve gelded him for it. Alas, Viserys is dead.

“I’ve smelled you before, when you’ve stepped off that beast of yours,” Ormund says, spilling a basin of rose water over his head. “It’s the very same odor that clings to my squire. Like sheep’s blood and rotted flesh. Tell me, do your dragonkeepers risk themselves to clean the meat stuck between their teeth?”

You give no answer.

⟡Carrot

Destriers, coursers— a few palfreys. All snort and stamp their hooves as if anticipating the tourney themselves. They lack opalescent scales and great webbed wings, but you find them quite pretty. Good company, in fact– as horses do not tease girls for being rat-faced, or dragon-toothed, or whatever else horrible nonsense your sister thinks to call you.

Before you snuck to the stables, you’d been trailing behind Rhaenyra and Alicent through silken pavilions. They’d been giggling behind their hands.

“A bird’s nest for hair–” Rhaenyra laughed.

“Stop! She can hear you—” Alicent whispered.

It was a game you knew well. Younger than both girls, they oft treated you like a doll and plague in the same breath. And while the court hailed Rhaenyra as the realm’s delight, you were spoken of more quietly as King Viserys’s little bird. Born of poor health, you hadn’t been expected to live past your first nameday.

Then a dragon hatched in your cradle, and you lived a while longer.

Such is life.

Pulling your cloak’s hood tighter over your hair, you shuffle down the line of horses in their stalls. Some pay you no mind. Others incline their heads with curious eyes, searching for something to eat. Apples or hay, perhaps. Lingering by a sweet looking destrier, you risk a peek over wooden fencing to check it for heraldic trappings. You spot a familiar tower and a small stitched flame. Alicent’s brother flickers to your mind, but you can’t quite recall his name.

Garwin or Garrett or Gale, mayhaps.

“I’ve placed three dragons on my uncle,” you say in excitement, reaching to run a hand beneath the horse’s chin. It noses at your palm in response. “I haven’t brought anything to feed you, so I can’t sweeten your loss.”

“Have the Gods deemed me so poor a knight that a child bets against me?”

Yanking back to proper posture, you keep your eyes anchored to hay-covered floors. “Forgive me, ser,” you say quickly, “I meant no offense.”

A scoff. “The very least you could do is stand behind your words. How in the hells has a girl your age wandered to the stables without escort, anyhow?”

You raise your head then, only to find Gwayne assessing you with narrowed eyes. He stands with a hand propped on the pommel of his sword– his fair complexion appears slightly burnt from the tourney’s sun. When you remain unspeaking, he removes a carrot from a sack at his side. He holds it out for you, motioning to his horse.

“I… snuck from my guards at a pavilion selling roasted meats,” you admit weakly, taking the carrot. “The smoke makes good cover. The knights in charge of my watch are honorable though. I swear.”

“They sound horrid at their duties,” Gwayne frowns. “But it’s your word against mine, I suppose. Go on, then,” he says, tilting his head towards his horse. “My mount won’t bite. Let him eat, then I’ll take you back to proper tourney grounds.”

Taking a moment to consider your options, you weigh potential consequences. You could return to your father alone… or return in unsupervised company with the Hand’s son. Either way, Viserys would likely be very displeased.

You nod then, and for a few minutes, all is quiet and comfortable. The large destrier takes bites from the carrot in your hand. Gwayne stands a respectable distance at your side. He asks you polite questions of your house and name– which you evade. Your only mistake comes when your head tilts too far back, exposing hair you’d hastily covered beneath your cloak’s hood.

“Ah. That explains the feeling of doom in my gut,” Gwanye sighs, taking a small step back. “Forgive me for mistaking you for a lesser woman of court, my princess– but I really must take you back now. I quite like my head. And my, well—”

⟡Host

Near the end of your wedding feast, Ormund forgoes a bedding. Publicly, he presents your willingness to forsake your pretender of a sister and your virtue as a maiden as ordained reasons to abstain from the tradition. Your stomach twists at hearing this— but the sentiment garners rowdy agreement from his bannermen regardless of the truth.

As you sip on wine throughout the last course, you linger on Ormund’s choice to deprive his men of the custom— as his men were doomed to die. Ordered to march on Tumbleton in merely a few weeks time.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you begin quietly, leaning closer to him in your chair. “But is forgoing a bedding not a breach of tradition in the Reach?”

Ormund breathes deeply from a pomander held to his nose; his free hand clenches atop the table.

“The men we host have traveled by horse and ship,” he says tightly, looking over your wedding feast with a distant eye. “If they’ve washed at all, it’s likely been done in river water with nothing more than lye soap and horsehair brush. More still, I imagine some haven’t bedded their wives in weeks. They’ve likely patroned Oldtown’s brothels, or have rutted like beasts into their own hands—”

“Well then, I—”

“I’ve no wish to inflict that on either of us. Their touch might leave traces of the sins they’ve committed on your hair and skin—”

You swallow the rest of your wine.

⟡Strawberry

Sunlight streams greenish through leaves; a bird calls and receives an echo back. Strolling through the Red Keep’s godswood with Gwayne at your side, your skin prickles with gooseflesh despite the day’s heat. Gone is the green knight who fastens your favor around his arm during tourneys. In his place, you simply find a young man— one who appears as if he might be sick.

As you walk further beneath a canopy of trees, the clang of a Kingsguard’s armor follows not far behind. It’s always been a familiar sound, but it’s grown a little louder since you’ve become an age to accept suitors. Lannister, Tully, Tyrell and Frey. If your mind was sharper than the soft mush of your heart, perhaps you would’ve chosen their company now.

“Your hair reminds me of strawberries,” you say, openly staring at Gwayne. Sunlight catches the edge of his hair, brightening its color. “It’s reddish. A bit lighter than Alicent’s, I think.”

“I assure you I’ve no need of your poetics,” Gwayne says a little sharply– wincing a moment later. Walking with his back very straight, he keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Forgive me, my princess. Much… much has weighed on my mind as of late.”

“And do you wish to confess, Ser Gwayne?” you risk teasing despite his mood. “Your father and sister prove themselves quite pious. We could give the sept a visit, or perhaps you might simply risk speaking here. With me.”

Gwayne cuts you a sharp look from the corner of his eye, but his steps slow as a stone bench comes into view. Feeling a slight ache in your heels, you plop yourself down, folding your hands neatly in your lap while he remains standing.

Simply put, your feet were tired. Earlier in the day, you’d walked the same path on three separate occasions— each with a different lord. And while the timing of Gwayne’s visit to King’s Landing isn’t lost on you, he’d not shown an ounce of overt affection in the years you’ve kept a written companionship.

Through the trees, the sun settles behind Gwayne’s head. He seems to glow. And it must be warm at his back, for a slow flush spreads down his cheeks to his neck.

Gwayne clears his throat. “Forgive my boldness, but you must know that any journey I make from Oldtown is not made at my leisure. I’d not wish three months of road dust and paltry inns on any man. I’ve been summoned by my father to offer myself as a… suitor. And I’d likely sleep easier if you know of it.”

You blink, having long suspected Otto Hightower’s hand in positioning his son closer to you; the same way he’d once influenced your father’s choice in a second wife. Straightening your back, your demeanor turns a little colder.

“I’d not have a husband whose father overreaches through him, Gwayne. Speak plainly. Would you take me as a wife to satisfy the Hand’s wishes– or your own?”

“My own. Though I believe my father might hold more love for me in the event of our…” he waves a hand. “Marriage.”

“You’ve no lands or title.”

With a sigh, Gwayne slumps to sit beside you. “Gods, you wound me. You know me to be rational– and I know this to be a foolish endeavor; one I imagine will leave me nursing my pride for long years to come.”

Oblivious to your turmoil, the godswood’s birds keep singing. You do not hear them. Twisting your hands together, you think of Gwayne’s letters. Written accounts of his travels. Updates on his horse. His thoughts on your half-brother who’d been sent to ward. He’d not once mentioned a paramour, nor a lover, or a wife. It had kindled some hope certainly, but it was horribly foolish to think—

Gwayne’s knee brushes yours through your skirts. Your heart jumps, your stomach lurches. Glancing to where your guard stands beneath a nearby tree, you make sure he is well enough away before adjusting your posture. Your leg shifts to press your thigh against Gwayne’s. He swallows, close enough to be audible.

“I assume your other suitors lacking, then?” he asks quietly.

You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw in response. A brush of stubble, prickling pain. Gwayne tilts his head, letting his lips brush chastely against yours. Somewhere, a twig snaps. Silently, you each pull back.

You sit a while longer.

⟡Virtue

When you lay atop your marriage bed, your veil creates a haze over your vision. It makes Ormund appear as some strange spectre; more stone than flesh as he notches the head of his cock against your opening. He avoids touching your hips and thighs, clenching fistfuls of the bedspread for purchase instead.

Distantly, you think he might like to be a man of stone; one of the marbled statues that tower above worshippers in the Starry Sept.

A little push– then no give.

Strangely, Rhaenys dances through your mind’s eye. She rides a bloody-eyed dragon through a cotton-filled sky, crashing into heat and sand. Another of her name floats over your thoughts as well, though you don’t like lingering on your cousin’s fate. Like her, you fear you might never fly again, or worse; that you may be forced to wage war against your elder sister. Called to fight your family with a sweet, winged creature; one that trills at the sight of birds before cooking them to a crisp.

Your mind drifts further as Ormund thrusts again, stretching you around his cock’s head and a little of his length. Before your eyes, you see your dragon devouring a burned flock— a mess of bloodied feathers and heated spit. Then the sight of a green knight, thrown from his horse with a crack of helm and lance.

A hiss slips between your teeth. Blessedly, the sound makes Ormund pause. He watches you closely, before removing himself to reach for a glass vial. Carved from thick crystal, it catches the glow of nearby candles— blinding your eye with a flash of rainbow light.

“Spread your legs,” Ormund says. “Intact as you are, it seems the Maiden has blessed at least one of your line with virtue.”

You lick your lips– the same Ormund had kissed under the watchful eyes of seven altars— the same you’d pressed against Gwayne’s trembling thighs years before.

“And if I were to confess I’m no maid?”

Ormund smiles. It remains difficult to see through your veil.

“Then I’d have you tossed from my bed and returned to King’s Landing. Our marriage would be annulled, and the king would be free to take your head. So I ask you now: have I taken a maiden as my wife, or a traitor to the throne?”

“A maiden.”

⟡Arrangement

You hadn’t known of Ormund’s disdain for Targaryens during the short months of your betrothal.

A paltry attempt at peace, Alicent had hoped to quell brewing conflict between your houses by arranging the marriage herself. Weary of remaining in King’s Landing and hoping to reduce further bloodshed— you accepted.

Perhaps if you’d been told of Ormund’s sensitivities and the full extent of his religious fervor, you would have risked pursuing a marriage to Gwayne once more. You might’ve had better luck in a second attempt, as you doubted your father could denounce the match from an urn.

Alas, your influence had decreased in court— and your ability to negotiate a match suffered for it. You were of an older age for a bride, Targaryen or not, and your status as a political prisoner within the Red Keep left you with few options. Worse still, whereas Rhaenyra would always retain some sway as Viserys’s eldest and heir, you’d long been replaced as his youngest. It was a pathetic title to have stolen, and the sting felt worse now that you’d been reunited with Daeron in Oldtown. He’d grown from a quiet babe into a sweet boy.

In truth, he wasn’t so terrible at all.

⟡Bedding

Ormund holds none of his ward’s virtues. With a pop, he uncorks the crystal vial, inhaling it briefly— before pouring cold, viscous oil between your spread thighs. Your hips leap off the bed as it floods your cunt, dripping between your arse to form a puddle beneath you. With more care than he’d shown you, he corks the bottle again and neatly sets it aside.

The oil is fragrant, reeking of meadowsweet and thyme, with something warmer beneath it still. When you breathe through your nose, the smell mixes strangely with a heady scent of incense and anointed oils clinging to your hair from the day’s ceremony. It becomes trapped in the air beneath your veil— pushing your senses to overwhelm; made worse when Ormund’s touch is added too.

Ormund’s hand hovers just over your cunt, lingering there, before he palms against your sopping heat. A noise escapes you: a sound torn between a strangled whimper and sob.

“My cousin once wrote that you were quite pretty. A temptation that could lead a weaker man to ruin, I believe he said– and I find his assessment true. Pity he was born to a second son.” Ormund tilts his head, looking down the length of your figure sprawled below his. “From your…. position, you might find this difficult to believe, but with time our match might be a good one. As long as you choose piety through the Faith, you’ll be met with a kind hand. Do I not treat your brother well?”

“Half-brother,” you murmur.

A flash of displeasure crosses over Ormund’s features; his jaw clenches. “Do not correct me.”

He discusses the conditions of your marriage no further. Instead, he touches you with fingers that are long and neatly maintained, pressing over the sopping mess between your thighs. You are reminded suddenly that he is a knight. His skin is familiar– calloused in a way that creates a pleasant friction as he rubs a place just above your cunt.

Your hands flutter with nowhere to go. Clasping them over your lower stomach, you avert your eyes to a complex tapestry on a nearby wall. It shows the scene of a hunt: a pale horse with a single horn is set upon, pursued by hounds. There is terror in its eyes— your own clench shut, overcome with a jolt of pleasure that feels terribly good.

Ormund makes no noise above you, but he keeps a steady pace, seeming to adjust to your response. He presses a little firmer when your back arches and adjusts the angle of his hand when your hips tilt. It builds and builds until you feel you’re tipping at the edge of a steep drop. An ache throbs between your thighs. Your face burns, your stomach clenches—

“Ormund,” you whisper urgently. “I fear I may—”

His touch pulls away. A cry escapes you.

“Perverse,” he tuts. “Barely touched, and already you’re quite close to breaking. Do you truly find such pleasure in defilement?”

Beneath your veil, your face heats. Clasping your hands tighter over your stomach, you feel unsure of how to answer. “No, my lord— my only pleasure is by your hand.”

You’ve spoken a lie, but Ormund appears satisfied. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops on a deep inhale. His jaw abruptly clenches shut. Through the gauzy material of your veil, the cause behind his reaction is difficult to understand, but your affect on him is plain. A rosy flush spreads over his face and chest. His broad frame shudders; a shine of sweat shows on his brow, rolling down his clean-shaven jaw.

A drop lands on your stomach, pooling just above your navel. You frown at the feeling.

“I… you’re perspiring quite heavily. Are you well?” you ask quietly. His state proves worrying, as you’d not risked touching him.

“Quite.”

Without another word, he touches you more urgently. His fingers prod your opening; his middle presses in. You feel a slight stretch, but no true pain. Slicked with oil, you’re more aware of the noise Ormund’s touch produces than the feeling. Each small thrust creates an obscene squelch, sounding terribly loud in the quiet chamber. Ormund adds another finger, flexing them strangely, as if he were petting you from inside. A sigh escapes you at the strange sensation, as it feels intimate, and you fear he’ll withdraw again if you ask for more.

“Good. You’re taking me rather well,” Ormund muses quietly, almost as if to himself, before pushing a third finger to meet the first two.

Pressing deep, he rubs over a spot that flickers bright, bursting stars over your vision. You feel very near to breaking when his free hand reaches again for the discarded vial. Your heart slams against your chest. You attempt to gauge Ormund’s temperament, watching him intently.

“Am I not prepared, my lord? Should we not proceed with consummation?”

Ormund brings his face close to yours. His breath smells of sweet mint, and there’s a stern look in his eye. “Do you accuse me of wickedness? Of being weak of flesh?”

You shake your head.

Before you can react then, Ormund leans forward to press his plush mouth over yours, licking the seam of your lips through your veil until your mouth opens to him. You gasp at the conflicting texture, gauzy and spit-slicked— he pulls away.

Quickly, Ormund uncorks the vial with his teeth, upending it so more fragrant oil dribbles over your cunt. He thrusts his fingers into you more firmly; small, short movements that cause the muscles of your legs to quiver. It proves too much. A cry escapes you as your body breaks around a crash of pleasure. And yet Ormund does not stop. He plays with your cunt until a mess of oil and slick gushes around his fingers, soaking your thighs and the covers beneath you.

Humiliation wars with a horrible wave of pleasure; it risks giving way to pain, near as fire warming skin. Ormund withdraws his touch only when tears pool in your eyes, but any relief you’re given is short-lived.

Before you can recover from the haze of release, he moves down the bed to take two handfuls of your thighs, burying his face between them. His hips grind into the bedspread— he inhales against your cunt. The muscles of his back ripple and shudder as he thrusts himself into the soft mattress below.

“The fucking sight of you— the scent of you,” he groans.

Ormund’s hips lift from the bed. You watch in a slight stupor as he reaches down to grip his own cock, swiping a thumb over the flushed head. Clear seed drools from the slit as he chases his own touch, then his body grows very still. His release floods his hand abruptly, spilling over his fingers to soak into the bed’s coverings.

For a moment, you simply stare at his softening cock, still loosely cupped in his grip.

Ormund clears his throat. When he speaks, he does not meet your eye. “Return to your chambers,” he says without feeling. “And do not think of uttering a single word of the truth to your attendants.”

“Are we not expected to—”

“Leave.”

⟡Wax

For a full turn of the moon, your marriage remains unconsummated. During this time, Ormund orders that your hair remain covered by a veiled headdress while in his company.

Each morning, your maids take great care arranging the cloth around your face and hair. When you look upon your reflection, you feel a faint resemblance to one of the many septas who flock the Starry Sept— and in an attempt to create comfort where your husband offers none; you tell yourself the style is simply unknown to you. A manner of fashion common in Oldtown, that of which hadn’t yet reached King’s Landing.

So the days go.

At supper, Ormund keeps a pomander in hand when you dine beside him, bringing it to his nose each time you raise your cup for wine. During worship, he orders your half-brother between you, silencing Daeron when he politely asks of your dragon. In these moments, you think of Gwayne– and pray for him often.

“The Seven-Pointed Star teaches us that our lives aren’t dissimilar to a candle’s flame,” Ormund says during one such prayer, watching from a distance as you light a candle before the Warrior’s altar. “Great men of birth and those beneath us; all are unclean and are destined to die. You need not worry for my cousin, as his death simply furthers the realm’s need for the Faith.”

Hovering your hand over endless burning flames, you watch cloudy wax drip and dry over the Warrior's carved feet. Feeling a lick of fire against your palm; you press your hand closer, finding comfort in the heat–

“Stop that at once,” Ormund demands, pulling you from the altar with a noise of disgust.

⟡Correspondence

The summons come on a day of clear weather. With wind-whipped hair and stinging cheeks, you dismount your dragon after only a few hours of flying– just to find Daeron waiting for you on land.

His eyes roam over your mount as he speaks, “My sire has requested an audience in his solar, sister. I feel compelled to warn you he received a letter from my Uncle Gwayne. The contents of which seem to have upset him greatly– he didn’t permit me to read it, though he usually does.”

Your heart beats a little faster. Behind you, your cradle-born beast flaps its wings. A few dragonkeepers approach it, moving to brush dirt and debris from its scales. A gurgling chirp comes from its throat– Daeron’s mouth quirks at the sound.

“I’d prefer you not call me that,” you remind your half-brother gently, pulling your riding gloves from your hands. “Did Lord Hightower say what manner of meeting this might be?”

Daeron shakes his head, only to follow at your heels when you begin walking towards your chambers. “He said at once, sis—Your Grace. That was hours ago. I know not if he meant for me to find you on Tessarion, and I… I don’t wish to displease him.”

⟡Parchment

Bent over Ormund’s desk, you bite your knuckle. He grinds against the curve of your arse through your riding breeches, pressing his nose to the nape of your neck. With a deep inhale, he shudders as his cock twitches over your heat.

“Through what fucking means have you bewitched my cousin? Have you granted him some favor— sucked him off during one of his summons to King’s Landing, perhaps?”

“I’ve done no such thing!” Another lie. “Do you not realize that after— after my uncle and sister— how heavily I was supervised?”

Gripping the back of your head with one hand and your hip with the other, Ormund pushes the flesh of your cheek further into hardwood. With each thrust of his hips, a silver pomander and a bundle of fresh herbs rattle upon his desk. A scroll of parchment rolls by your hand.

Innocuous in nature, Gwayne had managed to deliver a letter to Ormund. In his neat script, he wrote of vague military updates and asked of Daeron, all with the typical delay of his usual correspondence. But at the end of his message– he made the mistake of inquiring about you.

I’ve received word of your betrothal to the pretender’s sister. You are aware of my history with her, and as such, I confess to carrying an attachment for her you might label sin. If you find in her any measure of displeasure to your senses, I implore you to consider allowing me to secure whatever alliance my sister has attempted in your stead.

It was a noble sentiment. Chilvarous. But it’d incensed your husband.

“Seven hells, have you no sense of decency?” Ormund demands. “I can smell you through your breeches. No wonder my cousin thinks of you, trapped as he is around filthy, unwashed cunts!”

“I received your summons as soon as my feet touched the ground, my lord! I… I was given no time to bathe or—”

A whimper escapes you as the seam of your breeches rubs between your thighs– pleasure crashes through you, overwhelming and good and sudden. You fall quiet, hiding your face as slick soaks through your smallclothes.

Stillness then. Without a word, Ormund’s hand slips between your legs, prodding along wet fabric that produces a humiliating squelch. He breathes, a shaking inhale– then sends the contents of his desk flying from his desk with a sweep of his arm.

Ormund again orders you away.

[multiverseofseries]

New Posters of House of the Dragon at SDCC

[feral4youu]

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’ꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ʟᴜᴄᴋ. ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ᴏᴘᴘᴏʀᴛᴜɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ

Summary: You were always Ormund’s prize, forever a step behind him. But what happens when you’re finally one step ahead and beat him at cyvasse?

Pairing: Husband! Ormund x Wife! reader

WC: 1.5k

Warning: 18+, toxic marriage, manipulation, reader and daeron have a good relationship, threats, angry outbursts, reader rides vermithor

The days had dragged on, the kind of days where things had blended together. You were heavily pregnant, pregnant with a babe that you didn't want.

Your wants and desires had long stopped mattering once you married Ormund. The man that had swept you off your feet, made you believe in something that wasn't real, made you think that the Hightower's weren't that bad.

So much had happened and you could barely remember when you met him, how he charmed you and made you consider a marriage proposal.

Ormund's facade dropped right after the wedding. He was no longer the man that you had even stood in front of earlier, he was exactly as your mother had warned you.

You were no longer able to wear your house colors in any capacity, he had Vermithor chained, he didn't allow you to keep contact with your mother. You had lost everything in a matter of a night and by then, it was too late.

You enjoyed the days where you were alone, the days where your Lord husband was busy with things that actually mattered— not criticizing you and your every move.

That morning, you joined him in his chambers as he'd requested— he wanted to indulge in a game of cyvasse.

"How are you and the babe faring today?" He questioned, examining the board.

"I am fine, getting less and less sleep these days. I suppose the babe is doing alright as well, becoming more active." You spoke, your hand resting on your bump.

Ormund loved cyvasse, but you hated it— you hated it, because you could never beat him. It was bad enough that you were the wife of a man who challenged your mother, pregnant, and your dragon was chained up.

You felt hopeless.

No amount of watching brought you closer to beating him, he was always one step ahead.

You watched as Ormund moved his piece, your eyes roaming the board.

"Your mother is.. smart. It was smart to give the bastards dragons and to add what she'd lost. She still lacks the courage and foresight though ." He mentioned.

"How does she lack foresight?" You questioned, moving your piece and keeping your eyes on the board.

Ormund paused, a faint chuckle in his throat.

"Time will tell, sweetling."

He loved to taunt you like that, bring up your mother and draw in your curiosity— only to deny you a true answer.

"Hmmph."

"I missed you this morning, husband."

His brow raised, picking up another piece and placing it on the board.

"Is that right?"

Your conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door, Daeron entering the room. Ormund didn't even have to lift his eyes to know that it was Daeron. He knew based off the sound of his boots.

"To what do we owe the visit?" He questioned.

Daeron was quiet, a mirroring of his mother. A boy who'd been unfortunate in growing up around Ormund.

"I come bearing news for Lady Hightower." He spoke softly, walking over to you.

"What news?" Ormund questioned once more, his tone growing stricter.

Despite your families being on opposing sides, you and Daeron had a bond. You weren't his mother or anything remotely close, but both of you understood what it was like being under Ormund's thumb— being his prize.

You smiled, offering out your hand to Daeron as he approached you. He leaned down and whispered into your ear, telling you news about your dragon.

Ormund watched from across the table, a displeased look on his face.

You listened to Daeron's words carefully, making sure that you did not allow your face to give away what he was telling you.

"Thank you, Daeron. I will see you later at supper." You smiled.

Daeron glanced at Ormund and back down at his feet, walking out of the room— shutting the door behind him.

"What was that?" He asked.

Your brow raised as you feigned ignorance, "what was what, husband?"

He pursed his lips, "move your pawn."

"Do not play the fool with me, my love."

You brought your eyes back down to the board, picking up your next piece.

"It was nothing, just some information about how Vermithor was doing. He has been restless as well."

You placed your piece, giving him an innocent smile.

"I have told the two of you about your feelings towards those beasts.. they're abominations." He griped.

"It is easy to feel that way when you were not born into a house with the privilege of having them."

