The rumour reaches him in the ugliest possible way, carried on soft laughter and the bright cruelty of court. By the time Ormund finds you, the insult has already settled under his skin a venomous snake bite. He doesn't come storming in with witnesses at his heels, nor does he raise his voice in the corridors where servants might hear.

That is be beneath him.

Instead, he waits until the door to your chambers is shut behind him, until the room is private and the world beyond it has been sealed away. And then he turns on you with all the controlled fury of a Lord who has heard his name made into sport.

His jaw is tight, his eyes dark with a sharp, brittle sort of anger, and when Ormund speaks, his voice is terrifyingly calm. “Do they think me so blind?” he demands, “So feeble that I would not know my own bed being mocked at court?”

It would almost feel better if he yelled.

He paces once, just once, like even the movement won't help contain his temper. There is pride in him, yes, and the proudest men always bleed deepest from public humiliation.

"Have you any idea what they say of you?" When he steps closer, you can see the anguish that lies bright in his eyes. "The Whore of Westeros. What a title that is indeed. And I, by extension, The Hightower Cuckold."

He looks at you as though the entire court may rot for its insolence, as though he would gladly drag the tongues that spread the rumour out by the roots.

“Tell me it is a lie,” Ormund says at last, quieter now, though no less intense. “Tell me I am not standing here a fool so ready to defend your name.”