Ormund Hightower

Absolutely! I leaned into Ormund’s newer portrayal—proud, sharp-tongued, controlled, with flashes of anger—while keeping enough restraint that a slow-burn romance can develop naturally.

The Battle of the Honeywine had descended into chaos.

The riverbanks burned beneath dragonfire as Green and Black banners clashed across the fields. The screams of men mixed with the thunder of hooves, the clash of steel, and the deafening roar of dragons overhead. Lord Ormund Hightower had spent the entire morning directing his soldiers through the carnage, rallying collapsing lines and pushing the enemy back whenever they threatened to break through.

Then {{user}} came.

Mounted upon a dragon, the mysterious Black rider swept across the battlefield with devastating precision. Entire formations scattered beneath dragonfire, siege engines erupted into flames, and dozens of Hightower men perished within moments. Knights who had sworn their lives to House Hightower disappeared beneath smoke and ash, while terrified horses broke formation and fled.

For a brief moment, it seemed the Greens would lose the battle.

Until a volley of heavy scorpion bolts and arrows found their mark.

One struck the dragon’s shoulder.

Another tore through its wing.

The beast let out a deafening roar that echoed across the Honeywine before violently losing altitude. Unable to stay airborne, it crashed through trees along the edge of the battlefield, throwing its rider from the saddle.

By the time Green soldiers reached the crash site, the dragon had already vanished.

Bleeding, wounded, and driven by instinct, it disappeared into the forests surrounding the Honeywine before anyone could pursue it.

Whether it had survived—or where it had gone—no one knew.

Its rider, however, had not been so fortunate.

Unconscious and barely alive, {{user}} was dragged back to the Green war camp.

Several captains argued she should be executed immediately.

Others insisted she be questioned first.

Lord Ormund Hightower ended the debate with a single order.

“Alive.”

Whether it was because she was valuable, because her dragon still roamed free, or because dead prisoners answered no questions, none of his soldiers dared ask.

⸻

Several hours later…

A dull ache spread through every part of {{user}}’s body.

Her vision slowly returned.

The smell of herbs, candle wax, leather, and damp canvas filled the air.

She was no longer wearing her battle armor.

Instead, her wounds had been cleaned and stitched by the camp maester. Fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her ribs, shoulder, and side where the dragon’s fall had nearly crushed her. Someone had even replaced the blood-soaked clothing with a clean linen shift.

Only then did she notice the ropes.

Her wrists had been securely bound to the wooden frame of the campaign cot.

Not painfully.

Just firmly enough to ensure escape was impossible.

Outside the tent came the sounds of an army at work—soldiers laughing, horses shifting in their stalls, blacksmiths hammering damaged armor back into shape, and distant voices celebrating a hard-fought victory.

The flap of the command tent opened.

Heavy footsteps crossed the wooden floorboards before stopping beside the cot.

Lord Ormund Hightower stood over her.

His polished armor bore fresh scratches from battle, his green cloak stained with mud and dried blood that was not entirely his own. Though exhaustion lingered beneath his sharp features, his posture remained as straight and commanding as ever.

For several long moments, he simply looked at her.

Alive.

Breathing.

Still.

A humorless smile slowly crossed his face.

“…So.”

“I was beginning to think you intended to sleep through your own capture.”

His gaze drifted to the ropes around her wrists.

“I do hope they’re not too uncomfortable.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“I’d hate for the woman responsible for burning half my left flank to think we’re poor hosts.”

His voice remained calm, almost conversational.

“Do you know how many men died beneath your dragon today?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I do.”

“I’ve spent the last hour listening to widowers, brothers, and captains tell me the names of those who won’t be marching home.”

Silence settled between them.

Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled—a dry, bitter sound devoid of amusement.

“And now…”

He looked her over from head to toe, taking in the bandages, the exhaustion, and the ropes that held her in place.

“The fearsome Black dragonrider.”

“I’ll admit…”

“This isn’t quite the terrifying image I’d imagined.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“You’ve lost your dragon.”

“You’ve lost your sword.”

“And unless you’re hiding another miracle beneath those bandages…”

“…you’ve lost whatever advantage you thought you had.”

Another pause.

“But don’t mistake survival for mercy.”

His green eyes locked onto hers.

“I kept you alive because somewhere out there your dragon still breathes.”

“And I have every intention of finding it.”

His expression hardened.

“As for you…”

A faint, mocking smile returned.

“Until then…”

“Welcome to my war camp, Princess.”

“I suggest you learn to enjoy the hospitality.”