Ormunds eyes slowly flickered over your pregnant frame, his eyes finding your face.

"It is not a privilege to be born with tainted blood, to be part of a house that has caused everyone else's suffering."

His words struck you like an iron, your eyes starting to sting. You lowered them, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap.

You hated hearing him talk about you and your family that way. You were so “tainted”, but it didn’t stop him from crawling into your bed?

"What of him or her? They are part of me, of my blood, my mothers blood, her fathers blood." You reminded him.

He scoffed, moving his next piece.

"They will be different, not like them. You are different, you are a Hightower now. A name that you can wear with honor."

You batted your eyelashes, fighting back the tears that pricked the corner of your eyes.

"You're right, husband. Please, forgive me."

He reached over, holding his hand out. You placed yours in his, a fake smile on your face.

"Our family will be different. Our children will have you and me to guide them, to show them the truth of things."

You nodded your head in agreement.

"They will—"

"I love you.”

He rubbed your hand.

"I love you more, sweetling."

You pulled your hand away and looked back down at the board, a pit in your stomach. An unexplainable feeling of rot curling into your mouth at his words.

You didn't want a future with him or in Oldtown, you wanted to go home.

"Within a few days, I shall be leaving here for a few matters that need to be handled." He told you, pushing his hair from in front of his face.

You moved your piece, his eyes glancing up at the board.

He stared in disbelief, his eyes blinking several times.

You had outsmarted him in the game that he loved so much.

"That can't be right." He mumbled, a huff of air leaving his mouth.

He moved another one of his pieces.

You stood up, fixing your gown around your belly.

"I think that I will return to my chambers for a nap, I am quite tired."

He scoffed, "you need to move your next piece."

"I will see you at supper, husband."

"Move your pawn, wife."

You ignored him, pushing your chair up to the table.

"Finish the game!" He yelled, smacking all of the pieces off the board.

The sound of the pieces clattering across the stone made the impossible feel possible. You could win against him, you had a chance after all.

"This fucking nonsense!" Ormund yelled behind you, knocking the board onto the ground.

Ormunds footsteps inched closer behind you as you reached the door, his hand grabbing yours.

"Do you think of me a fool?"

You stared blankly.

"Ormund, what could you mean? I am just tired."

"You are a cheater." He fumed.

You yanked your hand away from him, "I did no such thing!"

He took a deep breath.

"You never win those games."

You pulled your shoulders back in offense.

"I am just as capable of winning as you are , you allowed yourself to get too comfortable and I won."

He stepped closer to you, his body pressed against yours. He grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your cheeks.

"My sweet wife.. I have been nothing but good to you and yet you still lie to me?"

You winced, "I didn't lie."

"What.. did Daeron come to tell you earlier?"

You shook your head, trying to pull from his grip.

"You're hurting me, Ormund."

"Tell me the truth." He gritted.

Tears welled in your eyes.

"He told me about Vermithor. I had him go check on him, because I knew that he wouldn't handle being chained well."

Ormund scanned your eyes for lies, but he was only met back with someone he made feel small and scared, his own wife.

He gently let go of your face, wiping one of your tears.

"Forgive me, my love. That was unkind of me—"

"I just do not appreciate secrets. We are husband and wife, they are not appropriate."

You shook your head.

"It was not meant to be a secret, but I knew how you felt and I didn’t want to upset you.”

He pulled you into a hug, trying to comfort you and reassure you that he wasn't mad.

"I believe you, sweet girl. There's no need to lie to me, because I'm your husband and you understand what will happen, if you do."

You bit your tongue and decided not to say all the things that crossed your mind. You re-played the plan that you and Daeron had talked about over and over again.

Daeron found the spare keys to the collars that they had on your dragons, which is why he rushed to come tell you earlier. It was the only thing that kept you from breaking down in Ormund’s arms.

Your chance to escape was closer than it had ever been.

reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated

[roxxmo]

custody of blood | part II

summary: the seventh day approaches, and you test ormund's restraint. pairing: ormund hightower x targtower!reader content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), SMUT, dubcon, pussy inspection, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, spanking with belt, male masturbation, forced bathing, nudity, voyeurism, slut-shaming, jealousy, aftercare (...i think?), physical intimidation/rough handling, DADDY ISSUES!!, emotional manipulation, religious abuse and religious guilt, canon-typical incest (cousins), age gap (~20 years), icky guardian/ward relationship, canon-typical misogyny, canon-divergent, no use of y/n word count: 12k (i blacked out around 5k tbh) A/N: surprise!! got this chapter out a bit early! guys...what has this man done to my psyche. i'm writing shit i am not even into but since it's him i'm WET!!! this is a long one and i tried my best to proofread, but i'm sure i've missed some things so apologies if it's a lil wonky! sooo thankful for all the love on part I and i hope part II meets your expectations! mr. roxxmo and i are moving houses (yay!) this weekend so that's why the final part of the series will be a bit later. will try to do headcannons or short oneshots if i have the time, and as usual, if i can get part III out before schedule i absolutely will! <3

← previous chapter MASTERLIST finale → (COMING 7/31)

The feast unfolded as such evenings always did.

Like the rest of the ancient tower, the Great Hall of the Hightower was composed of whitewashed limestone, its vaulted ceiling rising so high that you sometimes wondered where it ended. As children, you and the Hightower boys would race beneath it, shouting up to hear your voices echo through the chamber. Great tapestries of Hightower green adorned the walls, each depicting the house’s victories in battle alongside scenes devoted to the Faith of the Seven. No matter where you went in the Hightower, the Seven followed. 

Tonight, the hall was filled with noble houses from across the Reach. Lords and ladies moved between the long oak tables, drinking, laughing, and otherwise partaking in every sort of merriment before the coming days of tiresome discussions of taxes, grains, and preparations for the season’s harvest. 

You sat where you always did: at the head table, on Ormund’s right. In the very place once occupied by the late Lady Hightower. You had done everything he asked after the solar. Your women had pressed damp cloths to your tear-swollen eyes and pinched color back into your cheeks. They had laced you into the embroidered sky-blue gown Ormund preferred, its neckline high enough to preserve modesty, yet low enough that anyone seated too near might glimpse the suggestion of your bosom. You had been washed, gathered, and arranged once more into the woman he had made of you, with every trace of your momentary lapse carefully hidden away. 

Ormund had been pleased. He spoke none of Lord Godric Ashford or the excitement in the solar. He simply conducted himself as he usually did at such feasts, discussing philosophy and politics with the visiting lords, occasionally asking for your thoughts and praising you to anyone who would listen– commending how wise his ward was, how faithfully you attended the sept. All the while, his hand remained on your thigh beneath the table, squeezing gently as his thumb moved back and forth over the silk. Just as he usually did. 

This should have pleased you. His touch always did. Tonight, though, your mind was muddled with flashes of memories. 

The conversation with Lord Ashford you were not meant to hear. Ormund’s rings cutting into your face as he gripped your chin. The cool sheets of his bed twisted in your fists. His hand at your waist, his voice low as he hushed you and told you to be still. 

The seventh day. 

Following Lady Hightower in the Citadel, your small hand tucked in hers. Playing in the gardens with the Hightower boys. The letter from your queen mother coldly explaining why you could not visit the Red Keep on your sixteenth nameday. The burning pressure. Entering. Stretching. Confessing. 

The seventh day.

Ser Joldwin Mormont and the ashes of his fur-trimmed cloak. Lying across Ormund’s bare chest afterward, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. His lips against yours, tasting faintly of wine. Watching one of your siblings’ dragons fly overhead, its giant shadow blackening the earth. 

The seventh day. 

Being held. The knowledge you were never truly wanted. 

The seventh day.

“You are fidgeting.”

Ormund’s voice broke whatever spell your thoughts had cast over you.

You lowered your head. “I am sorry, my lord.”

Ormund hummed. Beneath the table, his hand shifted higher on your thigh, pressing into the soft flesh through the silk of your gown. The feast carried on around you, laughter mingling with the chords of lyres and flutes as they echoed through the Great Hall. No one could see the way their host groped you in plain sight. “Are you thinking of tonight?” 

Yes, you were. And of so much more. “No, my lord.” 

“You appear sad.” He leaned closer, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “Have you a reason to be?”

You shook your head quickly. “None, my lord.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Then stop pouting so unbecomingly before our guests and smile.”

You obeyed, because you always did. You arranged your lips into something soft and pleasant, as he liked. Ormund grinned in return and squeezed your thigh once more, hard. “Much better, my dear.”

“Lord Hightower! I do hope we are not intruding, but I simply had to introduce myself properly to your esteemed ward.”

Ormund’s hand stilled upon you, though he had not yet removed it. 

A broad, heavyset man stood before the head table, clad in a fine orange doublet. The wine cup in his hand was filled to the brim, sloshing around as he gestured. Drink had reddened his round, bearded face, and a crooked grin seemed fixed upon it. Behind him stood a tall young man with dark curly hair, fine features, and bright brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed entirely upon you. Something in his look sent warmth rushing into your cheeks.

“Lord Ashford,” Ormund greeted tensely. As the man drew nearer, Ormund briefly brushed one finger beneath his nose, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “I was under the impression that only your son would attend the harvest feast this season. It is a… surprise to see you here as well.” 

“And miss the finest wine in the Reach?” Lord Ashford chortled, lifting his cup so enthusiastically that a little spilled over the rim and onto the marble floor. Ormund’s eye twitched as he looked at the puddle. “Of course I had to come.”

Lord Robert Ashford. You knew of him, if not the man himself. He was said to be kind, if somewhat silly, with a particular weakness for feasts and fine drink, but there was not one wicked thing about him. Which meant the young man standing behind him must be…

“And this is my son, Godric,” Lord Ashford continued, stepping to the side with a proud flourish to the young man behind him. “Though I understand the two of you require little introduction. He spoke with you earlier about a certain…someone, did he not, Lord Hightower?”

Godric coughed. “Father–”

“Oh, the boy has heard such wonderful things about the princess,” Lord Ashford went on, tipsy enough he was either failing to notice his son’s embarrassment or actively choosing to ignore it. “Her grace, her devotion to the Seven, and of course I would be remiss not to mention her beauty. I fear he has scarcely spoken of anything else since the prospect of betrothal was–”

“Father, please,” Godric interrupted him, a flush creeping above the collar of his doublet. “I am certain the princess has no wish to hear you recite every private conversation we have shared.”

Lord Ashford chuckled and clapped a broad hand against his son’s shoulder. “There is no shame in admiring a fine young lady. Nor, surely, in allowing two young people the opportunity to become better acquainted.”

Ormund’s fingers pressed so deeply into your thigh that you were certain they would leave marks. You did not dare look at him, though you imagined his face had gone terrifyingly blank.

Oblivious to the storm gathering beside you, Godric bowed. “It is an honor to meet you properly, Princess.”

Remembering Ormund’s warning in the solar– and with his hand still gripping you beneath the table– you offered Godric only the smallest inclination of your head before lowering your eyes once more.

“The honor is mine, my lord,” you murmured.

Godric smiled. Ormund, however, did not. 

“Lord Ashford, I am not sure if your son made you aware of the extent of our earlier discussion,” Ormund moved the hand that was on your thigh to the back of your chair. “He made his intentions sufficiently clear. As did I with him.”

Lord Ashford’s crooked smile lowered. “Well, yes…Godric did tell me some of the conversation. But I had hoped that perhaps, upon further reflection–”

“There is nothing upon which to reflect.”

Silence quickly consumed the small gathering at the head table. Ormund smiled urbanely, one hand still gripping the back of your chair. You felt caged. 

“Your admiration for my ward is noted, Lord Ashford,” Ormund said coolly. “You are certainly not the first to admire her, and I doubt you will be the last. But this match will not be considered.”

Humiliation ravaged you like a wildfire. You fixed your gaze on the grain of the table, afraid that if you looked up, the Ashfords would see the tears stinging your eyes. You wished– prayed– that they would go away. 

Ormund sighed and leaned back in his chair. At last, he released your chair and reached for his cup, lifting it with an air of studied levity. “Now then, I would hate to keep you from the wine you traveled so far to enjoy, Lord Ashford.”

“I– well, of course, Lord Hightower,” Robert stammered, plainly attempting to smooth over the moment. He summoned an easy smile, though it came out strained, and bowed low. “Thank you again for your gracious hospitality.” 

Godric’s eyes shifted between you and Ormund before he followed suit. “Lord Hightower. Princess.”

And then, finally, they were gone.

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears. Ormund had already retrieved the pomander from his breeches and lifted it beneath his nose, breathing deeply. 

“Lord Ashford reeks of cheap wine and horse shit,” he grimaced, keeping the pomander close. “You should thank the Seven that you will not be sent away to live among such people.”

You had smelled neither cheap wine nor horse shit when the Ashfords stood before you. You wanted to tell him so. You wanted to tell him it was cruel to speak of them with such contempt when they had done nothing more than ask for your hand. Instead, you lowered your head. “Yes, my lord.”

Ormund’s eyes narrowed as he studied you over the silver pomander. His gaze moved from the wet shine of your eyes to the stiffness of your pouted lips to your quivering chin. He knew you more than anyone had or would ever know. He could see right through you. You knew it. For a second, it looked as if he was about to say something. 

A steward suddenly appeared at his shoulder. 

“My lord, Lord Uffering requests a private word regarding the grain levies before tomorrow’s council.”

“Lord Uffering can wait,” Ormund replied swiftly, eyes never leaving you. 

The steward shifted uneasily, wringing his hands. “Yes, my lord, but, erm…Lord Orme has joined him in the western gallery…and now they are disputing with each other. Quite loudly, I may add.”

Ormund exhaled hard through his nose. “If you could use your eyes, you would see that I am currently occupied.”

“Yes, my lord. But the matter is drawing attention, and…”

Ormund’s fingers tightened around the pomander before he finally lowered it. “Fine.”

He turned back to you, regarding you with such intensity that the clamor of the feast seemed to ebb around you. “You will remain seated here until I return.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will not be long.” His hand settled briefly at the nape of your neck, thumb pressing into the divot beneath your ear. “When I come back, we will retire for the evening.”

Your stomach churned. The seventh day.

“Y-yes, my lord,” you whispered.

Ormund held your gaze for another moment, as though searching for the truth only he could uncover. Then he withdrew his hand and rose from the table. You watched him follow the steward toward the western gallery and disappear beneath the archway.

The moment he was out of sight, the stiffness in your bones left you. You slumped in your chair and looked across the crowded Great Hall. The feast continued all around you– lords and ladies mingling, eating, drinking, laughing without a care. Without any knowledge of what these walls truly held.

Why did Ormund restrain you so? Why did he keep you from everyone? Why did he refuse to do the one thing expected of him as your guardian? You were of age. You were a woman in every sense. Would it not serve his interests as your kin to arrange a marriage for you? His sons had gone, and he had been widowed for years. Would it not suit him to be rid of you at last, free to take another wife of his own?

The thought made bile turn in your throat the moment it formed.

Why?

Why did the idea of Ormund with a wife make something sick and vicious twist inside you? Why was any of this happening?

Why was he so cruel? Why did you want him to be?

You understood, at least, his refusal of Aemond. Ormund had told you often enough what such a match meant: brother wed to sister, blood folded endlessly back into itself. Targaryen wickedness in its truest form. He would not permit you to remember that such customs belonged to your heritage as well.

But what of the others? Ser Joldwin, all those years ago, broad and steady and strong. The Martell boy. Every lord and heir who had been dismissed for some fault Ormund alone had deemed unforgivable. Perhaps each of them had shortcomings, that might have been true. But Godric seemed precisely the sort of man Ormund should have wanted for you– young, courteous, well-born, heir to a respectable house.

So what did Ormund want? To keep you as his ward forever? To hold you in his bed one night, kiss your mouth, and tell you how good you were, only to admonish you hours later for whatever sin he had decided lived inside you?

The ceaseless shifting in reality left you dizzy.

“Princess?”

So lost were you in thought that you had not noticed Lord Godric Ashford return to the head table and lower himself into the empty seat beside you.

You startled, and he immediately raised both hands in apology. “Forgive me, Princess. I did not mean to frighten you. I only hoped for a moment to speak with you, if I may?”

Your eyes flitted from Godric to the archway through which Ormund had disappeared. At any moment, he might return and find you speaking to the very man he had forbidden you to entertain. He would punish you, surely. The thought made something low in your belly begin to warm like embers. “Lord Godric, I…I am not certain it is proper for us to be speaking without a chaperone.”

Godric hesitated, glanced out over the crowded Great Hall, then looked back at you with a small, playful smile. “Surely a chaperone of a hundred feast guests would suffice?” 

Ormund would not think so. You bit your lip. You knew precisely what he would have you do. Turn up your nose at Godric and tell him you obeyed your guardian in all things. Then scurry obediently to Ormund and confess what had happened, so he might find some reason to bring about the end of House Ashford. 

But you always did what Ormund wanted. When had you last considered what you wanted?

The answer should have been simple. Godric was young, kind, and handsome. He wished to marry you. Surely this was what any young woman would want: to be admired by a good man and offered a life beyond the walls that had confined her.

Did you want to speak with him? Perhaps.

Or perhaps you only believed you ought to want it.

“I promise you, my lady, I shall do nothing to scandalize your reputation– aside from perhaps subjecting you to a few poor jokes.” Godric placed a hand solemnly over his heart. “I swear it upon my life.”

You could not help but giggle. You could scarcely remember the last time someone had been so light with you. Years ago, perhaps. “I believe you, Lord Godric.”

“Now my father, on the other hand…” Godric glanced towards the table where Lord Robert was engaging in a loud and animated recounting of some story, wine cup spilling with every exaggerated hand movement. Godric sighed. “He seems to be on the precipice of a scandal every time he steps foot out of Ashford. I am certain you could guess that from his earlier…revelations…which I should apologize again for.”

“There is no need to apologize. Your father was very kind.”

“Ah, you are being lenient with him. He can be a fool, but he is also my father, so I suppose that makes me one as well,” Godric chuckled, and his grin widened when you laughed with him. 

For a few moments, the two of you sat together and watched as Lord Robert continued his tale. Then Godric’s expression softened. 

“Did…Lord Hightower tell you anything of our conversation earlier?”

Your smile faltered. You remembered every word, pressed against the boarded door in that forgotten corridor. But you could hardly admit you listened to a conversation never intended for your ears. Or that Ormund refused you any true explanation of what happened. 

You chose your words carefully. “He told me only that you had spoken with him.”

“I see.”

“I do hope he was not unkind to you.”

“No more than might be expected of a man guarding something very precious to him.”

The words flooded you with warmth. Your gaze dropped to your hands, pressed into the sky-blue silk of your gown. The one Ormund chose for you. 

Godric continued, voice genuine. “Lord Hightower seems very protective of you, Princess.”

“He has always been so. Ormund is like a…a father to me.” You felt bile briefly rise in your throat. You swallowed it. “He took me in when I was just a girl. Oldtown is all I have ever known.”

“There is much virtue in that, my lady. A guardian should be concerned for his ward’s safety and reputation. Truly, I would think poorly of him if he were not. But…” He hesitated, glancing toward the western gallery before leaning nearer, his face suddenly gone serious. “You are no longer a child, Princess. And marriage, as you know, is not some minor matter to be settled without your input. A guardian may offer counsel, certainly, but I do not believe any woman should be forced into a marriage she does not desire…or denied one she might.”

You blinked at him, stunned. Ormund spoke of unsuitable bloodlines, weak heirs, vulgar fathers, and men whose intentions he did not trust. He spoke endlessly of what he would permit and what he would prevent. Never once had he asked what you desired. The concept was as foreign to you as Dothraki. 

Godric cleared his throat after a few seconds of silence. “Forgive me. I do not mean to speak against Lord Hightower.”

“N-no, no,” you stammered quickly. “You have said nothing wrong.”

He nodded, though concern lingered in his eyes. “Then may I ask you something else?”

You should have refused. You should have told him it was time to retire. You should have found Ormund. Instead, you found yourself nodding.

“Are you…happy here?”

The question struck you like a slap to the face. 

Happy? 

You had never considered it. Happiness was not a concept widely spoken of in the Hightower. Maybe there were moments. As a child, playing with the Hightower boys in the gardens. When Lady Hightower would sing you lullabies to sleep. Ormund’s bed, warm beneath you in the darkness. His lips against your brow when you memorized all your scripture. 

Moments that were fleeting. But moments that stuck. 

Then you thought of locked doors. Of punishments. Of Ormund’s voice, loud and raging, his mood shifting at the drop of a pin. Of the seventh day. Of sin. 

“I…” Your fingers tightened together in your lap. Would you confess? “I am…content.”

Godric did not appear shocked. Nor did he demand an explanation. He merely regarded you with a quiet sadness that made you feel more exposed than Ormund’s scrutiny ever had.

“I hope you will not think me forward, Princess, but I meant what I told Lord Hightower,” he said. There was a sincerity to him more pure than anything you knew possible. “I have heard nothing but good things of you, and what little time I have spent in your company has only made me wish to know you better.”

Warmth rose into your cheeks. 

“I cannot pretend to know whether you might ever desire such a match,” he continued. “But if you were willing, I would still like the opportunity to…entertain the prospect. If that is what you wished, of course.” 

Surely you should wish that. Surely you ought not to be thinking of Ormund’s hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. Surely you ought not to wonder what it would feel like if Ormund were the one offering you such a choice.

If he were asking you to be his.

Before you could respond, the musicians reached the end of their song. A livelier tune began almost at once, the beat of the drums rising above the conversations as couples moved toward the center of the hall. Godric glanced toward them, then stood. 

“Now, this may embarrass me so thoroughly that you decide to be rid of me altogether, but I must ask regardless.” He turned back to you and held out his hand. “Would you dance with me, Princess?”

You looked once more towards the archway. Ormund would return any second now. He would see you, dancing with Godric in front of the entire feast. He would see you being held by another man. If he did not kill you, he would surely kill Godric. 

“Yes,” you whispered, heart beating violently against your ribcage. You placed your hand in Godric’s. “I would.” 

Godric led you into the center of the hall crowded with dancing bodies, one hand holding yours while the other hovered near your waist, as though he feared even the smallest impropriety might send you fleeing back to the head table. 

“You should know,” he spoke loudly over the music as he guided you into the first turn, “that I was once declared the finest dancer in Ashford.”

“Oh, really?”

“Well…I was seven,” he admitted. “And the only competition was my sister, who could not yet walk. And the judge was my mother.”

Your laughter rang through the hall as he spun you beneath his arm and guided you back into step.

You should have been happy. You were dancing with a handsome young man who had made his interest in you plain. Godric was courteous. He kept his hands precisely where they belonged and made no attempt to grope or possess you. He complimented your dancing, whispered jokes near your ear, knew every step, and led you well.

Yet all you did was look over his shoulder, searching for Ormund.

Your gaze swept over every face, every couple, every archway. He was nowhere to be seen. Something inside you deflated and the realization came with a flush of shame: perhaps you were doing all of this for him. You wanted him to see you. You wanted him to want you. 

When the final notes rang through the hall, Godric drew you gently to a stop. Around you, the other dancers bowed and separated, their laughter mingling with the applause.

“I must say, my lady,” Godric was still slightly breathless from the dance, his hand holding yours lightly, “I think we make quite a fine pair of dancers.”

You blushed and lifted your free hand to smooth a few stray hairs from your face. You were about to say something, what exactly you could not remember, when a familiar, low voice spoke directly behind you.

“Lord Godric.”

You turned. 

Ormund stood only a few paces away, the crowd having parted around him. Conversations nearby were already quieting. His eyes, blue and still as a frozen pond, were fixed upon your intertwined hands. His face was empty. Terrifyingly, completely empty.

With sudden, perfect clarity, you knew you had gotten what you wished for. And you knew you had made the worst mistake of your life.

“Lord Hightower,” Godric said, his voice turning cautious. He followed Ormund’s gaze and untangled his fingers from yours. “I was only telling the princess that she is an excellent dancer. Whatever lessons you must have arranged for her–”

“Do you make a habit,” Ormund uttered, his voice carrying loudly enough to silence those nearest you, “of disrespecting your hosts?”

Godric blinked and glanced at the confused faces gathering around you. “...My lord?”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“I– of course not, Lord Hightower.” Godric gave a nervous, uncertain laugh. “We were only dancing.”

“Dancing? Only dancing?” With slow, imposing steps, Ormund advanced into the center of the hall, closer to you. “No, Lord Godric, I think not. I think what you have done is force yourself upon my ward after being expressly forbidden to do so.”

Panic overtook Godric’s expression. “Lord Hightower, I-I did no such thing–”

“But you did, did you not?” Ormund continued, his composure making every word more horrible to endure. “I made my refusal perfectly clear. You pretended to accept my authority, and then, the moment my back was turned, you disregarded my wishes. You disrespected my house. You disrespected her.”

You wanted to interject and defend Godric. You wanted to cower behind Ormund. You did neither.

“You took advantage of her,” Ormund declared, gesturing toward you as though you were evidence to be presented before the hall. “You knew the princess to be quiet and kind. You knew she was too gently raised to humiliate you with a refusal before half the Reach. And so you waited until I was absent and imposed upon her courtesy.”

Godric’s face reddened with the pressure of the entire Great Hall watching this encounter unfold. “The princess agreed to dance with me. She wanted to.”

Ormund’s eyes shifted to you and the hall seemed to contract. Something sharp flickered in his gaze as he tilted his head. 

“Did she now?” he asked, so softly it was barely a whisper. 

Godric turned to you, an obvious plea in his expression for you to absolve him of whatever crime Ormund had laid at his feet before the assembled houses of the Reach. You felt as though you had committed treason against the Crown itself. No– worse than that. As though you had sinned beneath the very eyes of the Seven.

Contrition flooded you so completely that you could scarcely bear Ormund’s gaze. Instead, you fixed your eyes down at the marble floor of the Great Hall– the same floor you had once raced across as a child. 

“Is it true?” He stepped closer until the polished leather of his shoes entered your lowered vision. “Did you wish to dance with him?”

Your voice trembled when you finally answered. “...yes.”

Tears blurred the marble beneath you. Still, you forced yourself to lift your head. Ormund’s face had gone flat once more.

He regarded you for what seemed like minutes, then gave a single, measured nod, as though you had confirmed something he had already known. “I see.”

Ormund’s gaze lingered upon you for another awful moment before he turned toward the watching hall, putting his hand on your arm. His grip was tight. “The princess is plainly unwell,” he announced, his voice once again smooth and measured. “I fear the excitement of the evening has overtaken her.”

A few sympathetic murmurs moved through the crowd. You were unwell, but not for whatever reason Ormund was claiming. You simply kept your eyes fixed above the crowd and willed yourself not to start crying. 

“Please,” Ormund continued, offering the gathered guests his courteous, practiced smile that did not reach his eyes, “return to your dancing. There is no reason our feast should be interrupted.”

Then he looked to Godric. “You may rejoin your father.”

Godric’s mouth parted as though he might object, but whatever he saw in Ormund’s face silenced him. He bowed stiffly instead. “Of course, Lord Hightower.”

Ormund moved his hand from your arm to the small of your back. “Come, my dear. I believe it is time to retire for the night.”

You allowed him to steer you through the parting crowd and out of the Great Hall. By the time the noise of the feast had faded behind you, you were sniveling like a pathetic child. Nothing remained but the sharp echo of Ormund’s footsteps and the hurried patter of your own as you struggled to match his long strides through the stone corridor.

Perhaps you should apologize. Perhaps you should explain yourself. If you could only make him understand, then perhaps he would–

Your head snapped backward.

A cry tore from your throat as Ormund seized a fistful of your hair and wrenched you toward him. You stumbled helplessly beneath his grip, dragged backward until your spine struck the stone wall.

“You fucking insolent slut,” he hissed. His fist tightened against your scalp, wrenching your head back until tears sprang anew to your eyes. “I cannot leave you out of my sight for a single minute before you whore yourself before a hall full of lords?”

He yanked again and the back of your head struck the stone with a dull crack. You clawed at his wrist, desperate to relieve the searing pull at your roots, but he twisted easily beyond your grasp.

“O-Ormund, I am– I did not–” you sobbed, reaching for him again.

His grip only tightened. You felt strands of hair pull and snap beneath his fingers.

“Please,” you cried. “It hurts–!”

“I have given everything to raise you. Everything.” Ormund spat the words, flecks of spittle striking your cheeks. “My house. My food. My protection. My own bed. All I have ever asked of you is obedience and respect.” He wrenched your head farther back. “And this is how I am repaid? You make a cuckold of me before half the Reach, shamelessly flaunting yourself for some boy?”

“It was only– we only danced–”

“You might as well have sucked his cock in the Great Hall.” His body crushed yours against the wall until you were flattened beneath his weight, the scabbard of his sword digging painfully into your hip. “Is that what you wanted to do? Hmm? You accomplished so much in the little while I was gone. Perhaps you did that as well.”

Your face flushed in shame as you gasped at his words. “No, Ormund! No–”

He leaned closer until his face hovered mere inches from yours, pure vitriol burning in his eyes. Ormund’s fist remained tangled in your hair, holding you helplessly in place. Then, suddenly, he froze. The fury in him shifted as he lowered his head, the bridge of his nose grazing your jaw. 

He breathed in. Ormund’s face twisted at once with disgust, as though he were suppressing the urge to gag. “You smell of him.”

A broken sob escaped you, your scalp still burning beneath his grip. There was no reasoning with him. Still, your heart twisted, and you tried. “I b-barely touched him, my lord. Please. You must believe me!”

The muscle in Ormund’s jaw flexed. Without warning, he wrenched you away from the wall and dragged you after him. His pace quickened as he marched you through the corridor, forcing you to stumble in order to keep from being pulled from your feet. Servants flattened themselves against the walls at the sight of him– the master of the Hightower hauling a princess of the realm by her hair while she sniveled and sobbed behind him. None dared intervene. They only lowered their eyes and stepped aside.

“You are an ungrateful, treacherous brat,” Ormund growled. “You may lie to me. You may lie before every lord in that hall. You may even kneel in the sept and lie beneath the faces of the Seven.” He shoved open the door to his bedchamber and pulled you inside. “But the Father sees what is hidden.”

The door slammed shut behind you. Ormund released your hair only to seize the back of your neck. Though the force of his grip kept your head fixed, your eyes shifted toward the bed, already knowing what would come next.

Instead, he steered you toward the adjoining bathing chamber and threw open the door. Heat and steam billowed from within. Servants still moved around the claw-footed tub, pouring steaming, scented water from brass ewers. At the sight of Ormund storming inside with you trapped beneath his hand, they startled and pressed themselves against the tiled walls. 

“The Father judges every falsehood,” Ormund continued, his mouth close to your ear. “Every wicked thought. Every secret desire.”

“I did not–”

“Do not lie to me again.” His fingers dug harder into your neck. “You may deny it until your tongue rots in your mouth, but your body has already betrayed you.”

Ormund lowered his face once more, breathing against your hair, your cheek, the bare skin above your collar. A shudder of revulsion passed through him. “His stink is everywhere.”

He dragged you toward the filled tub. “You will wash it off.”

One of the servants, an older woman with a weathered face, hesitantly stepped forward. “My lord, we were not expecting the princess until later. The water is still too hot–”

Ormund’s head snapped toward her, his gaze blazing. “Leave. At once.”

The servants did not argue. They bowed hurriedly, abandoned the remaining ewers, and fled from the chamber. You did not blame them. For who would want to defend you, who had so obviously sinned before your lord?

Ormund pushed you towards the tub. “Undress.”

You did not move. You could not. Perhaps Ormund had seen glimpses of you before, the shape of your body beneath the sheer nightgowns he often gifted you, the outline of your breasts when candlelight illuminated the fabric. But those moments belonged to the night, in the darkness, when you could tell yourself his eyes were closed or turned elsewhere. 

You had never stood naked before your guardian. 

Your hair hung tangled around your face, scalp still throbbing where he had pulled. Tears and snot wetted the cupid’s bow of your lip, and you were shaking so violently that your teeth had begun to chatter. You had been diminished to nothing. 

“M-my lord,” you whispered, turning towards Ormund. “I can call the women back, they will help me–”

“No.” Ormund stared at you with open contempt. “You will not. You were comfortable enough flaunting yourself for that boy. Now, you discover modesty?”

Your cheeks burned and you hung your head. “Please, my lord…”

Ormund stepped nearer, hands twitching at his side. “You behaved like a harlot in my hall. You may undress like one here.”

Humiliation rippled through you like a wave. You began to believe he was right. You had disobeyed Ormund. You had accepted Godric’s hand. Why? Because you wanted a reaction from Ormund. And now, you had one. 

Your fingers fumbled for the ribbons at the back of your gown. They would not obey you. Each time you caught one, it slipped from your trembling grasp. 

“You are moving too slowly.”

“I-I am trying…” you sputtered. “But my hands…they will not cease trembling…”

The faint rasp of metal leaving leather made you freeze. Ormund drew the small dagger he carried at his belt.

“My lord, please don’t–”

Ormund caught the back of your gown in one fist, and with one swift movement, he cut through the ribbons. The bodice split open with a series of sharp snaps, the ruined ties falling loose around you. Ormund dragged the blade downward, severing embroidery and silk without care until the gown sagged from your shoulders and exposed your breasts. You gasped and tried to catch the fabric, but Ormund had already sheathed the dagger. He seized the torn gown and wrenched it down over your hips, leaving you naked in a pool of shredded blue silk.

Feebly, you crossed your arms over yourself. Ormund was quicker. He grabbed you by the upper arm and hauled you toward the steaming tub, his chest rising and falling with each furious breath.

“In.”

You lifted one trembling foot over the rim. The instant your toes touched the water, scalding heat shot through you. You recoiled with a yelp. “Ormund, it is too hot–”

“Good.” His hands closed around your shoulders. “Perhaps it will burn his stink from you.”

He forced you down. You cried as the searing water engulfed your body. You tried to rise, but Ormund held you beneath the surface of the bath, his fingers biting into your shoulders. Before you could catch your breath, he had dropped to his knees beside the tub and seized a sponge from the tray. 

He caught your wrist and began scrubbing your arm. The rough sponge dragged over your skin again and again, leaving it flushed pink and burning. Ormund’s eyes were wild, his movements frantic. Beneath the fury, there was a panic, a desperation you had witnessed only a handful of times before. It terrified you. 

“Men bow to their lords,” he muttered, dragging the sponge from your wrist to your shoulder as though he meant to strip away the skin itself and uncover something clean beneath it.

You recognized the words at once. Scripture, recited in the sept while you knelt beside Lady Hightower. Now Ormund spoke them in the bathing chamber she had once shared with her husband– only she was dead and rotting somewhere in a crypt, and you were grown and naked beneath his hands. 

“Repeat it,” he hissed. “As I taught you.”

“M-men bow to their lords.”

“Lords bow to their kings.” The sponge moved across your collarbone, then up the side of your neck.

“Lords bow to their k-kings…”

“And kings and queens bow before the Seven Who Are One.” He scrubbed the tender skin beneath your jaw. The same place where, in the darkness of night, he so often buried his face. 

Your voice shook. “Kings and queens bow before the S-seven Who Are One...”

The sponge dragged down your other arm. “All sins may be forgiven.”

“All sins may be forgiven...”

Ormund seized your knee and yanked your leg toward him, scrubbing harshly over your calf. “But crimes must still be punished.”

You swallowed a sob. “But crimes must still be…punished.”

At last, the sponge slipped from his hand and struck the tiled floor with a wet slap. Your entire body was rubbed pink and raw from his touch. Ormund remained kneeling by the tub, chest heaving as though he had just come from hours in the training yard. The water had finally cooled in the tub around you, though your tears had never once ceased. 

Men bow to their lords. Kings and queens bow before the Seven Who Are One. Crimes must still be punished.

The words could not cease circling your mind. 

Crimes must still be punished. Crimes must still be punished. Crimes must still be punished.

Steam from the bath had loosened Ormund’s brown curls, leaving them wild around his face. The sleeves and front of his doublet were soaked through. His collar sat crooked. Strands of hair had fallen across his brow.

You had never seen him so disordered. Ormund was particular about every detail of his appearance. Now he looked just about as ruined as you felt.

He rose and reached into the tub. You flinched, but his hands closed around your waist and lifted you to your feet. Water streamed from your body, droplets tracing the curves of your breasts and the softness of your stomach before falling back into the bath. The cooler air tightened your skin, your nipples pebbling as you shivered beneath his hands.

Ormund held you there, naked and trembling before him. Then he bent toward you. His nose brushed the wet skin beneath your ear. He inhaled once before moving lower to breathe against your neck and shoulder. You scarcely dared move.

At last, the terrible tension in his body eased.

“Clean,” he murmured. His hands tightened possessively around your waist. “You are clean again.”

Seemingly satisfied with his work, Ormund stepped back and surveyed you. His gaze traveled from your wet hair to your breasts, then lower still, lingering over the glistening curls at the apex of your thighs. 

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, before turning away to restore some measure of order to his appearance. He straightened his collar and smoothed a hand over his damp curls, though the soaked fabric of his doublet clung stubbornly to him. Then he reached into the tub and took your hand. “Out.”

Water streamed from your body and pooled across the tiles as you stepped over the rim. Ormund kept one hand around yours and the other at your waist. Then he retrieved the linen nightgown the servants had left folded over a nearby chair and tossed it toward you without looking. “Dress yourself.”

You clutched it against your chest, relieved merely to have something with which to cover yourself. “Y-yes, my lord.”

With shaking hands, you pulled it over your head. The fabric caught against your wet skin, clinging to your breasts and thighs despite your efforts to tug it loose.

When you had finished, Ormund turned back. For a moment, the two of you merely stared at one another. Then he lifted a hand and brushed a wet tendril of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle after the same hand had scrubbed your skin raw only moments before. “Do you understand why I do this for you?”

You nodded slowly.

“Then tell me.”

You swallowed. “To…purge me?”

“Yes.” He stepped nearer, cupping your cheek. “I have told you before, and I will continue to tell you. At your core, you are a wicked creature. However earnestly you may struggle against it, the sins of your forefathers live within you. That is why you disobey. Why you cannot always recognize the corruption in your own desires.”

Your breathing grew shallow at his words.

“It is my duty to purge it from you, to discipline what is wicked and preserve what may yet be made good.” Ormund’s hand settled more firmly against your cheek, holding your face toward his. He studied you expectantly. “Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, Ormund.”

“Good girl.” His hand fell away. He turned and left the bathing chamber without another word. You remained where you were for a moment, waiting until you trusted your legs not to collapse beneath you, then wobbled after him.

The bedchamber had grown dim behind the closed shutters, illuminated only by the wavering glow of candlelight and slivers of moonlight. Ormund stood beside the wardrobe, peeling the soaked doublet from his body and revealing the muscled planes of his back. Though he so often slept without a shirt, you turned away bashfully. 

When Ormund faced you again, you kept your gaze fixed upon the ornate rug beneath your bare feet.

“Right,” he said. He dragged a hand over his jaw and glanced from you to the bed. Then he inclined his head toward it. “On the bed, then. Ready yourself.”

Your heart seemed to stop. Your gaze snapped up to him, your brows drawing together. “M-my lord?”

He scoffed as though you were a fool for questioning him. “It is the seventh day. Surely you did not imagine yourself excused…particularly after tonight. I have all the more reason now to question your purity.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. “B-but, my lord…the bath–”

“The bath did nothing but remove the taint of horse shit from you,” Ormund spat. He advanced upon you. “As I told you before, you managed a great deal in the few minutes I was gone. How am I to know you did not give yourself to Lord Ashford?”

The accusation was absurd. Ormund had been absent for perhaps ten minutes. The hall had been filled with half the Reach. Surely he could not truly believe that you had…

“I said, on the bed,” Ormund repeated, each word sharpened by warning. “Do not make me say it again.”

You hurried toward the bed and crawled onto it. You had done this so many times that the motions should have come as second nature. Yet each time, every part of you trembled with the same terrible mixture of dread and anticipation…and something hotter beneath them both that you could never bring yourself to name.

You shuffled backward until your head met the pillows, then lowered yourself flat against the mattress. Ormund remained at the foot of the bed, the pale skin of his bare chest almost luminous in the candlelight. He looked at your position with a scowl, then closed his hands around your ankles. With one sharp pull, he dragged you toward him until your ass rested at the very edge of the mattress.

He tapped the outsides of your quivering thighs. You parted them, allowing him to step between your legs.

Ormund looked down at you. Your breasts rose and fell beneath the damp nightgown, each breath shallow and unsteady. “You are nervous tonight.”

You began to shake your head, but he clicked his tongue. “Remember what I told you. Do not lie to me.”

Your throat tightened. “I-I am nervous, my lord.”

“Why?” The question was edged with mockery. Ormund reached down and caught the hem of your nightgown between his fingers. “This should hardly surprise you by now. Or…is there something you are trying to hide from me tonight?”

“No, my lord. I swear, I have nothing to hide–”

“We shall see.” He began to draw the nightgown upward. Higher and higher, until the cool air brushed over your calves and thighs, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Higher still, until the fabric gathered around your waist and your sex lay completely exposed beneath his gaze.

Ormund inhaled, and you could have sworn his breath trembled. His thumbs pressed against your puffy pussy lips, parting you beneath the candlelight. You were unbearably sensitive after the scalding bath, and the sudden touch of cool air on your exposed flesh drew a helpless whimper from your throat.

Ormund stilled. His hands remained firmly in place, holding you open as his narrowed eyes lifted to your face. “What was that?”

You swallowed. “N-nothing, my lord.”

“Nothing?” he repeated softly. “Have you learned nothing tonight?”

“I did not mean–”

“Your mouth lies,” Ormund murmured. “But your body confesses so readily.”

Humiliation burned through you. You turned your face toward the pillows, but his voice sharpened.

“Look at me.”

You obeyed. Ormund studied you with a feverish focus. Without speaking, he prodded your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The sensation made you jolt. He steadied you with a hand pressed firmly upon your hip. “Stay still.”

You tried, desperately. You fixed your eyes upon his face and willed every muscle to quiet, though your breath came shallow and uneven. 

Ormund paused, the tip of his finger still pressing against your hole. “What shall I find tonight, hmm? That you have been faithful to the Seven above? Faithful to me? Or shall I find you have let Lord Ashford fuck this pretty little cunt?”

You squirmed beneath his gaze, feeling as though you had been scalded again by his brazen words. “N-no, my lord.”

Ormund hummed in response. Then, once again, he used his other thumb to spread your pussy lips open, his gaze transfixed on where his finger rested.

“Look at you…” His voice was hushed, contemplative. “I have barely touched you, and your pussy is already fluttering.”

You whined, horrifically embarrassed, but he shushed you before you could protest.

“You are thinking of that Ashford boy, aren’t you?”

You shook your head immediately, adamant. You could hardly remember Godric’s face now. 

Ormund tutted. “Words.”

“No! No, I am not.”

“Then why,” he asked, his gaze never leaving you, “is your cunt weeping?”

You had no answer, other than your body had answered before your mind.

“It is no matter,” Ormund sighed, thumb still holding you open. “You are a deceitful bitch who will learn her lesson regardless.”

Slowly, Ormund began to push his fingertip into you. A broken moan tore through you at the burning intrusion, though you had felt this so many times before. The walls of your pussy clenched around him, and you tried to will yourself to relax your muscles. Breathe, you commanded yourself. Obey. 

His hand stilled, the tip of his finger seated inside you. He did not look away. 

“If you are not wet for Lord Godric,” Ormund whispered, finally lifting his gaze to yours, “then who is it for?” 

For a moment, you were no longer in Ormund’s chambers. You remembered attending the sept with Lady Hightower, kneeling beside her before the bejeweled statue of the Father. You remembered her lessons, her gentle voice, the certainty with which she had spoken.

“You must always tell the truth,” she had taught you. “For the Father sees all.”

The words echoed now, impossible to ignore. You were compelled. You had to confess.

“You.”

Ormund groaned at the confession, his hand tightening at your waist. 

“Do you hear yourself, you harlot?” His voice rattled maniacally, the rings on his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of you. “Do you not hear the lewdness of your own words? Lusting after me, your own guardian?”

Shame flooded through you. You should have lowered your eyes. You should have taken back the confession. But there was something in his voice that told you he was not reprimanding you. Ormund wanted you to say it. He wanted you to confess.

Before you could even think of a response, Ormund’s mouth twisted. Then he spat.

A hot, wet glob landed directly on the swollen pearl at the top of your cunt, obscene and shocking enough that your whole body shuddered. The sensation was like nothing you had ever felt before. Vulgar in a way that made humiliation burn through you even as a moan slipped from your throat.

Ormund saw it, because just as the Father did, he saw everything. A wicked, knowing grin spread across his face.

“Theeere it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough with satisfaction. “Moaning like a bitch in heat. Acting like the whore you are.”

Your face burned and you turned back into the pillows, trying to stifle the whimpering sounds that were attempting to escape you. 

Ormund leaned closer, caging your body in with his, the tip of his finger still inserted into you. “You think I do not know you? I raised you. I made you.”

Your thighs twitched instinctively, as if you could push him away. For a moment, he withdrew slightly, as if it were finished. As if Ormund would simply wipe his hand on the handkerchief he always kept on him and declare the matter settled. It had always been that way before.

The ritual– the inspection that occurred every seventh day– always ended the same. Ormund would stop at the first knuckle, claiming only to feel enough to confirm that your maidenhead was still intact. Then he would withdraw, disappear into the bathing chamber for a few moments while you caught your breath alone on the bed, and return composed once more.

Afterward was the part you cherished most. Perhaps it was the only reason you endured the ritual at all. Ormund would take you into his arms. He would press his lips to your brow, your cheek, sometimes even your mouth, and tell you how good you had been. How faithful. How untouched. He would allow you to rest against him, your head upon his chest, while he kissed the top of your head and held you as though you were something precious.

And for a little while, you no longer felt like a ward. No longer like an unwanted addition to his household. For a little while, you felt like a wife would.

You felt wanted.

But this time, Ormund did none of that. Instead, he pushed forward. 

You gasped at the invasion, hands tightening around the sheets as his finger slid deeper than it ever had before. It was only one finger, and still you felt stretched open by it, your body struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar pressure. Pain mixed with pleasure, a strange concoction that was better than anything you had ever known. 

Ormund watched the reaction move across your face.

“She is so tight,” he whispered, almost in a trance as he looked down at where his finger disappeared inside you. “So untouched. So desperate for more.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. Of course you were untouched. You could not imagine ever being touched by anyone other than Ormund. 

“So obedient for your lord,” Ormund added, voice husky. “And still you asked me not to stop.” 

His thumb moved slowly, the pad of it pressing against your aching clit right above where his finger held you open. The sensation struck through you so sharply your thighs closed his hand, though he pried them back open with ease. 

Ormund’s thumb began to circle your clit, slow and deliberate, while his finger remained seated inside you. The two sensations seemed to pull against one another: the deep stretch of him, the slick pressure of his thumb, the unbearable intimacy of being watched while your body answered him so honestly.

“Do not be so quiet now, my sweet girl,” Ormund commanded you. “Not when your body is finally telling the truth.”

His finger began to move. Slowly at first, dragging almost to the tip before pressing back in. The stretch came easier now, slicker with your growing arousal. His thumb kept circling with maddening precision, steady enough that something began to gather low in your belly.

A coil. A warning. A want. It was overwhelming. It was maddening. It was completely and utterly terrifying. 

“Ormund…”

His finger curled slightly inside you, pressing against a soft place that made you see stars, and you cried out, back arching. 

“There we are,” Ormund breathed. “That is what you have been trying to tell me.”

“N-no,” you said, though the denial sounded weak even to your own ears.

Ormund leaned closer, mouth skimming your jaw. “You want this. You have wanted this every time I stopped.”

Your lips parted, but no answer came.

The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, every pass of his thumb dragging you closer to some precipice you did not understand. Your thighs began to tremble. Your breath broke into small, helpless whimpers. Panic and pleasure tangled together until you could no longer tell which one made you shake.

“Ormund, please,” you gasped. “S-something…something is happening!”

“Is it?” His voice was calm, almost cruelly so, his eyes fixed on your face. Then, just as the feeling rose so sharply it frightened you, Ormund withdrew completely. His finger slipped out of you, and his thumb left your clit all at once.

The loss was immediate. You whined, hips lifting after him before you could stop yourself, your cunt clenching around nothing. 

Ormund stepped back from the bed, composed and distant, as though whatever had existed between you moments before had vanished entirely. He reached for the handkerchief he kept in his back pocket, and cleaned your glistening arousal off of his finger with a maddening calmness. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving. Sweat had beaded on your forehead from the intense pleasure that was there just moments before. When you spoke, your voice was small and confused. “...My lord?”

Ormund did not look at you. “I have confirmed what I needed to know. You are untouched. That has not changed. But you still disobeyed me.”

You stared at him, searching his face for some sign that he did not mean it. Some indication that this was a test, that Ormund would relent as he always did. That he would gather you in his arms, kiss your face, and fall asleep.

He did not. 

“You are not forgiven,” Ormund said matter-of-factly. Then came the words you never expected to hear. “You will return to your own chambers tonight.”

Your own chambers. You had not slept there in years. Not since before Lady Hightower had died. 

The feast, the bath, the feeling of something coiling in you as Ormund used his fingers upon you like an instrument– it all came crashing down at once. You were unsteady, disoriented. Lost. 

He was sending you away from the only place where you knew how to exist. The only place where you had ever felt wanted.

You scrambled from the bed, your feet landing unevenly against the rug. Before you could think better of it, you reached for his arm.

“My lord, please.” Your voice shook. “I-I cannot sleep there.”

Ormund did not move.

“Please,” you whispered. “I can only sleep here. I have only ever slept here.”

He refused to answer. He remained focused on the handkerchief, wiping the finger that had been inside you moments ago. 

“Please, Ormund. I-I love you.”

He always liked hearing that. You lifted yourself onto your toes and pressed a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to his cheek, waiting for the familiar response. Waiting for his hand to come to your face, for his voice to soften, for him to tell you that everything was all right.

Ormund did not.

Your heart seemed to collapse inside your chest. You could not understand how he could stand there so calmly when you felt as though you were breaking apart.

“I was so ungrateful,” you sobbed. “I was t-treasonous, my lord. I was wicked.” Your hands tightened around him. “I should have rebuked Lord Godric. I should have listened. I was an insolent fool.”

Not knowing what else to do, you sank to your knees before him, head bowed as though you were kneeling before the altar in the sept. The posture came instinctively from years beneath Ormund’s instruction, a familiar act of surrender and supplication.

“Please forgive me,” you whispered. “I will do anything you ask of me. Please.”

You remained there before him, the room silent save for your trembling breaths and quiet sobs. Your forehead stayed bowed, your hands clutching the fabric of his breeches as though letting go would mean losing him entirely. 

Finally, Ormund looked down upon you. “You hear yourself, do you not?” 

You lifted your swollen eyes toward him.

“You beg for forgiveness, but you do not yet understand what it is you are asking forgiveness for.” Ormund crouched until he was level with you, hands on your shoulders. “This is not about Godric or a dance or a foolish mistake. It is about what lies beneath it, the thing I have warned you of for years.”

You shivered beneath his touch, the words chilling you. 

“The dragon within you.”

It felt as though the entire world had narrowed to this room, to this moment, to you kneeling before him. As though every lesson in the sept, every warning, every correction had led you here. 

“I have spent years trying to protect you from the worst parts of yourself,” he continued. “And still, when temptation came, you reached for it. That is why an apology is not enough.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You must learn that your impulses do not rule you. Your desires, your pride, they do not rule you. Not even the dragon that plagues your soul.”

“What rules you is none of those.” Ormund leaned closer, his nose brushing yours. “It is me.”

With that, Ormund rose to his feet, though you remained kneeling. His hand went to the leather belt at his waist, the same belt from which his sword scabbard hung. Slowly, he unfastened it and set the scabbard aside on the chest near the bed. He turned to you and gestured for you to stand. 

You obeyed instantly, rising on shaky legs. 

“If you want forgiveness, you will listen to me,” Ormund said, undoing the belt until it came loose in his hand. “You will disrobe. You will set yourself upon the bed. And you will take the strokes of my belt in penance for your sins. Will you do that for your lord?”

You nodded. You would do anything he asked of you. Hands trembling, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head. You were bare, naked as the day you were born. It felt different from the bath. This time, there was no steam to soften the room. This time, you could clearly see Ormund take all of you in: the line of your calves, the curve of your hips, the plane of your stomach, the weight of your breasts. His eyes moved over your body shamelessly, intense and hungry.

“Onto the bed,” he ordered. “Face away from me.”

You complied, turning from him and crawling onto the mattress. Before you could move too far, Ormund caught your calf in one hand, signaling for you to stop once you were on all fours near the edge of the bed. His touch lingered there for a moment, and then his hand slid upward, palm dragging from your calf to your thigh, then higher still, until it settled over the soft curve of your ass. His fingers squeezed once, firm and possessive, before dropping lower.

You heard the soft whisper of leather as Ormund folded the belt in his hand. You could not see his face from where you knelt, turned away from him, but you could feel his gaze moving over you. The back of your neck, your trembling spine. Your exposed cunt, surely glistening now with arousal though you could not understand why. And then your ass, presented bare and vulnerable to him, where he intended to mark you. 

“You will pray the Seven’s lesson as you were taught,” he said, though his voice had gone strained. 

A familiar molten heat, like what you felt just a few minutes earlier, had begun to unwind in your belly. You nodded, eyes on the bed below you. “Yes, my lord.”

Leather cracked across your skin. The sound came before you could even register the pain, sharp and booming like thunder. You cried out as a bright line of heat bloomed over your ass, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets. 

“The Father,” Ormund breathed, voice low. “Tell me His vow.”

You remembered learning your lessons. It was Ormund who taught you when you were just a girl. Before you knew what you would become. What he would become. 

“I-I submit to all judgement,” you recited shakily. 

The belt came down again, landing just below the first one.

You jolted forward, a broken sound spilling from your mouth as the second stroke landed just below the first. Heat spread through you in terrible waves and your knees trembled, but Ormund’s free hand caught your hip to hold you up. 

“The Mother.”

“I seek mercy.”

The third stroke fell harder.

You sobbed again, and shame burned through you at the sound, but Ormund only stepped closer. You could feel him now, the heat of his body just behind yours, the roughness creeping into his breathing. 

“The Warrior.”

You pressed your forehead into the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut, willing yourself to submit. “I will have c-courage.”

The fourth stroke cracked across you, closer to your wet sex. The sound that came from you this time was not a sob, but a moan. You heard Ormund utter a low curse under his breath from behind you. 

“The Maiden, now, girl. You should know this one by heart.”

“I will guard my innocence.”

Next, the fifth stroke. You cried out, smothering your sounds in the sheet, but this time Ormund made no attempt to hide the rough, ruined exhale he made in response. 

You realized there, completely naked on his bed, the bed you had shared with him for years, that Ormund was enjoying this. 

“The Smith,” he ordered you. 

“I will be remade.”

The sixth stroke landed and pain sparked through you, body sagging slightly before Ormund caught you with his hand. His wide palm moved from your waist to the punished, red flesh of your ass. 

“Ormund,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what you wanted of him.

His breath shuddered. “The Crone.”

“I will s-seek wisdom.”

You could hear how close he was. Hear it in the uneven pull of air through his teeth, in the way his hands trembled against your skin.

“Now, the last,” he said.

Like a final judgement, the seventh stroke came down. Hard.

Your cry broke open, high and helpless, your body finally collapsing forward into the sheets as the hurt bloomed through you in a final, burning wave. Ormund followed you down at once, his body bowing over yours from behind.

“The Stranger,” he panted into your ear, bare chest pressed against your back. “Tell me His vow.”

“I will leave behind what I was.”

The belt slipped from his hand and hit the floor. You heard the unmistakable frantic tug of laces being loosened, the rustle of breeches as Ormund shoved them down with no patience at all. 

You did not understand what was happening at first. You only knew he was behind you, breathing hard, one hand gripping your hip so hard it bruised while the other was moving between your bodies with a frenzied desperation. 

Then you felt him. The hard length of his cock, pressed against the swollen skin of your ass. You gasped at the silky, heavy, throbbing sensation. Perhaps you had felt it before, but between sheets, between linen, pressed against your back in the dead of night. You did not know, or did not want to know, or even fully understand what it was. But you knew now. 

You heard movement, skin rubbing skin. Ormund’s fist worked himself in quick, uneven strokes, the leaking head of him pressed against the raw flesh. 

Ormund groaned low in his throat, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he bent over you.

“Do you feel that, Princess?” he rasped. His hips jerked forward, the stiff length of him dragging on your ass. The contact made him shudder violently against you. “Do you feel me on you? This is what you do to me. You have bewitched me, heart and flesh alike.”

Your face burned so hot you thought you might cry from the humiliation of it. Bent beneath him in the bed he once shared with his wife. Marked by him. Listening to the rough, wet sound of his hand moving over himself while his body trembled against yours. 

You turned your head instinctively, trying to look back. To see the reality of what was happening to your innocence. Ormund’s palm came down between your shoulders, forcing your face down into the sheets. 

“No,” he ordered, voice ragged. “Do not l-look at me. Stay down.”

You obeyed. A broken sound left him at that, like a laugh. 

“My good girl,” Ormund breathed. “My sweet, good girl.”

His hand moved faster. From behind, you could feel every frantic pull of his fist in the rhythm of his body: the way his hips twitched, the way his thighs pressed against the backs of yours, the way his hot breath puffed against your neck. Ormund dragged the head of himself lower, close enough that you could feel the swollen head of his cock brush your cunt. 

“Do you want it?” he asked. “Do you want your guardian to finally take you? Do you want me to give you my cock and fill you with my seed so everyone will know who you belong to?”

You did. You wanted it so badly. You wanted Ormund to fuck you, to finally take the virginity he treasured so much. 

“Do you want it, my darling girl?” Ormund repeated shakily, dragging his cock up and down your slick folds, the leaking head of it bumping against your swollen clit. “If I pushed in right now, would you open for me? Would you let me take what is rightfully mine?”

Your fingers twisted into the sheets. You did not even know what you were asking for. You only felt the compulsion of the Father move through you. “Yes, my lord! M-make me yours…”

Ormund groaned. But, to your dismay, he did not push himself into you. Instead, he drew himself back, dragging his cock against your skin as his fist resumed its desperate rhythm. 

His mouth found your shoulder, open and trembling. His teeth grazed you once, biting down lightly. 

“You are mine,” he said against your skin. “Whether I fuck you tonight or keep you untouched for the rest of your life, you are mine.” 

Ormund’s hips stuttered hard against you. “Tell me whose you are, Princess.”

“Y-yours…”

“Say it properly for your lord.”

“I am yours, Ormund!”

With a final, low groan, Ormund collapsed over you, body shaking. You felt something hot and wet spurt across the marks of your ass. His hand kept moving through the violent pulses, dragging every last wave out of himself while he panted your name into the back of your shoulder. 

Finally, the spasming of his cock subsided, and his weight softened over you. Ormund remained bowed over your body, trembling as he pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades. His lips moved slowly along your spine. His palm, sticky with release, spread tenderly over your waist, drawing you more firmly beneath him. 

“My precious girl,” he whispered, pressing another damp kiss to your back. “My beautiful, perfect princess. You did so well for me.” 

You could do nothing but lie there beneath him, overwhelmed and exhausted, your body aching everywhere he had touched you. 

Ormund wrapped both arms around you, rolling onto his side and bringing you with him. He gathered your naked body so tightly against his own it felt like he had never intended to let you go. His release remained warm upon your skin, trapped between you as he fitted himself along your back. One arm circled your waist and the other slipped beneath your head, drawing you into the shelter of his bare chest. Ormund kissed the hairs at the nape of your neck, then your shoulder, his mouth lingering over every place it touched.

“Come here,” he murmured. “My pretty little thing.”

Ormund turned you carefully within his arms until you faced him. His hand moved slowly through your hair, smoothing it back from your flushing, tear-streaked face as he pressed kisses across your cheeks. He did not seem to care that you were both disordered and sweaty, that his breeches remained tangled around his thighs, or that his seed still clung to your body.

Your eyes burned. “I-I thought you hated me… That you would send me away forever.”

“No.” Ormund cupped the back of your head, keeping you against him. “No, my love. Never that.”

A sob escaped, and you buried your face against him, clutching at him as though the Hightower itself were crumbling around you.

Ormund drew you fully atop him, arranging your body over his with practiced intimacy. Your cheek rested above his thumping heart. One of your legs slipped between his, your naked bodies fitting together beneath the rumpled sheets as naturally as though you had been made by the Seven for this. 

“You frightened yourself tonight,” he murmured, rocking you gently against him. “You forgot what I taught you. But you remember now, do you not?”

You nodded silently. Ormund tipped your face upward. His gaze moved over your swollen eyes and trembling mouth with such devotion it hurt. 

“I forgive you.”

Finally.

Finally, the words you had spent the entire night longing to hear. The words you had wanted since the moment you realized your Valyrian blood was something impure. 

The weight of it all overwhelmed you, his forgiveness, his naked body beneath yours, the certainty that he was not sending you from his bed. It all crashed over you at once, and your body shook with the force of your tears. Ormund gathered you closer, shushing softly as he kissed your forehead, your temple, your quivering lips.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I love you. Must I say it a thousand times? I love you.”

You pushed yourself further into him and sobbed harder. You believed Ormund. You always did. For he always told the truth.

“I-I am sorry for the wickedness in me, Ormund,” you stuttered, tears wetting his chest. “I should have been better for you.”

“Oh, my sweet girl.” His fingers combed gently through your hair, the same hair he so often praised for lacking the silver-gold of your blood. “You are not the first woman to struggle against the wretchedness within her.”

Ormund shifted beneath the covers, drawing you higher upon his chest until your face rested within the curve of his neck. His lips brushed your brow again and again as though he could not bear to stop kissing you.

“The Seven have blessed you, though,” he continued. “They did not leave you among your diseased kin who would encourage that fire. They did not leave you in the Red Keep. They did not leave you to dragons.”

You lifted your face from his chest. The candles had long since sputtered out, leaving only moonlight to illuminate the handsome angles of his face. The face you loved, the face you worshipped so dearly. Ormund cupped your cheek and brought your mouth to his.

The kiss was slow and delicate, nothing like the frenzy whose presence still marked your bodies: the angry welts left by his belt, his seed drying against your thighs. Ormund kissed you with the solemnity of a husband sealing a vow before the gods. When he pulled away, he did not allow even an inch of space to form between you.

“You were given to me,” he whispered against your mouth. “To raise. To correct when you wandered. And to cherish when you returned.”

A smile spread across Ormund’s face, full of such love and adoration that your soul ached with it. “And you will always return to me.”

Ormund took your hand in his and pressed it flat over the steady beating of his heart. Then he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed each tip one by one. “The Seven knew you needed something greater than blood or the Iron Throne. Greater even than dragons.”

Your eyes grew heavy as the last of your terror loosened beneath his attention. Ormund drew the covers more closely around your entwined bodies and tucked your head beneath his chin. “They knew you needed a home. A father.”

You nestled deeper into his chest, lulled by the heart beating beneath your ear. Sleep had nearly claimed you when his arms tightened around you.

When Ormund spoke again, his voice was so hushed that you thought perhaps you had dreamed it.

“They knew you needed me.”

taglist

🏷️: @bloodravens @exxotiic @arkadiaphilosopher @the-avengers-ate-my-tongue @syrligmarx @wife-of-gojo @h9704 @lauriejayy @hardkiddonut @yolosis @marshhens @goldenvettel @archivistina @fveapplestall @Wolfiemarley @trolleri-trollera @gayrightspippin @rakiroad @thewitchlandz @nexilismirus @raccoonintheforest @discofairysworld @sukusfavgirl @emma-idk327 @rhaenyras-crown @livvy256 @cocooola @sotragedynut @hollowsummitmarauder @romyfe06 @spinkythecat @half-baked-pretzel @msbyjackal @drelleabbott

[gwaynes-sweetling]

You, Me, and My Ego, Gwayne Hightower (18+)

Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TagaryenWife!Reader 

Description: You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife? 

WC: 3.5k

CW: Reader is an icon and a very mean diva. No physical descriptions of Reader. Gwayne is smitten (and breedable, but the roles are reversed for this one). SMUT, just smut and a tiny little plot. PinV. A slight spit/saliva kink if you use a magnifying glass or a scanning tunneling microscope. My favourite word: breeding. Cunnilingus. Cum eating. More breeding. Slight cockwarming in the end. Reader tops but gets tired, but a diva still has needs.

GIF Credit (TYSM!): @/dracaria-dracarys

The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter. 

Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.

However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband. 

You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired. 

Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you. 

Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.

The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself. 

“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?” 

“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”

“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”

Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.

“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other thugs, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.

You retaliate.

“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”

It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face. 

You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.

You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.

Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”

You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”

The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow. 

It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching. 

You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”

With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes. 

You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.

The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.

At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love. 

Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.

You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority. 

“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.

“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.

“Are you mad at me?”

That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad. 

“Absurd.”

He sighs, “you are tense.”

“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”

That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.

You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people. 

He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.

“You are pliant, husband.”

“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you. 

His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.

He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies. 

He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit. 

On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.

He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side. 

Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows. 

Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips. 

To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity. 

You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.

“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne. 

If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.

Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.

There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.

It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.

He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have. 

“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”

That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged  head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.

He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.

His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.

Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.

His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.

“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment? 

You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his. 

Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care. 

You were not going to finish this day without a fight.

You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty. 

His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.

His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.

“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”

The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face. 

By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other. 

He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.

“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.

His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.

Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.

He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back. 

His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.

Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.

“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”

His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you. 

Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.

“Are you still mad at me, wife?”

“Oh, shut it.”

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

[bitterhalf]

im sorry it's so funny to me how aemond and aegon are having a telepathic argument about which of them was their mother's favorite child and all the while she literally traded them both in a heartbeat for helaena's life weeks ago

[cioud-berries]

Perfect Matrimony ➻ Chapter 2

USED TO BE "Perfect Sins" IT HAS BEEN RENAMED! Masterlist

Category: Ormund Hightower x Female reader

Summery

When she arrived in Old Town, she suspected her sister to be the one that would wed Ormund Hightower. When Ormund chose her instead, she couldn't figure out why. Was it her looks? Did he see something special in her? Or was it simply her smell?

This fic focuses heavily on neurodivergentcy (specifically OCD). I do not read the books. I am basing most of the fic off of own personal beliefs of his character, and what I have seen so far in the show. (i do a bit of research here and there though.)

Chapter Word Count: 5,069

Smut below

⤪⧼༻ ⚝ ༺⧽⤮

⤺ Previous

        My wedding day had come quicker than I expected. Many people had traveled from all over the realm to celebrate. Even though I had a few months to get to know my soon to be husband, it seemed as though there was never a chance for me to do so.

        I knew he would be busy, he was the lord that oversaw the citadel, in the capital of the faith of the seven. But with the wedding as well, he was completely unavailable. The only time I was able to see him was the few times he would join my family for supper. 

        Even with this, I still didn’t get to know the real him. We would only be able to exchange a few words before my father would cut me off, believing that what he had to say was more important. Ormund was clearly irritated at this, giving my father a false smile, yet he always knew what to say. He is a very charming man. It was easy to see why he was so sought after.

        When preparing for my wedding, I only had one person helping me get ready, Veda, my trusted handmaiden. She understood me better than anyone else, the only one that was able to reach my standards. I was already overwhelmed by it all, worried about how everything would pan out. The last thing I needed was unknown hands roaming my body, so having Veda be the only one helping, calmed me down slightly.

        Even though I was excited, I was also nervous. I barely had a say in anything about the wedding, my mother and father voicing their own opinions, saying it was mine. I wanted it to be perfect, everything the way I had always dreamed it to be. It stressed me out that I couldn’t plan it. That I wasn’t able to choose the flowers or tapestries, the food that would be served or the guestlist.

        The only thing that was completely mine was the dress. I know I made the seamstress go mad with how many alterations I asked for. But it was the one thing that I had. So it had to be perfect.

        My jewelry options were lacking, as my parents spent the money they had on Jessamyn. Somehow, the word of it made its way to Lord Ormund’s ears. I was gifted a new collection of expensive jewelry. Even though he didn’t know my preferences, he bought enough that I would at least like something that was there.

        Veda presented the collection to me, letting me choose. I looked between the mirror and shiny jewels, figuring out which one matched best. Pointing to the ones I wanted, she walked away to put the rest away. Returning to me, Veda began to clasp the metal around my neck.

        “I never thought the queen would be at my wedding.” I commented, watching the mirror, debating if I liked the way everything looked. “It is quite exciting.”

        “It’s because you’re marrying her cousin.” Veda responded, kneeling on the floor so she could fluff out the ends of my dress.

        “Right.” I responded planely.

        “I heard your lord husband is taking the young Prince Daeron to ward.” Veda mentioned.

        “I did as well. He is quite young to be leaving his mother.” I said. Daeron was only three years of age, I couldn’t imagine my child leaving home that young.

        “He is. But rumor is, the queen was pushing for him to leave earlier.” Veda was always one to tell me the rumors the other help had heard.

        “Strange.” I responded with my face scrunched. “I feel bad that the boy won’t have his mother. I will try my hardest to be there for him.”

        Standing up, Veda took a few steps behind me, allowing me to see myself clearly. Staring from the bottom, I noticed how my dress hovered right above the floor, meaning it wouldn’t cause me to trip, nor collect dirt from the ground. The lace that overlaid the silky fabric showed a beautiful, repetitive pattern, not a single design differed from the rest. The jewels complimented my eyes nicely, making them pop.

        It was almost as if Veda noticed at the same time as I did, the hair that fell out of place. Jumping in front of me, she was quick to tuck the strand under the clip that would keep it back. Returning behind me, I was able to double check it all, not able to leave the room until I made sure everything was the way I wanted it to be.

        “Perfect.” I responded with a firm nod of my head.

        “You look beautiful my lady.” She told me with a proud smile. “I really wish I could watch the wedding.”

        “I do as well.” I sadly told her. “You have done so much the past couple of weeks. Take the night off.”

        “Are you sure?” She asked for clarification. I could see it in her face, she didn’t think it was a good idea. “You would not want me to prepare you for the night? Before the consummation? Clean you up after?”

        “I am.” I assured her. “I can handle it myself. You deserve a break.”

        “Alright.” I could tell she didn't believe me, but couldn’t argue farther. “We should leave soon. It would be horrible if you were late to your own ceremony.”

        I nodded in agreement, turning to her, instead of looking at her through the mirror. With one last deep breath, I headed out the door. Walking down the hall, I met with my family, who had all gathered in my parent’s guest bedroom.

        The second I opened the door, my sister ran to me, throwing her arms around me once more. “You look beautiful!”

        “Careful! You’ll ruin my hair.” I was quick to rebuttal, pulling myself out of her grasp. Responding to what she said, I thanked her for the compliment.

        “Sorry.” She apologized, keeping her hands to herself.

        My mother and father only stared, not saying a word. I didn’t want to stand around any longer and have pointless conversations, so I offered, “Shall we head to the Sept?”

        “Yes, we shouldn’t keep Lord Ormund waiting any longer.” My father agreed, pushing past me to leave the room.

        Together, we all huddled in the cart. I had almost forgotten how insufferable it was being crammed in there with the whole family. Thankfully for me, the ride to the sept was short, being right down the road from The Hightower.

        My mother and sister were quick to enter the sept, making sure that they could take their seats before I entered. Standing before the door, I fixed my dress, making sure that it flowed nicely as I walked.

        Looking down, I checked to see if my necklace was centered, I adjusted my shoulders, standing tall as the door opened. Both of my hands hung off my father’s arm delicately. From a far, it would look as though we cherished one another. That I was sad for my father to give me away, to leave my family. That he would be sad to see his daughter go.

        At the other end of the hall, Ormund stood a few steps down from the Septon, waiting for me to join him. Instead of leather, like he normally wore, his surcoat was made majority out of green velvet. Though it did have its leather accents on his collar. 

        He wore a silver chain that connected one shoulder to the other, the star of the seven prominent in the center. Most of his body was covered under a large green cloak, the symbol of house hightower embroidered onto it.

        With every step, my heart began to lose rhythm. It didn’t feel real. Here I was, about to get married. Attempting to calm myself down, my breath became uneven. 

        As everyone stood from their seat, looking at me, it felt as though every notable person in Westeros was here, minus the king and his other children. Many held warm smiles, excited to see me all dressed up in my wedding gown.

        When I arrived to him, his normal deadpan had seemed the slightest bit softer. It was almost as if he were happy. Proud that he chose me. Or maybe that was my imagination believing what it wanted, my mind attempting to calm its nerves.

        My father extended the arm that I held onto, handing me over to Ormund. The velvet texture felt nice under my fingertips. I could feel his warmth through the fabric. 

        Together, we step up to the altar. Turning away from him, I awaited him to cover me. I felt the weight of his cloak land on her shoulders. Ormund’s hands lingered, trailing down the side of my arms as he retracted them.

        When I turned to look at him, he stared at me with an outreached hand, waiting for me to place mine on top of his. As I did, we faced the Septon, presenting our joined hands for him to bind together. His hands were warm, calloused with years of swordsmanship, grip strong as any lord’s should be. 

        With a white ribbon, the Septon tied us together, beginning his speech. “We stand here before Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh. One heart. One soul. Now and forever. Father. Mother. Worrorir. Smith. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Hear their vows.”

        “You are mine, and I am yours, whatever may come.” Ormund pronounced.

        “I am yours, and you are mine, whatever may come.” I repeated quieter than him, fearful of somehow saying the wrong thing.

        “Here and now, I proclaim, man and wife.” the Septon announced, unwrapping the ribbon that tied us together. Because now we didn’t need a physical representation, as the gods had bound us as man and wife.

        My eyes trailed from our hands, back to Ormund’s face. Letting go, his hand trailed to my cheek, holding it still so I may not move. He brought his face to mine, planting a light kiss to my lips. It was gentle, as though he were barely touching me. His lips were soft and plump. It was clear he put care into making sure it didn’t get dried out, unlike most men.

        The attendees clapped, cheering on the union. The kiss didn’t last long, just enough to get the point across. When he pulled away, his hand found mine once more as he assisted me down the steps. Eyes looking down, he made sure that he didn’t step on my dress. Not wanting to get dirt on my white gown.

        Guests stayed in their seats letting us leave the sept. The bells rang loudly in my ear, announcing to all the commonfolk that the wedding had concluded. That their lord had married and the line of House Hightower would continue.

        Hand still in his, he assisted me into his carriage. After I was situated properly, he joined me, sitting across. An awkward silence fell on us. Or rather, I felt as though it were awkward, he didn’t seem to care as much. 

        It was the first time we had been alone together, first of many occasions no doubt. I didn’t know what to say to him, what I should do. Wracking my brain, I attempted to find the best conversation starter.

        “It was a beautiful ceremony.” I commented, trying to start off our marriage civilly.

        Ormund nodded his head. “It was a lot shorter than I expected.”

        “I agree.” I said.

        The conversation quickly died out, but thankfully it was only a few minutes before the carriage came to a halt. Ormund was first to leave its small confines, standing next to the steps so he may assist me once more. 

        Looking up at The Hightower, it registered that it was now my home. I was the lady of house Hightower, no longer a Redfort. The moment I took the final step, Ormund dropped my hand.

        “Congradulations.” were the words of the one who weren’t able to make it to the ceremony.

        The grand hall was all prepared, a few nobility were already sitting along the tables. At the end of the hall, a large circular window was engraved into the wall. The star of the seven was outlined in metal. Stained glass filled the star, letting a rainbow hue flood in and mark the floor.

        I stood in the colors, looking around the rest of the room. Ormund walked away to Jon Roxton, his trusted subordinate. I could only assume he was asking for Ser Roxton to do something for him, that he was not able to do himself.

        Below the stained glass sat a long table, decorated better than the rest: lined with an embroidered white cloth, luxurious flowers potted in porcelain pots that were painted with the Hightower sigil, sat on the table. 

        I made my way over, meeting Ormund at the seats. A footman seemingly appeared out of nowhere, pulling the chair out for me. As my butt landed on the stiff cushion, the other guests began to flood through the doors. Most found their seats, but some stood around the doorway, greeting old friends or making new ones.

        When the Queen entered, everyone parted, giving her the space to walk through with no issues. She held her babe in her arms, Kingsguard following close behind her. The ones who were seated stood, as one is supposed to do out of courtesy.

        Once she had made her way to the grand table, she bowed her head ever so lightly to the two of us, showing her respect. “I am sure the two of you will have a fruitful marriage.”

        “Thank you, my queen.” I gave her a small curtsy.

        Walking around the table, she sat on the other side of Ormund, being his most high ranking family member. My family soon joined me on my side of the table, sitting neatly. After everyone was seated, Ormund grabbed his chalice that was already full of wine, standing up. 

        He put his hand on my shoulder as to acknowledge me as he addressed the other noble houses of Westeros. They settled into silence, noticing that Lord Ormund had something to say.

        “I welcome you all. I appreciate the time and effort you have spent making your way to Oldtown for this event. Especially my cousin, the queen and her youngest, prince Daeron.” He motioned over to them with his cup. “May you fill your plates and your cups overfill with wine.”

        When he ended his small speech, he sat once more. The hall erupted into cheers, ready to be fed and get drunk. The food was brought out by the servants, placing it all on the tables. Along with everyone else, I began to place the food on my plate.

        “Will you pass me the bread?” Lord Ormund asked me, as it was just barely out of his reach.

        “Of course.” I responded, leaning over the table to grab the basket.

        “I see you are enjoying the jewelry I got for you.” Lord Ormund pointed out after grabbing his roll. His fingers reached out to my neck, taking the necklace between his thumb and index. “It suits you.”

        “You have good taste.” I complimented him with a small smile. After he dropped it, I made sure to recenter it between my two collarbones. “Thank you for buying them for me.”

        “You are now Lady Hightower.” He stated candidly. “I cannot have your looks be anything less than perfect.”

        “I will do my best to be better than perfect.” I promised him, knowing I could achieve it.

        Ormund let out a small chuckle, amused at my passion. Taking a sip of his wine, he seemed pleased. It only lasted a second, as he stiffened once a lord walked up to the table.

        “I would like to congratulate the two of you. I wish for you to have a prosperous and fruitful marriage.” The lord said with a happy smile.

        Ormund, not so discreetly, covered his nose with his finger. I tried my hardest to smell what he had, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As Ormund wasn’t responding to the poor lord, I took the opportunity to speak first.

        “Thank you my lord.” I responded to him.

        Ormund grabbed something out of his pocket, a small metal ball with holes. Bringing the object up to his nose, he deeply inhaled, breathing in the contents. The lord stood there awkwardly, waiting to get acknowledged by Ormund.

        “Husband?” I questioned.

        While I thought whatever he was doing was strange, I made no comment on it, just wishing for him to be respectful so the man may leave. 

        “Yes. Thank you.” Ormund responded shortly, clearly wishing for the lord to flee the vicinity.

        With a hesitant nod the lord left the table, returning to his seat.

        Aside from that one encounter, the rest of the night went pleasantly. People drank and laughed. At one point Ormund asked if I wanted to dance with him. The guests gave us the space to move freely, enjoying ourselves.

        But like everything, it had to come to an end. Long into the festivities, Ormund leaned over to me, suggesting that it was time for the two of us to make our way to his room. I agreed, having gotten bored of sitting there hours prior.

        Bringing me to his room, Ormund and I were finally left alone with no one else to bother us. His room was large, decorated in mostly green: He had a bed that was centered against the wall, a couch and short table stationed near a window, another table that was clearly meant for private dinings, desk with neatly stacked papers and a bookshelf that looked more used than the one in his office.

        I walked over to the desk, pulling the pins out of my hair so they wouldn’t stab into my head as I laid on my back. As I did so, I took in more details. The room was lit dimly with a few candles. Incense was burning in a few different spots around the room, filling it with the aroma of jasmine and vanilla. After I finished inspecting the room, I turned to him, waiting for him to say what he wanted me to do.

        Ormund stepped up to me, being closer than ever before. In a way that only husband and wife should be. He brought his hand up from his side, pushing some of my hair from my shoulder so it would gather with the rest.

        “What has your mother told you?” He asked. “Of consummation.”

        “She told me how you’d enter me.” I told him truthfully. “And not to worry because it will be over quickly.”

        He let out a laugh. I didn’t understand what was so funny. “Was that incorrect my lord?”

        “Half of it.” Ormund responded, thumbpad drawing over my lip. “I prefer to take my time.”

        Hand returning to my jaw, his head leaned into the crux of my neck. He took a deep breath before kissing the skin. I instinctively let out the softest sigh, enjoying the new sensation. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, keeping them stationed to my side.

        Ormund’s hands reached behind me, untying the knot that held my corset in its place. I was surprised he was able to do it without looking, without needing assistance. Once the knot was undone, his fingers dug into the laces, loosening them.

        Stepping away from me, he allowed me to shrug off the fabric, leaving me in my shift. We stood in silence as I waited for him to make his next move. Notioning to my body, he wanted me to undress completely.

        Once I discarded it next to my wedding gown, his eyes scanned over my body, evaluating every detail. I felt bare, embarrassed to be showing him something that I had been raised to never show to anyone. But it was different now, my life wasn’t completely my own anymore, we had been joined together under the Gods’ eye and I was now his, as he was mine.

        Something in his demeanor changed, or maybe it was because I had felt so vulnerable. When he stepped to me again, I stepped back. He continued to walk me backwards until my legs hit his large bed, causing me to fall onto my butt.

        Pinching my chin between his thumb and pointer finger he dragged my gaze up his body to his face. Ormund leaned down to meet my lips, it was different than the one we shared at the altar, yet still delicate.

        I chased his lips, but they moved away from me too quickly. Taking a half step backwards, he began to undo the buttons on his surcoat. His eyes were focused on mine, like he wanted to see every reaction I had.

        After the surcoat was off, he was left in his tunic and trousers. Ormund was quick to discard the tunic. My eyes betrayed me, too curious to not look at his bare torso. He was built well, strong and sturdy. There was a mole that laid directly below his bellybutton.

        His hands traveled to the buttons on his trousers, freeing his hardened cock. From head to toe he was clean shaven, the only hair on his body being on the top of his head. My eyes were quick to dart back up to his face, too embarrassed to stare. As he came closer, I moved farther onto the bed, allowing him the space to comfortably maneuver onto me.

        Kneeling beside my waist, he hovered over my face, noses barely touching. Ormund’s eyes were searching mine as though he was looking for something, an answer to a question I didn’t even know. Whatever he found in them led him to kiss me once more. 

        With his lips on mine, his hand traveled down my body. Placing his knee in between my legs, he spread them ever so slightly, allowing him enough room to do as he pleased. It was hard to focus on both sensations: The crushing weight of his lips that kissed me so aggressively. And the hand that traced my skin, getting closer to the part between my legs. 

        Fingers brushed my lower lips. I jumped lightly at the foreign feeling of another's hands touching me there. Ormund’s thumb pressed through the two folds of skin, pressing onto my clit. A gasp escaped my lips as he continued to circle it, applying more pressure.

        One of my hands balled in the sheets, ruining the perfectly folded fabric. The other one grabbed into Ormund’s thigh, needing to ground myself to him.

        When I had gotten wet enough, he slid his fingers down to my entrance, prodding at my hole. I let out a guttural moan when he pushed one of his fingers in, pumping it in and out. My nails dug into his skin as I let out quiet moans that were closer to deep breaths.

        I had my eyes shut tight as I reveled in the feeling. Adding another finger, I felt the muscles in the lowest part of my stomach to tighten. Just as I was about cum, he retracted his fingers, leaving me feeling empty.

        My eyes shot open, looking over at Ormund with a deeply frown. He didn’t seem to care for my displeasure, only moved himself fully between my legs. I felt his hardened cock spread my lips apart, soaking himself on me.

        Pushing it farther down, Ormund lined his cock with my entrance. Slowly, he pushed in, watching my expression, needing to see how I was feeling. All I could do was reach out for him once more. He was too far, too separated for such an intimate act.

        Once he was fully in, he trapped me against the mattress, laying his weight on me. One of his hands held onto my hips, making sure that I didn’t squirm out of his grasp, the other locked with mine. Ormund held my hand tightly, pinning it above my head.

        Low, deep groans slipped out of his mouth as he began to thrust in and out of me. His breath fluttered against my neck, as he kept his face stationed there. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I allowed him the room to plunder into me deeply.

        Once more, my muscles began to tighten, I clung to him as though my life depended on it, not wanting him to stop even though I knew he wouldn’t. As I had wanted earlier, the tightness released pleasurably. A group of loud moans left my mouth as I finished, feeling satisfied by this interaction as my muscles contracted around Ormund’s cock.

        I expected him to stop, or at least slow down, yet he did no such thing. His rhythm changed, but it was still as rough as before. Thrusting into me with all his might, he pulled out slowly repeating the process.

        The pleasure slowly turned into something more painful, yet I didn’t want it to stop at the same time. Tears began to stream down my face as I became overwhelmed, but I didn’t know whether to push Ormund away or pull him closer. My moans morphed into something that was closer to a scream.

        “Husband!” I cried out.

        “I’m almost there.” Ormund informed me.

        Ormund grunted loudly, burying himself deeply into me, allowing him to fill me with his seed. He made smaller thrusts, trying to push the liquid deeper into me so it’ll stay. Once he was done, he stilled, trying to catch his breath.

        It only took a moment for him to pull away, pulling himself out of me. He laid beside me as we both tried to recover from the exhaustion. Ormund stared up at the ceiling, while I looked over at him, analyzing his features: His strong jaw, soft lips, reddish-brown hair with the smallest bit of curls beginning to form.

        I started to feel my body again, focusing on the sensations: How the sweat clung to my skin, the sticky liquid of mine and Ormund’s was smeared all over my vagina and thighs, how all of these things seeped into the covers below me. 

        Feeling disgusting, I needed to clean myself as soon as possible. With a deep breath, I stood from the bed, finding my dress so I may return to my room and get everything washed off of me so I may sleep peacefully.

        The moment I pulled my shift over my body, Ormund spoke up. “Where are you going?”

        He seemed displeased that I would leave him on our wedding night, but I couldn’t handle the feeling of my skin.

        “I need a bath.” I explained, “I cannot sleep in filth.”

        “Are you calling me filthy?” Ormun’s face hardened, almost angered, clearly insulted by my insinuation.

        “Of course not. I am talking about my own filth.” I was quick to correct him, motioning to myself. “I have been in a tight hot dress all day, followed by our consummation. I cannot sleep in my own fluids like this.”

        Ormund’s body relaxed as he seemed to understand what I meant. “I will call for the maids.”

        Standing from the bed, he went for his robe, using it to cover himself. He crossed the room in a few strides, making it to the door in a matter of moments. Before he opened it, he turned to me once more.

        “Stay here.” He said in a commanding tone, as if I were one of his men.

        Leaving me alone in the room, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards the couch, not wanting to sit on the dirtied bed. Exhaustion began to take over my body, as I wanted nothing more than to take a bath and sleep after such a long day.

        The idea of getting a bath soon lulled me into a state of relaxation. I rested my elbow on the armrest, planting my head on my hand. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I didn’t even realize I did until I awoke to a light tap on my shoulder.

        “Your bath is ready.” The maid dressed in green told me.

        Blinking my eyes slowly and tightly I tried to wake up. When I stood, heading for the copper tub that had been placed so quietly. I noticed that there was a second one that Ormund laid in.

        The maid helped me remove my shift, allowing me to seep my nude body into the warm water. It was blissful, almost as much as the night with my husband, to feel the water wash away all the dirt and grime. 

        “Did you enjoy yourself?” Ormund asked me with an inquisitive eye. “I didn’t hurt you too much?”

        My hair was tugged back by the maid as she went to brush out the mess that formed. My eye twitched as it did so, but I tried to ignore it.

        “I enjoyed it.” I responded truthfully as the brush bristles caught on a knot, tugging my head backwards painfully. “The end was a bit much though.”

        “We will learn each other's bodies in due time.” Ormund promised.

        Once more, my head was pulled back, causing me to wince in pain. I was quick to move out of the maids grasp, not being able to take it any longer. 

        “Where is Veda?” I questioned irritatedly, only wanting my trusted friend to do it.

        “You gave her the night off, my lady.” She reminded me.

        My face scrunched in displeasure as I remembered. I grabbed the brush from her hand, “I will do it myself, you’re ripping my hair out.”

        She was quick to shuffle away from me. I felt bad, yet the pain was beginning to get unbearable. I was quick to turn to Ormund, afraid of what he might think. He only held an amused smirk as he watched me.

        Turning to the maid that stood off to the side, he told her, “Have the bedsheets changed.” 

        It was a shock, that he already knew what I would have wanted done, before I even voiced my opinion. Or maybe it was because he was the same as I, someone who demanded cleanliness, perfection.

        If that was true, I could see this becoming a more enjoyable marriage than I originally thought.

Next ⥬

⤪⧼༻ ⚝ ༺⧽⤮

Hello all!! I am glad that so many of you enjoyed the first chapter!! this one is a lot longer (than I expected as well) I finally figured out where I wanted to go with the fic, so this will only be 5 chapter long!!

I also have changed the title of the fic from Perfect Sins to Perfect Matrimony as it fits way better to what I have planned!

If you want to stay up to date with me, or the progress of my fic, I suggest you join the discord server! My asks are open if you wish to ask me any kind of question!! or if you wish to say something annonmously!

Thank you for the love and support! I should get the next chapter out soon!

Taglist: (comment or dm me to be added or removed)

@raccoonintheforest @itspbjellytime @ladygrimmx @cloudnuggettt @ateliefloresdaprimavera @liekehererra @corpsebride25 @jacaerysblog @fazzouo @bia-n-t-d @mrsxchase @sscrumertt

[roxxmo]

custody of blood | part I

summary: sent to oldtown as a ward beneath your cousin lord ormund hightower's protection, you learn there are some vows that are easier to preach than to keep. pairing: ormund hightower x targtower!reader content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), icky guardian/ward relationship, canon-typical incest (cousins), age gap (~20 years), grooming, religious abuse and religious guilt, emotional manipulation, coercive control, possessiveness, severe power imbalance, forced declarations of affection, physical intimidation/rough handling, parental abandonment, references to childhood neglect, implied sexualized ritual, canon-typical misogyny, canon divergent, no use of y/n word count: 6.8k A/N: i need psychological help for how badly i need this man fr. originally had this planned as a oneshot, but i kept writing more...and more...and more...and felt like i was going to rush through the material if i tried to fit it all in one, so now we have a three-part series that i am very excited for you all to read :) hope you guys enjoy this freak of a man AND to see how freaked out i make these two hehehe! and excited for you all to see what ormund means when he reminds reader it is the seventh day...hmm...wonder what he has in store... also, fun drinking game: take a shot every time reader says "yes, my lord"

MASTERLIST next chapter → (COMING 7/24)

The other side of the bed was empty when you awoke, though the sheets remained warm and rumpled. Eyes still heavy from the lingering seeds of sleep, your hand reached across the mattress, patting until it found the warm hollow of where his body had lain. Ormund was almost always up before dawn. 

“Idleness is as plain a sin as vanity or greed,” he liked to say. “It begets indulgence, indulgence begets excess, and excess begets unfaithfulness.”

Unfaithfulness, of course, was inexcusable.

The bedchamber was still dim, with only the first suggestion of morning creeping beneath the shutters. Beyond the walls of the Hightower, you could hear the bells of the Citadel begin their first tolls. 

Ormund, as expected, was already kneeling before the small altar in the corner of the room. He wore only his linen sleeping shirt and breeches, and though his back was turned to you, you could see one hand slowly turning the pages of his weathered copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and hear the low murmur of passages he had committed to memory. 

In all the years you had lived in Oldtown, never once had Ormund deviated from this morning ritual. You remember the first time you had seen it. You had been a small child then, prone to wandering from your own chambers in the middle of the night into this one, back when it had belonged to the late Lady Hightower as much as it did her husband. She had always been kind to you. Like a true mother, when your own was so far away. 

Whenever sleep would not come, or the young Hightower boys had filled your head with tales of monsters lurking beneath the floor, you would creep from your bed and patter barefoot down the stone passage. You would ease open the heavy, creaking door and stand silently at the foot of the canopied bed until Lady Hightower stirred. She would always lift the blankets for you. From his side of the bed, Ormund would grumble some half-hearted objection about indulgence and the necessity of teaching you independence, but Lady Hightower paid him little mind. She would draw you into the warmth between them and promise that no monster in Oldtown would dare pass through their chamber door.

Even after she died, you did not cease coming.

It hurt, at first. To lie in the bed where she had once held you, the space now empty without her. Ormund never objected to your staying. Though he remained stoic and stony throughout his own grief, perhaps there was comfort for him, too, in not being left to sleep alone. When you wept silently into her old pillow, he would smooth your hair back from your face and say nothing. 

The habit endured long after your tears had dried and the black mourning clothes had been packed away. Some nights, you would attempt an honest effort at remaining in your own chambers, only to find yourself once again padding down the candlelit passage towards his. 

Ormund never turned you away. Now it was his hand that lifted the blankets for you to crawl beneath. Now it was his arm that pulled you in, wrapped around your waist in the night, his face that pressed into your hair, his body whose warmth you sought beneath the covers. 

The servants of the Hightower knew that your own chambers were little more than a formality, so seldom occupied that dust gathered upon the bed. You slept in your cousin Ormund’s chambers, you bathed there, you dressed there. Nearly every trace of your daily life had migrated into his rooms, until there was little left in your own to suggest they had ever belonged to you. 

It was only natural. After Lady Hightower’s death, the keeping of the household had fallen into your hands. It was you who approved the servants’ schedules, arranged the seating at feasts, and received the wives and daughters of visiting noble houses. Some might have found it strange that Ormund’s ward should occupy so much of his late wife’s place while remaining neither wed nor formally mistress of his household. Stranger still, perhaps, that if anyone entered Lord Ormund’s chambers before the sunrise, they would find him curled around his ward– Queen Alicent’s youngest daughter– his body arranged in the shape a husband’s would make.

If they did find it strange, no one within Oldtown had the courage to remark upon it. 

“You’re awake.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as Ormund closed the prayer book and rose from the altar. 

“Yes,” you answered as he crossed the chamber to the washstand. He dipped his hands into the porcelain basin and brought the water to his face. “I heard you praying.”

Ormund hummed as he dried himself with the folded linen cloth laid fresh each morning beside the ewer. “It would serve you well to join me in morning prayer.”

You ducked your head. “Yes, my lord.”

“I think only of your soul. One burdened by the sins of your…Targaryen…forefathers should labor all the more harder to absolve herself of them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

You waited for him to chide you further, or launch into one of his soliloquies on how faithfulness did not sleep merely because the sun had yet to rise. Ormund did none of that. 

Instead, he made his way to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge beside you, his weight dipping the mattress. Ormund lifted one hand to cup your cheek and ran his thumb gently beneath your eye. You nuzzled into his touch without a thought. 

“We will have visitors from the Reach in the Hightower later today. In particular, Lord Godric Ashford will call upon me this morning in my solar,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the day’s weather. 

Your brows rose. You knew that several noble houses from across the Reach were expected at the Hightower in the coming days for discussions of taxes, grain, and the season’s feasts. Hosting them was hardly unusual. Nor was it unusual for one of their unmarried sons to request a private audience with your guardian. “Lord Robert’s son?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Ormund mused, seemingly more occupied with gently stroking his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “I assume he intends to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Your stomach twisted in a mixture of dread and excitement. Lowering your eyes, you worried at a stray thread in the coverlet. “Do you…do you think he might be suitable?”

The thumb on your cheek stopped. Ormund’s face tightened slightly, as though some rancid smell had entered the room. “That, my dear, remains to be seen.”

He stood from the bed, and you instantly missed the warmth of his touch. You watched him cross to the wardrobe and pull open the carved doors, retrieving his clothes for the day. 

“But you will still hear him, yes?” 

“That is what I have agreed to,” Ormund answered with obvious reluctance, stepping into his breeches. “And I suppose I must keep my word. I will hear his presentation, just as I have heard the others before him.”

He slipped his arms into the doublet, turning to you as he began buttoning it. “You will not concern yourself with the meeting. You were entrusted to me for good reason. Namely, my rectitude and discernment in such matters. You would not want to be betrothed to some ignorant oaf, would you?”

“No, my lord.”

“And you know that I have only your best interests at heart, including the question of what sort of man you should be given to. Correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ormund smiled affectionately. “Good girl.”

Your heart squeezed at the praise. It had always been that way with Ormund, desperately seeking any type of reassurance that you were saved. That you were obedient. That you were wanted. That you were good. 

The sound of light footsteps and swishing skirts echoed under the chamber’s door. Your servants, no doubt, waiting to be beckoned in by the Lord Hightower to serve upon his ward. 

Ormund made his way back over to you, but this time stayed standing, looking down upon you. “You will attend the sept this morning. When Lord Ashford has finished his proposition, you will come to me in the solar. This evening, we will receive our guests for supper in the Great Hall.”

You bowed your head obediently, just as he taught you. “Yes, my lord.”

Ormund turned to the door as if he meant to call the servants in, and then paused. He slowly turned back to you, his blue eyes swimming with a feeling you had become quite familiar with. Determination, and something weightier under it. Something you had never been able to name, but knew intimately. 

“It is the seventh day,” he stated, his voice low. You knew that. You knew by now not to recognize the day by name, but by its count. “You will come straight to this chamber after supper. Bathe first.” 

Silently, you nodded. His face twisted in disapproval. “Your words, please.”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

He exhaled, a small measure of satisfaction returning to his face. “Good. Very good.” 

Ormund laid one hand over yours where it rested atop the coverlet, looking suddenly very serious. “And do tell your women never use to that horrid citrus oil on you again like they did last week. It taints you.”

“I will.” 

He squeezed your hand in appreciation, then straightened himself and turned towards the door. “You may enter.”

The door opened at once, like your women had been waiting. They filed into the chamber with lowered eyes, none appearing surprised to find you sitting in Lord Ormund’s bed. He did not bother to look at them, his gaze fixed on you as he spoke. 

“See that she is properly dressed to receive visitors.”

The girls spoke in unison, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Yes, Lord Hightower.”

Ormund nodded at you once. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between the two of you. The seventh day. What the night would hold. Then he departed, leaving the chamber door open behind him. 

Your women moved quickly and efficiently, drawing back the blankets and settling a robe over your shoulders as they began the familiar work of preparing you for the day. There was no time to dally. Before long, your hair had been pinned, your gown laced tightly in Hightower green, and your throat and wrists adorned with jewels Ormund had gifted you on namedays and holy days.

One of the girls uncorked the vial of citrus oil and reached for your neck. You grabbed her hand, stopping her. 

“Lord Ormund,” was all you had to say. 

She bowed her head in immediate understanding and exchanged it for another perfumed oil he had shipped from Lys for you. 

Soon, you looked as a proper Hightower woman ought to look. And by the next tolling of the bells, you had entered the sept of the Citadel.

The seven-walled chamber appeared much as it had when you first arrived in Oldtown– or, at least, as it had in your earliest memories once you had gone from a crawling babe to a waddling child. Damp clung to the stone floors. At the center stood an altar crowded with pools of hardened wax and burning candles, while bejeweled likenesses of the Seven watched from alcoves set into each wall. Your attendants lingered behind you like silent shadows as you moved through the sept, a veil drawn over your hair.

You walked as Ormund had always instructed you to walk: head bowed, hands clasped, each step quiet. The very picture of piety in a woman.

Stopping at the Maiden, you thought once more of the late Lady Hightower. You often served as her little companion to the sept on mornings like this, following closely behind as she knelt and prayed before each altar. You could feel the memory clearly: the whisper of her skirts against the stone, the warmth of her hand around your smaller one, the patient way she corrected your prayers when your childish tongue stumbled over the words. 

The truth was that you had no memories before ones such as these, ones of Oldtown. 

You were just a babe when your father, King Viserys, sent you south to be fostered among your Hightower kin. Ormund had always said that, for all the sins of your parents, they had at least possessed the wisdom to recognize Oldtown was where you belonged. 

The explanation for your immediate exile from King’s Landing had always been a convoluted one.

On some days, you had been sent away because court was dangerous. On others, because King’s Landing was steeped in pride and your father wished for you to be raised in the piety of your mother’s kin. Lady Hightower had longed for a daughter. Your health was fragile as a babe, Oldtown’s air was better for a delicate infant. Alicent had a difficult birth and needed time to rest. The reasons always shifted depending upon who offered them.

The clearest explanation, though it was the one that had always gone unspoken, was that you had simply not been wanted.

At first glance, there was nothing about you that suggested descent from Old Valyria. You possessed neither silver hair nor amethyst eyes. Beautiful, certainly, but not plainly Targaryen. You bore none of the unmistakable marks of your father’s house.

More importantly, you had no dragon.

Ormund refused to speak of that last matter. You did not know whether an egg had been placed in your cradle according to custom, whether it had failed to hatch, whether the hatchling had died, or whether no egg had ever been given to you at all. Whatever the circumstances, it seemed the Seven had determined that you were not to be a Targaryen, but a Hightower.

“A blessing,” Ormund often called it, standing behind you, watching intently as you brushed your hair in the evenings. “That your appearance was not marred by the stain of inbreeding. You should be grateful the gods favored you enough to preserve your beauty from such impurity.”

What he really meant was, “You should be grateful the gods gave you to me”. 

And you were. Your childhood in Oldtown had been a happy one. Ormund and Lady Hightower’s sons took to you as a true sister, including you in their games no matter how often you ran weeping to their mother after they shoved you into the mud. You received the finest education the Citadel’s maesters could provide and were thoroughly instructed in histories, languages, scripture, and the workings of court. Ormund instilled in you the virtues expected of a holy and pious woman. Lady Hightower taught you kindness. You wanted for nothing. You were cared for completely.

Being cared for, however, was not the same as being wanted.

One by one, the boys grew into men. They departed to serve in other courts, took wives, and established households of their own. You remained behind. After Lady Hightower’s death, the question of where you belonged began to trouble you even more. 

You searched everywhere for some reflection of yourself. In histories and poems. In portraits, tapestries, and family trees. You studied every face and name, hoping one might reveal why you had been born in the first place. 

Though Ormund preferred that you remain ignorant to the fact, you knew you were a Targaryen.

He contradicted himself often in that regard. He insisted that you were a Hightower whenever you longed for King’s Landing, yet invoked the sins of your Valyrian predecessors whenever you displeased him. As a child, the inconsistency had deeply confused you. Now, though, you knew better to question it. 

The histories did not speak of Targaryens as aliens deserving only shame. On the contrary, they praised them. Aegon the Conqueror had crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros, his lineage sitting upon the Iron Throne from then until the end of time. They had bound themselves to mighty beasts that would bow to no other riders. Why should you not wish to be one of them? Why should you be ashamed?

Perhaps that was why, during one of your rare visits to King’s Landing, you became determined to find some way of securing your place within your own bloodline. Ormund had permitted you, after much begging on your part and great reluctance on his, to attend the wedding of your brother Aegon to your sister Helaena. You had still been young enough to think yourself a girl, though womanhood waited only just around the corner, and through that haze of youth the wedding had seemed beautiful.

Now, of course, memory revealed what you had been too young to recognize then: the discomfort across Helaena’s face, the uninterested ambivalence with which Aegon accepted the ceremony, the celebration disguising a union neither seemed to really desire. But that morning, surrounded by jewels and music and flowers, by feasts and speeches proclaiming the strength of their union, you had understood only one thing.

If your appearance could not prove you a Targaryen, perhaps marriage could.

When you returned to Oldtown, full of courtly notions and girlish fancy, you announced to Ormund that you would marry your brother Aemond– who had scarcely looked your way throughout the entire visit. Ormund had been seated behind the desk in his solar, writing upon a sheet of parchment. At your declaration, the quill froze between his fingers.

With deliberate care, he set the quill aside and lifted his eyes to you with a dreadful stillness. “You will do no such thing.”

Your smile slowly faded. “But…Aegon married Helaena. That is what Targaryens do.”

Ormund rose suddenly from behind the desk, his chair scraping harshly across the stone floor. You remembered how the sound had frightened you.

“The Targaryens– your father’s family– are incestuous barbarians,” he had declared. “Their minds are so corrupted by generations of inbreeding that they no longer possess the sense to recognize depravity. Your mother whored herself to a Targaryen. I will not give you to your own brother. I will not allow you to repeat her sins and bring further shame upon the Hightower name.”

By then, he had crossed the solar and taken your chin firmly in his hand, his fingers dimpling the skin of your cheeks. You had begun to cry, though you could not tell whether it was from fear, shame, or the sudden loneliness of knowing you might never truly belong anywhere.

“But then I could live with Father and Mother,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I could go home.”

Ormund bent until his face was close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. His grip tightened beneath your chin. “This is your home.”

The memory faded as you reached for a candle from the basket beneath the Maiden’s altar. You held its wick to one of the burning flames and watched a bead of wax gather at the tip before slipping towards your fingers.

Aemond had been the first man Ormund refused you. He had not been the last.

Among Ormund’s duties as your guardian was the arrangement of your eventual betrothal. Ormund approached that responsibility as he approached all others: with severe discretion, particular judgment, and standards so high that no man alive seemed capable of meeting them.

There had never been a shortage of suitors. You were young, unmarried, and beautiful– and whatever Ormund might say of your father’s house, the hand of a Targaryen princess remained a prize few sensible men would dismiss. 

As you grew older, the procession became a lengthy one.

The first man to formally inquire after you had been Ser Joldwin Mormont. You remembered him quite clearly. He had been nearer Ormund’s age than your own, tall and broad as most Northmen seemed to be, with a rough face that was not altogether unpleasant. He was steady in temperament and remained remarkably calm beneath Ormund’s inquisitions. He had even brought you a gift: a beautiful velvet cloak trimmed in bear fur. You had thought he resembled the carved likenesses of the Warrior found in the sept. He would make a good husband, you had decided.

Ormund had not agreed.

He had no shortage of qualms. Men of the North were ignorant, uncivilized, and hardly better than an illiterate barbarian dragging around a club in Ormund’s opinion. Bear Island was remote, bitterly cold, and impoverished. Worst of all, the Mormonts possessed a peculiar habit of treating their women as though they were equals. 

It was not a place, he decided, where you belonged.

Ormund had declared Joldwin entirely unsuitable, and forced you to toss the beautiful cloak into the fireplace of the Great Hall. He said it smelt of bear shit.  

After that, the list of suitors started to blend together. 

There was a Martell, handsome enough to make you blush with warm brown eyes, who winked at you across the hall. Ormund reacted as though the man had attempted to bed you in the middle of the Hightower. The Dornish were lecherous and tried to “fuck anything that walked”, he told you. 

There was a young Rowan who stuttered frequently and spoke so softly that you had to lean closer to hear him. Ormund dismissed him as weak and unfit for a wife. 

A ruddy-cheeked and quite cheerful Redwyne heir sent you summerwine and a song composed in praise of your beauty. Ormund called him frivolous.

One man lived too far from Oldtown. Another lived so near that Ormund questioned whether he sought your hand only to gain influence within the city. One possessed too many ambitions. Another had none. One was too young to govern you properly, while another was so old that Ormund expressed outrage at the very notion of subjecting you to him.

There was always some defect. Too proud. Too timid. Too wealthy. Too poor. Too worldly. Too sheltered. Too handsome. Too plain. 

Ormund’s standards contradicted one another so thoroughly that, had all his preferences been gathered together, the perfect husband would have needed to be commanding without controlling you, gentle without indulging you, wealthy without greed, devout without presumption, and situated near enough that you might never truly leave the Hightower.

Such a man had yet to present himself.

Perhaps, you thought as you placed your candle down before the Maiden’s altar and bowed your head, Lord Godric Ashford would be different. Perhaps today would finally be the day Ormund found a suitable match for you. Perhaps today was the day you would understand what fate had intended for your life. Perhaps you would finally be chosen.

You set your candle upon the Maiden’s altar and prayed for love, for a fruitful marriage, and for a husband who chose you with a pure heart. You tried to imagine such a life with Godric, though you did not yet know his face. 

You hoped he was strong, like Ormund. Tall, like Ormund. Handsome, like Ormund. 

You hoped that he might be enough like Ormund to earn his approval. You hoped, without really understanding why, that he was like Ormund. 

By the time you returned to the Hightower, Lord Ashford had already been shown into Ormund’s solar and begun his proposition. 

Ormund had never permitted you to be present for such conversations, of course. Serious matters, he insisted, were to be muddled by girlish sentiment. Over the years, you had therefore found other ways to learn what decisions were being made about your future without you. Some time ago, you had discovered a narrow passage running behind the rear wall of Ormund’s solar– an old servants’ entrance, long forgotten, its doorway boarded over and concealed behind a heavy tapestry.

And so, upon returning to the Hightower, you dismissed your ladies with the excuse that you wished to pray alone in your chambers (surely the gods would forgive the lie, given the good reason for it). Once they had gone, you slipped behind the tapestry and crept down the cobwebbed corridor until you reached the boarded door. Pressing your ear to the weathered planks, you heard the low murmur of men’s voices.

“...and I would never seek to separate her from Oldtown, Lord Hightower,” an unfamiliar voice spoke. You leaned closer. It was firm but polite, young but not imprudent. Lord Godric Ashford. He sounded kind. “I understand the princess is quite close with you, and I would ensure she could visit the Hightower as often as she wished. Family is of the utmost importance to me.”

You heard Ormund’s chair squeak. You could imagine he had leaned back in it, hands clasped in front of him, assessing Lord Ashford as he did all things brought before his judgement. “That seems to me an indulgence. She would be your wife, would she not? You would not want her with you in Ashford?”

“Of course, my lord. But I would not be so cruel as to forbid her from visiting the man that raised her. My own mother was a Caswell, and she visited my grandsire at Bitterbridge at every turning of the season.”

“And if she wished to visit more often than you considered appropriate?”

There was a brief pause. “I would speak with her, as husband and wife should.”

“Hmm. And if speaking did not bring her around to your judgement?”

There was another lull, longer this time, before Lord Godric gave an uneasy chuckle. “Well, I would hope my wife did not need to be disciplined as a child would.”

“Hopes are not the same as reality,” Ormund replied easily. “Particularly where Targaryen blood is concerned. They are a willful and proud people. Very resistant to correction.” 

“I-I have heard no such things of the princess, my lord.”

“No? Then what have you heard of her?”

“Every account has described her as the very image of what a noblewoman ought to be: beautiful, gracious, and demure. I’ve been told she is quite pious, as well.”

A thoughtful silence settled over the solar. You wished desperately you could see Ormund’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. 

“She is.”

Your heart swelled and instinctively, you pressed yourself closer to the boards. You were a good girl. 

“But do not mistake her nurture for nature, Lord Godric. She did not arrive in Oldtown so.”

“My lord, I did not mean to suggest–”

“Every virtue you have heard praised in her was cultivated beneath my hand. Her modesty, her devotion. The weeds of Targaryen pride had to be pulled, one by one. A garden does not become handsome just because a flower has good intentions. It becomes handsome because a gardener has the discipline to attend to it every single day and cut away what ought not grow.”

Lord Godric hesitated in his answer. “And…you believe a husband must continue that work? Pull the weeds from her?”

“I believe,” Ormund answered slowly, “that any man who means to take her from me must be capable of preserving what I have made.”

What he had made. 

You drew a shaky breath, your fingernails pressing into the weathered boards.

Perhaps it was true. Ormund had spent years teaching you the faults of your father’s house. They were blasphemous, unnatural. Incestuous and violent. An abomination before the Seven. His lessons were so ingrained within you that even the faintest reminder of your Valyrian blood could fill you with shame.

You had not chosen that blood. You had not asked to be born into it. You had only ever wanted to be good. And if Targaryens were innately wicked, perhaps you truly did owe everything virtuous within you to Ormund.

As a child, you had often wondered what sort of creature you might have become without his guidance. If he were true, which he often was, you would be a terrible creature malformed by sin. The thought frightened you still. But another more terrible one followed suit: without his guidance, you would not have had him.

No arms around your waist in the night. No hand smoothing your hair. No voice telling you what was right, what was wrong, what was safe. A life without Ormund. You tried to imagine it and found only emptiness. Would such a life truly be worth living?

And yet…you wanted to be chosen.

Your own mother and father had decided they had no need of you in King’s Landing, though they kept their other children close. You had been sent to Oldtown, where you doubted Ormund and Lady Hightower had been given much choice in whether they would receive you. No one had ever truly chosen you.

That was what made the suitors difficult to dismiss. They came before Ormund willingly, they asked for your hand because they wanted you. You liked that more than you wished to admit. 

And though the thought of leaving Ormund filled your stomach with dread, it had become increasingly difficult not to resent him for refusing every man who tried to choose you.

“I believe I have heard all I need,” Ormund said suddenly, his voice decisive. Your heart faltered. You knew what that meant. 

“...My lord?” You could hear Godric shift closer to the desk. “I hope I have not caused offense of any sort. I only meant that, should the princess become my wife, I would do all within my power to–”

“I said I have heard enough.” Something heavy was placed on the desk with a thud. A wine cup, presumably.

You wanted desperately for Godric to protest. You wanted him to declare his love to you, though he had never once seen your face. You wanted him to insist that perhaps the choice of whom you married ought to belong, at least in part, to you. You wanted him to accuse Ormund of cruelty for denying you the right to a husband.

The last thought filled you with immediate shame. You whispered a hurried prayer under your breath to the Father, begging forgiveness for having judged the man who had only ever sought to protect you.

Godric did none of that. Instead, he simply uttered with cool restraint, “As you will, Lord Hightower.”

A chair scraped across the floor and heavy footsteps crossed the solar, followed by the opening and closing of its main door. You withdrew from the boarded door slowly, blinking as tears began to brim at your eyes.

Usually, disappointment was all you felt when another suitor was refused. A dull ache in your heart followed by the acceptance that Ormund must have seen some defect you had overlooked. He knew the nature of men and the dangers of the world in ways you did not.

This time felt…different.

Godric had spoken respectfully. He had promised not to sever you from Oldtown. He had regarded your devotion and gentleness, and when Ormund questioned whether he could govern you, Godric had not boasted of cruelty or correction. His only failure had been suggesting that you ought to be treated as a wife rather than a child.

By the time you emerged from behind the tapestry, Lord Ashford was gone. The corridor stood empty, save for the guard outside the solar, offering no glimpse of the man who had come to ask for your hand and been dismissed before you could even see his face.

Ormund had instructed you to come to him once the proposition concluded. Usually, you obeyed quickly. Now, though, you lingered outside the solar door with your hand raised to knock, struggling to understand the feelings swimming in your mind. Confusion, disappointment. And something dangerously close to anger.

You knocked anyways.

“You may enter,” Ormund called. 

You opened the door and stepped inside, carefully pulling it shut behind you. Ormund had moved from the desk to the window and stood peering down at the city below. The shutters had been opened. He turned at the sound of the door closing, looked you over once, and– apparently finding no objections with your appearance– gestured towards the carved chairs near his desk. 

“Sit.”

You did. 

Ormund remained beside the window and drew a long breath through his nose. His face tightened with mild disgust. “Lord Ashford seems, from his smell, to possess a great fondness for horses.”

You sniffed discreetly. There was nothing in the air besides parchment and the dried florals Ormund preferred to keep throughout his rooms. “Perhaps he rode in this morning.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the men of Ashford prefer to sleep in stables.” Ormund reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the ornate pomander he carried. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled deeply. Only once he appeared satisfied that every trace of Lord Ashford had been driven from his nostrils did he return it to his pocket. Then he turned to you, settling against the window ledge with his hands clasped before him. “You attended the sept this morning?”

You stared down at your hands, folded in your lap. “Yes, my lord.”

“And for whom did you light a candle for today?”

You chewed on your lower lip. “The Maiden.”

Ormund nodded in consideration, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why did you choose the Maiden today?”

“I…I wanted to pray for your meeting with Lord Ashford to go well.”

“You prayed for Lord Ashford?”

Your palms had begun to feel sweaty. “Y-yes, my lord.”

“You prayed to marry him?"

“...yes, my lord.”

The muscle under Ormund’s eye twitched. He pushed himself away from the window and approached you slowly. Rounding the corner of the desk, he stopped beside your chair. Then, tugging at the fabric of his breeches over his thighs, he lowered himself until he was kneeling at eye level with you. You kept your gaze fixed on your lap. 

“You wish to leave Oldtown so badly,” he said softly, so quietly it was barely a whisper, “that you would pray to marry a man who you have never met?”

“M-my lord, I did not–”

“Look at me.”

Trembling, you raised your gaze to meet his. Ormund’s face had gone still, though the blue of his eyes had turned icy. Your stomach lurched. 

“I have risked much to raise you,” Ormund began, leaning in closer to you. “I have shielded you from those at court who question why King Viserys cast his youngest daughter out of King’s Landing. I have protected you from men who would use your blood and name for their own advancement. I have purged you of the evils of Valyria and shaped you into a proper woman. And now, now you hate me enough that would you leave my bed for a stranger?”

Heat burned at your cheeks, hearing Ormund speak like that. Like your shared bed was something…you could not finish the thought. “No, Ormund, please, I don’t–”

“You hate me enough that you would question my judgement?” he pressed, voice lowering to a gravelly hum. “You believe you know better than I? That I am ignorant?”

Hot tears had begun to spill over, wetting your lashes and blurring your vision. “I don’t, my lord, I don’t know b-better than you, I only wanted–”

“Tell me, then.” Ormund seized your face in one hand, his rings digging into your cheeks as he forced your chin upward. “Tell me that you do not wish to leave me.”

“I-I do not wish to leave you, my lord,” you choked, sobbing fully now. 

“Tell me that no man could care for you as I have.”

“No man could c-care for me as you have!”

His hand tightened enough around your chin that your cheeks squished together. His face, though, had shifted, a diseased softness bleeding into it. “Now, you must tell me what you have forgotten to say.”

Shame and something hotter burned low in your gut. He always made you say the words like this. When you had no option but to force the truth out of you. 

“I…” your breath shuddered. “I love you.”

Ormund’s grip refused to loosen. “Again, please.”

The words caught in your throat, scraping like sand. “I love you, Ormund.”

Finally, his face eased, and so did his hold. 

“There,” he murmured, sickeningly tender as he wiped his thumb across your cheek, catching one of your stray tears. “Was that so difficult to say?”

You shook your head quickly. You did not trust your voice. 

Seemingly satisfied, Ormund rose from where he was crouched, dusting off his breeches. The matter was finished. He returned to his desk, lowering himself in his chair, no trace of the man who had just seconds ago demanded the sick truth of your devotion. You remained frozen, unable to move, cheeks wet and burning. You suddenly were conscious of how horrible you must look, swollen eyes and shaking hands. 

Ormund glanced up from his papers. “You will go and ready yourself for the evening’s feast now.”

Numb, you stared at him. He raised one brow in question. Ormund did not like to repeat himself. 

“Y-yes, my lord,” you stuttered. 

“Wear the blue silk. The one with the square neckline,” he dipped his quill into the ink, already moved on from the excitement and back to his usual self. He glanced up once more, eyes moving across your face. “And…have the women repair your face. It would be quite unbecoming to our guests to see you have upset yourself.”

You were thoroughly humiliated. “Yes, my lord.”

Legs shaking slightly, you rose and smoothed your skirts. 

“And, one more thing,” Ormund spoke, though he continued reading the parchment he held. “You will not speak with Lord Ashford this evening.”

You paused. Was this a trap? “Would it…would it not appear discourteous if I refused to–”

“The matter has already been decided, my girl. You have no need to encourage him further.”

“I…I understand.” You bowed, trying not to trip over your still unsteady feet, and then turned towards the door. You had just put your hand on the latch when Ormund spoke again.

“Have you forgotten something?”

You paused, and then looked back in the solar. Ormund had finally lifted his eyes from the parchment and was leaning back in his seat. He tapped one finger against his cheek. 

Your cheeks grew hotter, though you had done this hundreds of times before. Thousands, perhaps. You crossed the solar to where Ormund sat, his expression completely neutral. Heart beating in your throat, you bent carefully and pressed your lips briefly to his cheek. He caught your wrist before you could retreat.

“Once more, properly this time,” he commanded.

You swallowed and kissed him again, lingering this time until you felt the faint scrape of where he had shaved that morning and breathed in the familiar fragrance of his pomander.

Ormund released his grip on you, mouth curled in a smile. “Good girl. You may go now.”

You bowed, lower this time, and left the solar with the warm and humiliating feeling you had become accustomed to now living in the very place Ormund had hollowed out inside you over years and years. 

As you walked down the halls of Hightower, face lowered so any passerbys would not catch a glimpse of your reddened cheeks and puffy eyes, you wondered why you felt the way you did. 

Lord Ashford would be at the feast that evening, and though Ormund had forbidden you from speaking to him, you knew that you would search for him among the gathered faces. For what, you could not say. To prove something, perhaps. But what, exactly?

That Ormund was right? Or that he was wrong? 

And afterward…no matter the excitement from the day, you had not forgotten Ormund’s reminder that morning. 

“It is the seventh day.”

You dreaded the fact, but not for the ritual that awaited you, but rather the shameful fact it made you excited. 

It seemed this was to be a day of contradictions.

You wanted Lord Ashford to see you, and you hoped he never appeared so that you might obey Ormund without temptation. You wanted Ormund to loosen his hold upon you, and you wanted him to swear that he would never allow you to belong to anyone else.

How could both desires live in the same body? The same heart? You did not know.

You knew only that, by the end of the night, Ormund would decide which desire you were permitted to keep.

taglist

🏷️: @bloodravens @exxotiic @arkadiaphilosopher @the-avengers-ate-my-tongue @syrligmarx @wife-of-gojo @h9704 @lauriejayy @hardkiddonut

[darktargslut]

Education

Dark!Ormund X Reader

Summary: Ormund educates his wife about her responsibilities after she embarrassed him in front of her family.

CW: Marital rape (including forced oral sex, coercion, and degradation), Emotional and psychological abuse (gaslighting, isolation, manipulation), Physical intimidation (use of a belt as a threat, restraining), Victim-blaming and internalized self-blame, Dismissal of trauma (the abuser frames the assault as "teaching" and "obedience")

Set after ''The Marriage Debt'', part of ''The Whore'' Series

The interior of the wheelhouse was lushly appointed, Ormund had spared no expense. The benches were upholstered in Hightower grey, the fabric soft and new and smelling faintly of the lavender sachets tucked into the seams. The curtains were heavy velvet, on the seat across from you sat a wicker basket packed with bread still warm from the ovens, apples polished to a glossy shine, a wedge of pale cheese wrapped in waxed cloth, and a stoppered skin of watered wine. Someone had also left a stack of books, histories of the Reach, a bestiary of the animals found in the Honeywine valley, a slim volume of love poetry written in the flowery style of the last century.

You had not touched any of it, your fingers had brushed the spine of the poetry book once, tracing the gold-leaf title, but you had pulled your hand back almost immediately. The poems inside were about knights and their ladies, about stolen kisses in moonlit gardens, about the kind of love that made your heart ache with longing. You had read them as a girl in your chambers at Dragonstone, curled up in the window seat with Aegarax's distant cries echoing across the bay, and you had dreamed. You had dreamed of a husband who would look at you the way the knights in the poems looked at their ladies. A husband who would write you letters full of tenderness and admiration. A husband who would touch you gently, reverently, as though you were something precious rather than something to be used.

Ormund had been that husband. During your courtship, he had been exactly that husband. His letters had arrived at Dragonstone every fortnight, sealed with the grey wax of House Hightower, filled with elegant compliments and gentle inquiries about your health and your interests and your dragon. He had asked about Aegarax with what seemed like genuine curiosity, what did he eat, how fast could he fly, did you feel his emotions through the bond or was it something more mysterious than that? No one else had ever asked about Aegarax. No one else had ever seemed to care.

He had brought you gifts, too, books of poetry he had found in the Citadel's vaults, translated into the Common Tongue by some long-dead maester. A scarf of Lyseni silk in the exact shade of pink you had once mentioned was your favorite. A small silver brooch shaped like a dragon in flight, which you had pinned to your bodice that very morning and worn to breakfast with a flutter of happiness in your chest.

At the wedding feast, he had been attentive without being overbearing. He had brought you plates of your favorite foods before you even realized you were hungry. He had danced with you three times—three!—when most husbands danced with their brides once and then retreated to the company of other men. He had held your hand beneath the table and traced slow circles on your palm with his thumb, and you had felt special. Loved.

And then the bedchamber, you closed your eyes against the memory, but it came anyway. The weight of him. The pain. The way he had not stopped even when you cried. The way he had woken you from exhausted sleep to take you again, and again, and again, until the bells were ringing for dawn and your body was a landscape of soreness and shame. The things he had called you. The way he had made you call yourself things.

But this morning—this morning, you had woken to gentleness. His lips on your neck, soft and warm. His voice in your ear, hoarse with sleep, calling you sweet girl. His apology, so earnest and unexpected, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand on your heart. I lost myself. I would never hurt you on purpose. Can you forgive me?

And you had forgiven him. Of course you had forgiven him. Because that was what wives did, wasn't it? They forgave their husbands. And because his apology had felt real, had felt genuine, had felt like the Ormund you had fallen in love with during your courtship finally returning to you after a night of some strange, temporary madness. He had held you afterward, just held you, his arm wrapped around your waist, his lips pressed to your hair, and you had felt safe. Protected. Loved.

It will get better, he had promised. I will be so good to you.

You had believed him, that hope was still fragile and new in your chest, like the first green shoot pushing through snow in early spring. It trembled there, uncertain, vulnerable. You cupped it carefully, the way you might cup a candle flame in a strong wind. Perhaps the wedding night had been an aberration. Perhaps he truly had been overwhelmed by years of celibacy, as he claimed. Perhaps now that the first desperate hunger was sated, he would be the husband he had been during your courtship, tender, attentive, kind. Perhaps you could still have the marriage you had dreamed of.

These were the thoughts that occupied you as the wheelhouse lurched through the city gates and onto the Roseroad, the cobblestones giving way to packed dirt, the swaying settling into a smoother, steadier rhythm. You pressed your face to the small glass window and watched King's Landing recede behind you. The Red Keep rose above the city like a crimson fist clutching at the sky and above it all, cutting through the pale autumn sky like a blade of light, was Aegarax.

She soared in wide, lazy circles, her silver-white scales catching the sun and scattering it into fragments of diamond. Her wings beat slowly, languorously, as though she had all the time in the world and no particular destination in mind. Her long tail streamed behind her like a pennant, the spiked tip flicking from side to side in what you recognized as contentment. Every few minutes, she would tip her head back and scream, a high, keening sound that rolled across the fields and made the horses below shift nervously in their traces and the guards clutch at their reins.

The afternoon wore on, slow and heavy. The sun slid lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of amber and rose and deep, bruised purple. The shadows of the trees stretched long and thin across the road, and the air that seeped through the cracks in the wheelhouse grew cooler, carrying the first hint of evening dampness. Aegarax's circles had grown tighter and lower, her screams more frequent and more plaintive. She could feel your unease through the bond, she always could, had always been able to sense your moods as clearly as if they were her own. When you were happy, she flew high and fast, looping and diving with the exuberance of a creature who knew nothing of sorrow. When you were sad, she drew closer, her shadow passing over you like a benediction, her cries softening to something almost gentle. And when you were afraid—

Well. When you were afraid, Aegarax burned things. But you were not afraid now. You were only tired.

When the wheelhouse door opened and Ormund climbed inside, the hope in your chest flickered and guttered like a candle flame in a strong wind, he had to stoop to clear the doorframe, he took the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation, it was his wheelhouse, after all, his escort, his journey. The bench creaked under his weight. The door swung shut behind him with a soft, final click, and the latch fell into place. The sounds of the column outside—the jingle of harnesses, the murmur of voices, the steady clopping of hooves—faded to a muffled drone, as though you were hearing them from underwater.

You had not expected him. Men did not ride in wheelhouses. They rode on horseback, with their men, projecting strength and authority, enduring the same hardships as their soldiers. Only women and children and the infirm traveled by carriage. You had seen your father ride for days without complaint, even when his health was failing. You had seen Daemon refuse a wheelhouse with a laugh and a crude joke about growing old. The wheelhouse was for you, the delicate princess, the fragile bride, too soft to ride a horse for days on end.

So why was he here?

"My lord," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. You were proud of that. You had been practicing—in the sept, at the feast, this morning after he left—you had been practicing keeping your voice steady when everything inside you was shaking. "Is something wrong?"

Ormund did not answer immediately. He removed his gloves first, slowly, deliberately, tugging each finger free one by one until the leather came loose with a soft sucking sound. He tucked the gloves into his belt, then he leaned back against the cushioned bench, his shoulders pressing into the grey upholstery, his legs stretching out in front of him until his boots were almost touching the hem of your pink silk skirts.

His eyes found your face, and they were not kind. They were the eyes of the man from the wedding night, he looked at you the way a falconer looked at a hawk that had refused the lure. Disappointed.

"I did not appreciate the way you spoke this morning," he said.

The words landed like stones dropped into still water, and you felt the ripples spread outward through your chest, cold and unsettling, displacing the fragile hope that had been living there. You replayed the morning in your head, scrambling to understand. The breakfast table. The conversation about Aegarax. The way Aegon had laughed. The question you had asked—an innocent question, a reasonable question, a question any dragonrider would have asked in your position. Where will Aegarax stay? That was all. Four words. Four simple words that had slipped out before you could stop them, because Aegarax mattered to you, and you had been worried, and you had not thought—

You had not thought.

"I do not understand," you said, and your voice was not as steady now. The steadiness was slipping, cracking at the edges, threatening to crumble entirely. "I only asked about Aegarax. I did not mean—"

"In front of your family." His voice was calm. That was what made it frightening. If he had been shouting, if his face had been twisted with rage, if his hands had been clenched into fists—you would have known how to respond. You had seen angry men before. You had grown up surrounded by them, after all. You had seen Daemon's cold fury and Aegon's drunken rages and your mother's quiet, simmering wrath. But Ormund was not any of those things. Ormund was calm. "You made me look like a fool."

Your mouth opened, the words came out smaller than you intended, a whisper almost lost beneath the rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the axles. "I did not mean to make you look like anything. I was only asking. I did not think—"

"No," Ormund said, and the word cut through your sentence like a blade through silk. "You did not."

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him closer to you, close enough that you could smell the dust of the road on his clothes, the clean salt smell of horse sweat still clinging to his skin, the faint spice of whatever he had eaten for lunch still on his breath. The wheelhouse swayed, and he swayed with it, perfectly balanced, his body absorbing the motion as naturally as if he had been born to it. He was so much larger than you. You had noticed that on your wedding night, of course, when he had been on top of you and inside you and all around you, but here in the confined space of the wheelhouse, with only a few feet of air between you, his size seemed almost monstrous.

"It does not matter what you meant to do," he said. His voice was low, almost gentle, the voice of a man explaining something very simple to someone very slow. That gentleness was worse than shouting would have been. It made you feel small and stupid and childish. It made you feel like a little girl who had misbehaved and was now being scolded by her tutor. "It matters what you did. And what you did was question my judgment in front of your mother, your brothers, and half the court. You made me look like a man who had not considered the most basic element of marrying a dragonrider. In front of your family, in front of Aegon who laughed and called me a fool." His lip curled slightly on your uncle’s name, a micro-expression of disdain that was gone almost before you registered it. "Who will certainly tell everyone he meets. Who will laugh about it for years. The Lord of Oldtown, so besotted with his pretty bride that he forgot about her dragon."

You had not thought of that. You had not thought of any of it—only of Aegarax, of the bond between you, of the impossibility of leaving her behind or stabling her like a common horse. The political implications, the social embarrassment, the way your simple, innocent question had made your husband appear foolish and unprepared in front of your entire family—none of that had crossed your mind. You had been thinking only of yourself. Of your dragon. Of your own fears and your own desires. You had not considered how your words would reflect on him.

"I am sorry," you said, and the words came out quiet and genuine, thick with the tears that were already beginning to prickle at the corners of your eyes. You blinked them back furiously. You did not want to cry. Crying made everything worse. Crying made him look at you with that expression—the one he was wearing now, the one that mixed disappointment and something that looked almost like satisfaction. "Truly, I am sorry. I did not realize—"

"No," Ormund said again, cutting you off with the same sharp finality. "You did not realize. That is the problem."

He tilted his head, studying you the way he had studied you in the sept, at the feast, in the wedding chamber when you had been naked and trembling and trying to cover yourself with your hands. Measuring your flaws the way a merchant might catalogue the defects in a length of silk.

"You do not think, do you?" he said. It was not a question. It was an observation, cool and clinical. "You feel. You react. You speak without considering how your words will land. You let your emotions rule you instead of your reason. It is a childish habit. A dangerous one, for the wife of a great lord. Words are weapons in the game of thrones, and you wield them with all the care of a toddler swinging a morningstar."

Your throat tightened until it was difficult to breathe. He was not wrong. That was what made it so terrible. He was not wrong, and you could not defend yourself, because you had always been this way—shy, yes, and quiet in the company of strangers, but when something mattered to you, when something touched the deep places of your heart, the words came out before you could stop them. Aegarax mattered. Aegarax was the other half of your soul, the beating heart outside your body, the only creature in the world who had never judged you or mocked you or found you wanting. And you had spoken without thinking about how it would make your husband look, because Aegarax was more important to you than politics, than appearances, than the careful dance of reputation and respect that governed life at court.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Aegarax could not be more important than your husband. Your husband had to be more important than everything. That was what marriage meant. That was what duty meant.

"I will try to do better," you said. It was the only thing you could offer, the only promise you could make. Your hands were trembling in your lap, and you pressed them flat against your thighs to still them, the pink silk cool and slippery beneath your palms. "I will learn. I will think before I speak. I promise."

"Trying is not enough." He sat back, putting a few more inches of distance between you, though his eyes never left your face. His gaze was steady and unblinking, like the gaze of a snake watching a mouse. "You need to learn. You need to be taught. And I am going to teach you."

He was quiet for a moment. The wheelhouse hit a rut in the road, jostling both of you hard enough that you had to brace yourself against the bench. Outside, one of the guards cursed loudly and colorfully, something about the roads in the Reach going to shit since the last rains. Someone else laughed. Aegarax screamed overhead, her cry muffled by the wooden roof but still piercing, a long, questioning note that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She knew. She always knew. She could feel your fear through the bond, a cold trickle seeping from your heart to hers, and she did not understand it. She only knew that something was wrong, and she was asking—demanding—to be told what it was.

You could not tell her. You could barely admit it to yourself, you opened your mouth to say something else—what, you did not know. Another apology. A promise to be better. A plea to be left alone. The words were queuing up behind your teeth, jostling for position, none of them adequate for the situation. You had been raised to be courteous and accommodating and sweet, and none of those things were helping you now. You did not know the words to make him stop looking at you like that. You did not know the words to make him kind again, the way he had been this morning.

But before you could speak, Ormund moved, he sat back fully against the cushioned bench and reached for his belt. The same belt he had just tucked his gloves into. Your eyes tracked the movement without your permission, drawn to his hands the way a bird is drawn to a serpent. His thick fingers found the buckle and began to work it loose with practiced ease, the leather sliding through the silver loop with a soft hissing sound that seemed impossibly loud in the confined space. You watched, frozen, as he pulled the belt free from the loops of his breeches, one loop at a time, the leather whispering against the dark wool.

"What are you doing?" you asked. Your voice came out strange—high and thin, not your own, the voice of a much younger girl. A frightened child's voice, coming out of a woman's mouth.

Ormund did not answer immediately. He finished pulling the belt free and held it in his hands for a moment, running the leather through his fingers as though testing its weight. Then he set it aside on the bench beside him, within easy reach. Not threateningly—not yet. Just... there. Coiled like a sleeping snake. A reminder of what he could do if he chose.

"We have a long road ahead of us," he said, and his voice was still calm, still conversational, as though they were discussing the weather or the quality of the harvest. "Days, perhaps longer, depending on the condition of the roads. We will be stopping at inns and holdfasts along the way. There will be lords and ladies to greet us, servants to wait on us, my own men to observe us. And I cannot have you embarrassing me in front of my people the way you embarrassed me in front of your family."

"I did not embarrass—"

"You did." He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The words were sharp enough on their own, cutting through your protest like a knife through silk. "And you will not do it again. So we are going to practice. Right now. You are going to show me that you understand what it means to be obedient."

You did not understand. You did not understand what he wanted, what he was asking for, what the belt had to do with any of it. Your mind raced through possibilities, each one more frightening than the last. Was he going to hit you? Beat you? Strike you with the belt the way unruly squires were struck when they failed their lessons? Your body tensed, bracing for the blow, and you realized with a distant sort of horror that you had no idea how to defend yourself. No one had ever taught you. No one had ever imagined that a Targaryen princess, the daughter of the heir to the Iron Throne, might need to know how to fight off an attacker.

But the blow did not come. The belt stayed coiled on the bench beside him, within reach but unused. Instead, he kept talking, his voice low and patient and terrifying in its gentleness.

"Show you how?" you asked, because you had to ask something, had to say something, had to break the terrible silence that kept threatening to swallow you whole. Your hands were trembling openly now, and you could not make them stop. "I do not—I do not know what you want me to do."

Ormund's expression did not change. But something flickered in his eyes—impatience, perhaps. Or disappointment. Or that strange, dark satisfaction you had seen on the wedding night, the satisfaction of a man who was getting exactly what he wanted.

"You do not know," he repeated.

"No," you admitted, and your voice was barely a whisper now, so quiet you were not sure he could hear it over the rumble of the wheels. "I do not. I have never... no one has ever told me... my mother did not..." You trailed off, your cheeks flooding with heat, the shame burning through you like wildfire. He wanted you to do something, to perform some wifely duty that everyone apparently knew about except you, and you could not even guess what it was.

Ormund sighed. It was a soft sound, almost gentle, the kind of sigh a parent might give when a child asked a particularly foolish question. But it made you flinch anyway, your shoulders hunching, your chin dropping toward your chest.

"My first wife," he said, "knew what to do. She had been taught. By her mother, by her aunts, by the septas who raised her. She came to my marriage bed knowing her duties—all of them. She was a proper lady. A proper wife. She never embarrassed me. She never questioned me. She gave me four children before the fever took her, and she never once complained."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air between you. The comparison was obvious, and it cut deeper than any blade. You were not his first wife. You were not a proper lady. You had not been taught. You had complained, silently, but he had seen it in your face, in your tears, in the way you had flinched from his touch.

"It seems your mother neglected certain parts of your education," he said.

The words stung. "I am sorry," you said again, because you had no other weapons. Sorry was the only shield you had, flimsy and inadequate, but you kept raising it anyway. "I am sorry that I was not taught. I will learn. I want to learn. I want to be a good wife to you."

"Sorry is not a method of instruction." Ormund leaned forward again, closing the distance between you. His hand came up, and you flinched—you could not help it, your body remembering the wedding night, remembering the way those hands had gripped your hips hard enough to bruise—but he only touched your chin, tilting your face up so you had to meet his eyes. His fingers were warm and rough "I am going to tell you what to do. And you are going to do it. And if you do it well, I will be pleased. If you do not..." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, a gesture that might have been tender if his eyes had not been so cold. "We will try again until you do."

Your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the tips of your trembling fingers. The hope that had been living in your chest withered and died, crumbling to ash. "What do you want me to do?" you asked, because asking was the only thing left. Asking and obeying and hoping that if you were good enough, if you were obedient enough, he would stop. He would be kind again. He would go back to being the man who had written you beautiful letters and brought you thoughtful gifts and kissed your forehead while you slept.

He released your chin and gestured to the floor directly in front of him. The space between the benches was narrow, barely enough room for a person to kneel, let alone do anything else. The wooden boards were dark with age and scarred from years of use, dust gathered in the corners and settled into the cracks between the planks. You could see a small knot in the wood just to the left of his left boot, a dark whorl that looked almost like an eye.

"Come here," he said, and his voice was soft and final. "On your knees."

You stared at the floor. The boards seemed to stare back at you, the whorl like a dark pupil in a wooden face. You imagined yourself kneeling there, your pink silk skirts pooling around you like a stain, your bare knees pressed against the rough, splintery wood. You imagined the humiliation of it, your husband sitting on his cushioned bench like a king on a throne, and you on the floor at his feet like a supplicant. Like a dog, or well, a bitch.

"Why?" you asked, and the question came out before you could stop it, the last defiant gasp of a part of you that had not yet learned to be silent. Ormund's jaw tightened. It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but you saw it. You saw the muscle in his cheek jump and then smooth out again. For a moment—just a moment, a heartbeat, less than a heartbeat—you saw a flash of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. Something that looked like rage, held in check by the thinnest of leashes. Then it was gone, smoothed over by that pleasant, courteous mask, the face of the lord greeting guests at a feast.

"Because I am your husband," he said, and his voice was perfectly even, perfectly calm, perfectly terrifying. "And I am telling you to. That is all the reason you need. That is all the reason you will ever need."

If you refused him now, what would happen? Would he tell your mother? Would he send you back to King's Landing in disgrace, the alliance shattered, the peace broken, all because you would not kneel when your husband told you to? Would the lords who had already whispered about your parentage find new ammunition in your failure? Would your mother look at you with disappointment instead of pride?

You did not think you could bear that. You did not think you could bear any of it. And so you slid off the bench and onto your knees on the hard wooden floor of the wheelhouse, and the last ember of hope in your chest went cold.

Your knees hit the wood with a soft thud that you felt all the way up through your spine. The vibration of the wheels traveled up through your bones, rattling your teeth. The wood was harder than you had expected and colder, the dust that coated it gritty against your skin. You could feel a splinter pressing against your right knee through the thin silk of your dress, a sharp little point of discomfort that you did not dare move to avoid.

You knelt there, your hands clasped in your lap, your pink skirts pooling around you like spilled wine, and looked up at him. He was so far above you. So much larger than you. From this angle, he seemed to fill the entire wheelhouse, his shoulders blocking out the fading light from the window, his legs bracketing you on either side like the walls of a cage.

"Good," he said, and the word fell on you like a stone. "Now come closer. As close as you can."

You hesitated. The space was already so narrow. You were already so close, your skirts nearly touching his boots. But he wanted you closer still—close enough that there was no air between you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that you could count the individual threads in the wool of his breeches.

You shuffled forward on your knees. The movement was awkward and clumsy, your dress bunching beneath you and catching on the rough wood, your hands flailing slightly before you caught yourself on the edge of the bench. You had never knelt like this before, had never had reason to. Highborn ladies did not kneel on floors. They sat on cushioned chairs and velvet benches, and when they knelt, it was in septs on padded kneelers, their hands folded in prayer before the altar of the Mother.

When you finally stopped, your knees were pressed against the worn leather of his boots, and his legs were on either side of you, and you could feel the heat of his body seeping through the fabric of his breeches and into your skin. The smell of him was overwhelming—leather and horse and sweat and that musky, masculine scent that had clung to the sheets of the marriage bed.

"Closer," he said again.

"There is no closer," you said, and your voice came out thin and breathless. "I am already—"

His hand came down on your shoulder and pulled you forward. You gasped as your chest pressed against his knees, your hands flying out instinctively to catch yourself on his thighs. The wool of his breeches was rough beneath your palms, still warm from the heat of his body, still smelling faintly of horse and dust. You could feel the hard muscle beneath the fabric, the solid, unyielding strength of him.

"There," he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice now. "That is closer."

He held you there for a moment, his hand still on your shoulder, his fingers pressing into the curve of your neck with just enough pressure to remind you that he could tighten his grip if he wanted to. You could feel each individual finger—the tips, the warmth of his palm, the cool metal of the signet ring on his smallest finger pressing against your collarbone. You stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"I am going to teach you," he said, "how to apologize."

"I do not understand," you whispered, and you hated how small your voice sounded, how young, how helpless. "I do not know what else you want me to do."

His hand moved from your shoulder to your hair. His fingers tangled in the silver-gold locks, not pulling—not yet—just making sure you could not pull away. His thumb stroked the curve of your scalp, a gesture that might have been soothing if the context had been different. If everything had been different.

"Use your mouth," he said.

You blinked up at him, uncomprehending. "My mouth?"

"On me." He released your hair and reached down, his fingers finding the laces of his breeches. The same laces you had watched him do up this morning, when he had dressed in the grey light of dawn, his back to you, his movements brisk and efficient. He began to undo them now with the same practiced ease, the leather cords sliding through their eyelets with a soft whisper. "You will take me in your mouth. You will not bite. You will use your tongue. And you will not stop until I tell you to."

The world seemed to tilt sideways. You stared at his hands, at the laces coming undone, at the dark wool parting to reveal the linen of his smallclothes beneath. Your brain, which had been scrambling to keep up with the situation, simply... stopped. You had heard of this. Vaguely. In whispers and giggles from the more worldly of your mother's ladies. In crude jokes told by stable hands who did not realize a princess was within earshot. But you had never imagined—you had never thought—you had never believed that this was something wives actually did, something husbands actually demanded, something that could happen in a moving wheelhouse on the Roseroad with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows and your dragon screaming overhead.

"I cannot," you said, and the words came out strangled, desperate. "I do not know how. I have never—no one has ever taught me—I would not even know where to begin—"

"Then you will learn." His voice was patient. Terribly, horribly patient. The voice of a maester explaining something very simple to a very slow student. The voice of a man who had all the time in the world and no doubt whatsoever about the outcome. "Open your mouth."

You shook your head. The movement was small, involuntary, a spasm of refusal that you could not control even though you knew—you knew—that refusing him was dangerous. But your body was rebelling against your mind, your instincts screaming at you to flee even though there was nowhere to flee to.

"Please," you said, and your voice cracked on the word. "I do not want to do this. Please do not make me do this."

Ormund's hand caught your chin again, gripping it more firmly this time, forcing your face up toward his. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your cheeks, and you could feel the bones of your jaw pressing against his palm. His eyes were cold and hard, and utterly without mercy.

"What you want," he said, and his voice was soft and cold and final, "is not the point of this marriage. What I want is the point. What I need is the point. Your comfort, your desires, your childish preferences—none of that matters. What matters is your duty. What matters is your obedience. What matters is that I need a wife who can perform her duties without crying about it."

"I am not crying," you said, but you were. You could feel the tears on your cheeks, hot and wet, sliding down toward your chin where his fingers still gripped you. You had not even noticed them start. They had just... appeared, leaking from your eyes like water from a cracked vessel, dripping onto the bodice of your ruined pink dress.

"Good," he said, and there was something almost like approval in his voice now. "Then you have no excuse."

He released your chin and sat back against the cushioned bench, his hands falling to his sides, his posture relaxed and expectant. His breeches were open now, and you could see—you could not help but see—the thick length of him, already half-hard, already rising to meet his belt buckle.

"Open your mouth," he said again. "And come here."

Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking, trembling like a leaf in a storm, every nerve ending screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything other than what he was asking. But there was nowhere to run. The door was latched, and even if you could reach it, even if you could throw it open and leap from the moving wheelhouse, where would you go? Your mother was hours behind you. Your dragon was in the sky and could not land on a narrow road surrounded by armed men. And Ormund was your husband, legally and truly, with all the rights that came with that title, rights that had been explained to you by septons and maesters and your own mother.

A wife's body belonged to her husband. That was the law of the land, the law of the Faith, the law that had governed marriages since before the Targaryens came to Westeros. If you refused him, he had the right to punish you. If you fought him, he had the right to restrain you. If you told anyone what happened in the privacy of your marriage, they would look at you with pity, perhaps, but they would not help you. They could not help you. There was no help to be given.

You opened your mouth, it was barely a parting of your lips at first, a small, hesitant gap, the kind of opening you might make to take a sip of too-hot tea. Your jaw trembled with the effort of holding it open. Your tongue felt thick and clumsy and useless. You could taste the salt of your own tears on your lips, could feel the wetness on your cheeks turning cool in the evening air that seeped through the cracks in the wheelhouse walls.

But Ormund saw the small surrender, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head again, his fingers tangling in your hair, his palm warm against your skull. He guided you forward, gently at first, almost tenderly, the way he had guided you through the steps of your first dance at the wedding feast. Down and down and down, until your face was inches from his lap, until you could smell him—the clean salt smell of sweat, the musk of arousal, the faint trace of the lavender soap he had used that morning.

"Wider," he said.

You opened your mouth wider, your jaw aching already, your throat constricting in anticipation. You felt like a baby bird, beak agape, waiting to be fed something you did not want.

He guided you down, the taste of him filled your mouth all at once, he was hot against your tongue, hot and smooth and impossibly large, larger than you remembered. Your mouth stretched around him, the corners of your lips burning with the strain, and your throat convulsed in protest as the head of him pressed against the back of your palate.

You gagged immediately. Your throat seized, your stomach heaved, and your hands flew up to push against his thighs, every instinct in your body screaming at you to pull away, to spit him out, to flee. But his hand was on the back of your head, firm and unyielding, not forcing you deeper but not letting you pull away either. He held you there, suspended, balanced on the edge of vomiting, while tears streamed down your face and saliva pooled in the corners of your stretched mouth.

"Breathe through your nose," he said, and his voice was calm, almost soothing, the voice of a riding instructor teaching a novice to stay in the saddle. "Slowly. In and out. Do not panic. Your body will adjust if you let it."

You tried. You truly tried. You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, slow and shaky, inhaling the scent of him—the musk, the salt, the faint trace of lavender soap—while your throat fluttered and spasmed around the intrusion. It was the hardest thing you had ever done, harder than mounting Aegarax for the first time, harder than watching your father waste away, harder than saying goodbye to your mother at the gates of King's Landing. Harder even than the wedding night, because on the wedding night you had only had to endure. 

"Good," Ormund murmured, and his voice had changed now. It was rougher, deeper, threaded with a pleasure that made your skin crawl. "Good girl. You are doing so well."

Good girl. The words landed somewhere deep in your chest, tangled up with the shame and the fear and the horrible, undeniable flicker of something that might have been relief. He was praising you. He was not angry anymore. If you could just do this well enough, if you could just make him happy, then maybe it would be over. Maybe he would let you go. Maybe he would be kind again, the way he had been this morning, holding you and apologizing and promising that it would get better.

You hated that the praise helped. You hated that your shoulders relaxed, even slightly, even as the taste of him filled your mouth and your throat burned and your jaw ached. You hated that some small, broken part of you was desperate for his approval, desperate enough to do this, desperate enough to try.

He guided you deeper, and this time he did not pull back, your throat convulsed around him—a helpless, rippling spasm that you could not control—and the sound you made was wet and strangled and utterly humiliating. Saliva flooded your mouth, your body trying desperately to reject the intrusion, but there was nowhere for it to go. It pooled under your tongue and leaked from the corners of your stretched lips and dripped in thick, ropy strands onto the ruined silk of your bodice. Your nose was pressed flat against the coarse dark hair at the base of him, and you could smell everything, the salt of his sweat, the musk of his arousal, the faint lingering trace of the lavender soap he had used that morning. The hair tickled your nostrils and made you want to sneeze, but you could not sneeze, could not breathe, could not do anything except kneel there with your throat full of him while tears streamed down your face and your stomach heaved against the invasion.

"Hold it," he said, and his voice was tight now, strained with pleasure. His hand was heavy on the back of your head, keeping you pinned in place, his fingers twisted so deeply into your silver-gold hair that you could feel the pull at your scalp with every tiny movement. "Hold it right there. Do not move. Let your throat get used to me."

You could not have moved if you tried. You were frozen, impaled, your jaw stretched so wide that the hinges ached with a deep, throbbing pain that radiated up into your temples. Your lips were stretched into a perfect circle around the thickness of him, the delicate skin at the corners of your mouth burning and threatening to split. You could feel every inch of him inside you—the ridge of the head pressed against the back of your throat, the thick vein on the underside pulsing against your tongue, the weight and the heat and the impossible, overwhelming fullness of him. Your throat kept trying to swallow, a reflexive spasm that only made it worse, only made him groan and tighten his grip on your hair.

"There we go," he murmured, and his thumb stroked the curve of your skull, a gesture that might have been tender if everything else were not so cruel. "There we go. You feel that? That is your body learning to accept me. You will get better at this. You will learn to take me deeper. You will learn to breathe around me. And one day, you will not gag at all. One day, you will be able to take every inch of me down your throat without making a sound."

The thought was horrifying. The thought that there would be a next time, and a next time, and a next time—that this was not a single, isolated degradation but the beginning of something that would happen again and again and again until your body learned to submit to it. You made a sound against him, a muffled whimper, and he laughed softly above you.

"I know," he said. "I know. It feels like too much right now. But your body will adapt. Bodies always do. My first wife gagged the same way on our wedding night, and within a moon she could swallow me whole without a single tear. You will learn the same way she did. You will learn to love it."

His first wife. He was talking about his first wife while his cock was buried in your throat. He was comparing you to a dead woman, a woman you would never meet, a woman whose place you had taken in his bed and his household and his life. And he was telling you that she had learned this too. That she had knelt where you were kneeling now, had gagged the way you were gagging now, had been trained the way you were being trained now. Had she hated it? Had she cried the way you were crying? Had she stared at the canopy of her marriage bed and wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like?

You would never know. She was dead, and you were here, and Ormund's cock was in your throat, and none of your questions mattered because no one was going to answer them.

He let you stay there for what felt like an eternity, your throat working helplessly around him, your lungs burning for air, your vision starting to blur at the edges from lack of oxygen. You could feel your pulse hammering in your temples, in your throat, in the place where his flesh met your flesh. You could feel the saliva pooling under your tongue and spilling over your lower lip in thick, glistening strings. You could feel every tiny movement he made—the twitch of his hips, the flex of his thighs beneath your hands, the way his stomach tensed when you swallowed involuntarily.

And then, finally, mercifully, he pulled you back, you came off him with a wet, obscene sound—a pop, almost, followed by a thick strand of saliva that connected your lower lip to the head of him, stretching and thinning and finally breaking to drip onto your bodice. You gasped for air, great heaving gulps of it, your chest rising and falling so hard that the stained silk of your dress strained across your breasts. Your throat was on fire. Your jaw screamed with pain when you tried to close your mouth. Your eyes were so blurred with tears that you could barely see him, just a vague shape looming above you, his hand still tangled in your hair.

"Breathe," he said, and his voice was almost kind. "Catch your breath. You did well."

You knelt there, gasping, and you hated that the praise still mattered. You hated that some small, broken part of you was still desperate for his approval, still clinging to the scraps of kindness he threw you like a starving dog begging for table scraps. He had forced his cock down your throat until you nearly passed out, and now he was telling you that you did well, and you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that you had done well, that you had pleased him, that this was something to be proud of rather than something to be ashamed of.

"Please," you whispered, and your voice came out hoarse and broken, barely recognizable as your own. "Please, I cannot—I need—"

"Shh." His hand moved from your hair to your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears and the saliva that coated your chin. The gesture was gentle. Almost loving. "You can. You already are. Now open your mouth again. We are not finished."

You stared up at him, uncomprehending. Your throat was raw and burning, your jaw aching, your lips swollen and tender. You had done what he asked. You had taken him in your mouth. You had gagged and choked and nearly passed out, and still it was not enough, still he wanted more, still he was looking down at you with those eyes that held no mercy at all.

"I said open." His voice hardened, just slightly, just enough to make you flinch. His fingers found your chin again, gripping it, squeezing until your lips parted involuntarily. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

You obeyed. What else could you do? You opened your mouth, stretching your aching jaw wide, and extended your tongue the way you had seen the maesters do when they examined patients for fever. The position was obscene, degrading, kneeling at his feet with your mouth open and your tongue out like a dog begging for scraps, your face wet with tears and spit, your dress ruined, your hair a tangled mess around your shoulders.

"Good girl," he said, and the words landed in your chest like stones. "Now hold still."

He took himself in his hand— the same hand that had held yours during the wedding feast—and guided the head of his cock to your extended tongue. He did not push into your throat this time. Instead, he tapped the head against your tongue, once, twice, three times, a slow and deliberate rhythm that made your stomach clench with dread. The contact was light, almost teasing, but you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the promise of what was to come.

"You have a pretty tongue," he said, and his voice was conversational now, almost casual, as though he were commenting on the weather or the quality of the wine. "Pink and soft. I have imagined this, you know. During our courtship. I would sit across from you in your mother's solar, watching you talk, watching your tongue move behind your teeth, and I would imagine what it would feel like on my cock."

He pushed the head of himself onto your tongue and held it there, letting you taste him again, you could feel the slit at the tip, could feel the bead of moisture that had gathered there, could taste it when it spread across your tongue in a thin, salty slickness.

"Close your lips," he instructed. "Just around the head. Yes. Like that. Now suck."

You did not know how to suck. You had never sucked anything in your life, you had never put your mouth on anything the way he was asking you to. But you tried, because trying was all you could do. You closed your lips around the head of him and hollowed your cheeks the way you had seen people do with sticky sweets, and you sucked.

The sound he made was not a word. It was a groan, low and guttural, dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. His hand tightened in your hair, and his hips twitched forward, pushing another inch of him into your mouth before he caught himself.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was rough now, rougher than you had ever heard it, even on the wedding night. "Yes, like that. Again. Suck harder."

You sucked harder. Your cheeks hollowed, your tongue pressing flat against the underside of him, and you felt him pulse against your palate. The taste of him grew stronger—saltier, muskier—and you realized with a distant sort of horror that more of that clear, slick fluid was leaking from the tip, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat.

"Gods," he breathed. "Your mouth is so sweet. So soft. So eager to please."

He began to move again, but differently this time. He did not push deep into your throat. Instead, he fucked your mouth with short, shallow thrusts, just the first few inches of him sliding between your lips while you sucked and licked and tried to remember how to breathe. His hand guided your head, setting a rhythm, and you followed it because following was easier than thinking. In and out. In and out. The wet sounds of your mouth working him filled the wheelhouse—obscene, sucking sounds, the kind of sounds you had never imagined a person could make, let alone a princess, let alone you.

"Use your hand," he said, and his breathing was ragged now. "What you cannot fit in your mouth, stroke with your hand. Yes. Wrap your fingers around me. Tighter. Like that."

Your hand came up hesitantly, your fingers wrapping around the base of him where your mouth could not reach. The skin here was different—softer, looser, sliding over the hardness beneath. You could feel the coarse hair at the base, could feel the heavy weight of his stones hanging below. You stroked him the way he had shown you, up and down, your fingers meeting your lips with each movement, and he groaned again, louder this time, loud enough that you worried the guards outside might hear.

"That's it," he said, and his voice was barely controlled now, trembling with something that sounded almost like desperation. "That's my good girl. That's my perfect, obedient wife. You were made for this. You were made to be on your knees for me. Made to take my cock in your pretty little mouth."

Made for this. The words echoed in your head, tangling with the shame and the fear and the horrible, undeniable fact that your body was doing this, was learning this, was adapting to this the way he said it would. Your jaw was still aching, your throat still burning, but you were not gagging anymore. Your hands were still shaking, but they were stroking him in rhythm, finding a pace that made his hips twitch and his breath catch.

You were learning. You were getting better and that was the worst part of all.

He thrust deeper without warning, pushing past your lips and over your tongue and into your throat in one smooth, sudden movement. You gagged violently, your throat seizing, your hands flying to his thighs to push him away. But he did not let you. His hand held your head in place, his fingers twisted in your hair, and he held himself buried in your throat while you choked and sputtered and tears streamed down your face.

"Swallow," he commanded, his voice strained. "Swallow around me. Do it."

You could not swallow. Your throat was too full, too stretched, too overwhelmed. But your body tried anyway—an involuntary spasm, a reflexive clenching of muscles that you could not control. The sensation made him cry out, a guttural sound that was almost a shout, and his hips jerked forward, driving himself even deeper.

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes. Just like that. Fuck. Your throat is so tight. So perfect."

He pulled back, letting you gasp for air, and then thrust in again. And again. And again. He was fucking your throat now, properly fucking it, his hips pumping in a steady rhythm while you knelt there and took it. Your hands were still on his thighs, not pushing anymore, just holding on. Your throat had stopped gagging—or maybe you had just stopped noticing. Your mind had gone somewhere else, somewhere far away, somewhere the taste of him and the sound of his grunts and the ache in your jaw could not reach.

You thought about Aegarax. You thought about the wind in your hair and the sun on your face and the way the world looked from a thousand feet up, all the people and their problems reduced to specks of dust. You thought about your mother, and whether she had known, and whether she would care if you told her. You thought about the pink silk scarf he had given you during your courtship, the one that matched your ruined dress, and how you had worn it to the feast that night and felt like the most cherished woman in the world.

You thought about anything except what was happening to your body.

"That's it," Ormund was saying, his voice coming from very far away. "Take it. Take all of it. You are so good at this. Such a fast learner. Such a perfect little wife."

His rhythm was faltering now, growing erratic. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. His hand in your hair tightened until it was almost painful, holding you in place while he chased his pleasure.

"I am going to spend," he said, and the words cut through the fog in your mind. "I am going to spend in your mouth, and you are going to swallow every drop. Do you understand?"

You did not understand. You did not know what he meant by spend, did not know what he was going to put in your mouth. But you nodded anyway, because nodding was what he wanted, because obedience was the only way to make this stop.

"Do not spill a single drop," he said. "If you spill, we will start again. Do you understand?"

You nodded again, more frantically this time.

He thrust once, twice, three more times, and then he buried himself in your throat with a guttural roar.

The first pulse of hot fluid hitting the back of your throat made you gag. It was thick and salty and bitter, more bitter than his skin, more bitter than the clear fluid that had been leaking from the tip. It flooded your mouth, coating your tongue, filling your cheeks, spilling down your throat in thick, viscous spurts that you could not swallow fast enough. There was so much of it. So much more than you had expected. It kept coming, pulse after pulse, each one accompanied by a low groan from above you and a twitch of his cock against your tongue.

"Swallow," he commanded, his voice hoarse. "Swallow it all."

You swallowed. The taste was overwhelming—salt and bitterness and something indescribably alien, something that coated your throat and your tongue and the inside of your cheeks and would not go away. You swallowed again, and again, your throat working desperately to keep up with the flood. Some of it escaped anyway, leaking from the corner of your mouth and running down your chin in a thick white rivulet that dripped onto your already-ruined bodice.

He pulled back, just enough to let the last few spurts land on your tongue. You saw it then, for the first time, what he had put in your mouth. It was white, thick and pearlescent, pooling on your tongue like spoiled milk. You stared at it, uncomprehending, and then he was speaking again.

"Do not swallow yet," he said. "Open your mouth. Let me see."

You opened your mouth, stretching your aching jaw as wide as it would go. Your tongue was coated in white, your cheeks smeared with it, the taste of it filling your nose and your throat and your entire awareness. You knelt there, on the hard wooden floor of the wheelhouse, with your mouth open and your husband's seed pooling on your tongue, and you waited for him to tell you what to do next.

"Good girl," he said, and his voice was soft with satisfaction. "Look at you. So pretty with your mouth full of my seed. This is where you belong, you know. On your knees. Serving your husband. This is what you were made for."

He reached down and touched your chin, tilting your face up so he could see you better. His eyes were sated now, the hunger in them temporarily banked. He studied you the way a painter might study a finished canvas, with quiet satisfaction and more than a little pride.

"Now swallow," he said. "And show me your empty mouth."

You swallowed. The thick fluid slid down your throat, coating it, leaving a trail of salt and bitterness that you knew would linger for hours. You opened your mouth again, sticking out your tongue to show him that it was gone, that you had been good, that you had done what he asked.

"Very good," he said. He released your chin and sat back, reaching for the cloth he had set aside earlier. He cleaned himself with a few brisk, efficient movements, then tucked himself back into his breeches and began refastening the laces. "You did well. Better than I expected. You are a natural, I think. All you needed was proper instruction."

You stayed on your knees, because he had not told you that you could get up. Your jaw ached, your throat burned, your lips felt swollen and bruised. Your pink dress was ruined—stained with tears and spit and the thick white fluid you had just swallowed. Your knees were raw from the rough wooden floor, and your hands were still trembling, and you did not think they would ever stop trembling.

"Is that—" you started, and your voice came out hoarse, scraped raw, barely recognizable as your own. You cleared your throat and tried again, wincing at the pain. "Is that what you wanted? Are you pleased now?"

"It is what I needed," he said, and the distinction felt important, felt significant, felt like a door closing somewhere deep inside you. Not what he wanted—what he needed. As though this had been necessary. As though you had made it necessary. "You will get better with practice. You have a natural talent for it, I think. Once you learn to control your gag reflex."

Practice. The word made your stomach turn, made bile rise in your throat, made the taste of him seem suddenly more present, more overwhelming. You were going to have to do this again. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after. Or every day for the rest of your life. This was a skill you were expected to cultivate, like embroidery or dancing or playing the high harp. This was what it meant to be a wife.

Ormund refastened his belt—the belt he had set aside on the bench, the belt that had loomed over the entire encounter like an unspoken threat—and smoothed his tunic, adjusted his cloak, ran a hand through his auburn hair to restore it to its proper arrangement. His movements were calm and unhurried, the movements of a man who had done nothing more strenuous than pour a cup of wine or sign a document or give an order to a servant.

"Now," he said, reaching into the basket of supplies and withdrawing a clean linen cloth. He held it out to you, his expression almost benevolent, the expression of a lord rewarding a servant who had performed their duties adequately. "Clean yourself up. Your face is a mess, and your dress needs to be straightened. We will be stopping for the night within the hour, and I expect you to present yourself at dinner as though nothing has happened. You will sit beside me. You will smile. You will speak only when spoken to. And you will not, under any circumstances, let anyone see that you have been crying."

You took the cloth. Your fingers were shaking so badly that you nearly dropped it, the linen trembling in your grip like a living thing. You pressed it to your face, wiping away the tears and the spit and the other fluids, scrubbing at your cheeks and your chin and the corners of your mouth until the skin felt raw and tender. The cloth came away stained and damp, and you stared at it for a long moment, at the evidence of your humiliation made visible on white linen.

"There is a hand mirror in the basket," Ormund added, rising from his seat, ducking his head to avoid the ceiling. "Fix your hair before we arrive. You look like a woman who has been rolling in the hay with a stable boy, and that is not the impression I want to make on the innkeeper."

He said it lightly, almost teasingly, as though the whole thing had been a game. As though you had been a willing participant. As though any of this was normal.

"You will not speak of this to anyone," he continued, and his voice shifted, the lightness giving way to something harder, something that brooked no argument. "Not to your mother, not to your ladies, not to your dragon, not to whatever servants I assign to you in Oldtown. This is between husband and wife. What happens in our private chambers—or our private wheelhouse—is no one else's business. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you said, and the word came out barely a whisper, scraped and raw and broken. "I understand."

"And tomorrow," he said, one hand on the door latch, pausing to look back at you over his shoulder, "when we resume our journey, you will ride in the wheelhouse and you will keep your mouth closed unless I ask you a question. You will not contradict me. You will not question me. You will not speak out of turn. You will be the obedient wife that I agreed to marry. The wife you promised me you would be."

"Yes," you said again, because what else was there to say?

Ormund leaned down—not far, because from your position on the floor he was already so far above you—and tilted your chin up with one finger. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, wiping away a smear of moisture that you had missed. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. Almost like the man who had held you this morning and apologized and promised to be better.

"You are beautiful when you cry," he said, and his voice was soft now, almost wondering. "Did you know that? Your eyes go very bright, and your cheeks flush, and your lips part just so. It is quite lovely. I look forward to seeing it again."

You did not answer. You did not know how. You only stared up at him, at the pleasant, courteous mask of his face, at the eyes that had looked at you with such tenderness during your courtship and such cold satisfaction just now.

He smiled and released you. "Good girl," he said.

[user481]

in my dreams — g. hightower

gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.

Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3

Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.

It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.

Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.

The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.

Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.

No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.

He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.

His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.

"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."

It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.

No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.

By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.

Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?

-

By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.

It was hardly the first time.

The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.

Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.

You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.

Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.

Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.

So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.

That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.

You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.

Just a little farther...

"You appear to be losing your battle."

The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.

You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.

A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.

You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.

You were in far too much of a hurry.

"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."

His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.

"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."

You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.

"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."

"You are trying to do something."

"I am not."

"You are."

A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.

"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."

"I am simply a guest in the Keep."

The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."

There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"

You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."

"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."

His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."

You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."

"Are you?"

"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."

A beat passed.

"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."

You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."

"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"

A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."

You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."

The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."

You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.

Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.

"...It's you."

The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.

He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"

You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.

When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."

The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"

You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."

Silence settled between them.

Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.

You did not look mad.

Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.

More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.

Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.

His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"

He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.

You said nothing.

For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.

His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"

You instinctively stepped back.

"I only jest," he said quietly.

Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."

Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.

Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.

I've dreamt of you.

Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.

Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.

[pearlessance]

warnings: +18 mdni, sex worker!fem reader, religious themes/guilt, dubcon (on account of being paid to have sex but reader gives explicit consent multiple times), porn no plot (so spoiler free!), dry humping, heavy petting, nipple sucking, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, begging, praise, a little bit of intimidation, size difference, finger sucking, ormund fucks you on a desk, clit stimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink towards the end, might be ooc because this is the first time i've ever written for him, lightly edited! wc: 1.8k

thinking about pious ormund hightower and whore!reader who is so fucking pretty that she immediately becomes this man's kryptonite.

you're first presented to him as a gift. delivered to his bed chamber late one night by some castellan who'd gotten him all wrong, an offer to find common ground.

but ormund isn't an indulgent or lustful man. he honors the seven and resists his impulses. he'll be married one day, after all. he doesn't want to disrespect his future wife by sullying himself before he's even met her.

but you are...gods. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. and ormund is well traveled, has seen all matter of beautiful women before and has never looked twice.

but the moment he lifts his eyes from the scrolls on his borrowed desk, he feels his resistance waver.

and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.

[masterlist][AO3]

[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.

[chuluoyi]

bundle of joy

- gwayne hightower x wife!reader

pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...

genre/warnings: suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3

notes: gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him

Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.

It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—

“You are... truly? A child…?”

And now, that day is finally here.

The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.

But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.

“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”

Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips, tasting of boundless joy.

“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You were so blessed to have a man as kind as he was as a husband.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.

“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”

If he had loved you deeply before, he was entirely besotted now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into pure bliss.

To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.

And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.

Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—

—because even the Gods know he loves you so damned much.

“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”

And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.

The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.

A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.

“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”

Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior vanishing in an instant.

“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.

The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.

“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Y-Yes, sire—”

Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?

“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”

As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.

He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.

Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.

. . .

“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”

Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp and curling against his neck, sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.

“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.

However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.

Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry. There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?

You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.

“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”

Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.

“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”

You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”

“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.

“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.

Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.

Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—

“Damn...” He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to pressed him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.

But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes, dark with heavy desire, searched your face.

“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted, his voice thick. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life, but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”

You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.

“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”

Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”

“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”

“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.

“The babe demands it.”

A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”

Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.

Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.

Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.

By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.

Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?

Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.

The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.

“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”

“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”

But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.

“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”

His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.

. . .

In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.

But your quiet peace was short-lived.

As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.

The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul, even as a child. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.

The young boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.

“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”

“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.

A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.

“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.

Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”

That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.

But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.

“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”

Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.

“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.

“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.

In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.

“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”

But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.

“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”

Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.

“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”

. . .

“Where were you?”

You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.

Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.

“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”

“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.

“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”

This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—

“Can you just... not?!”

You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.

“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of pure frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself without you hovering over me like a warden!”

It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—

Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.

The worry in his eyes shattered into heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.

“I...” his voice cracked. “I am sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”

You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”

“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late,” he nodded somberly, his eyes kept drifting from your form— forcing the words out.

“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort... but in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.

“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”

Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.

“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”

Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.

True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.

You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.

Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the the summer heat only drained your strength, leaving you uncomfortable.

Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.

“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly. “I think I need to lie down.”

As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.

You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.

“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”

Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.

The King. Your father.

You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.

If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—

—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.

Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—

But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—

“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.

It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.

You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.

Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.

A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.

Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.

Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.

He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.

He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.

You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—

If he is here, then I am safe.

“How did this happen...?”

Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.

Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.

“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”

When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.

You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.

Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.

He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.

Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.

Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.

At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.

“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.

He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.

“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”

“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”

“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.

Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.

“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I just went through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”

Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.

Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”

“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.

You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.

You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and red hair, and you really wished your child would take after him.

“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, feeling incredibly silly and weighed down by your own guilt.

But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.

“I have told you so many times already, how is it that you always forget it?”

His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.

“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”

Your time had come barely five weeks later.

It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.

Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.

Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.

He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning.

He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.

Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.

“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.

“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”

Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.

And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.

It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.

. . .

You thought you would die from the pain alone.

Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.

And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.

“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”

When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

This miracle has just come out of you.

As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.

Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen. Instead, catching the warm candlelight, were soft tufts of red.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful for how she would not look like a Targaryen.

She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.

“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”

You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.

True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.

Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.

Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to make him drop to his knees right at the edge of your mattress.

He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.

“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”

Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, his conceit evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.

With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—

And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.

“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.

Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:

“Alyrie. Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”

His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours of your labor finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, choked laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.

“Thank you,” he choked out before kissing your temple, then pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”

As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.

One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.

[dmcmercy]

After thinking about it for a couple days, I think I am on board for the Helaena pregnancy plot line despite being very against it when rumors started swirling before release. I think it’d be most interesting if they interweave this story with her dragon dreams.

Helaena already knows her fate to at least some degree. She knows Aegon will be King and that Aemond will die and she probably knows that she is not gonna be around to see it (“I don’t want to stay in this room” said nearby the window.) She’s very passive about the future, “It’s all a story, you are but one part in it. You know your part,” she told Daemon last season. I.E. just do what you’re supposed to, don’t try to fight. This is how it has to happen.

It makes her attempted fleeing with Alicent very heartbreaking because she likely saw it as a way around her future. She could disappear and lead a happy life in hiding and it’d still count as fulfilling her part in the story, maybe. But the point is that her pregnancy sheds a new light on that.

Maelor, in a meta sense, is not supposed to be in the HOTD story, he was out of B&C and Daeron has completely skipped past Bitterbridge which are Maelor’s only real contributions in F&B. This isn’t Helaena fulfilling her role, she was hiding the pregnancy and didn’t intend to be caught for as long as possible. I think there’s a very interesting direction, which Phia Saban has eluded to, of Helaena wanting this child just for herself. She knows her death is imminent but is trying, for once, to buck against that future and the roles he’s supposed to play in it.

Naturally, it probably won’t end well for her. Maelor is gonna die one way or another. But if they do take this direction, it would add some layers to her death beyond just being sad about a miscarriage or moon tea or whatever happens. Not only is her son dead but he never, in the context of the narrative, was ever going to be allowed to live. She could never change her story despite her attempts to do so with Alicent’s escape plan and Maelor.

It’s a little meta but HOTD has dipped into meta commentary on being an adaptation before and I personally love that kinda storytelling so I would so into it.