to court a princess
- gwayne hightower x betrothed!reader
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytaleābut gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings: arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes: gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope youāll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to youāa princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queenās brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realmās most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heartā
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didnāt swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squireās shieldābecause he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impressādetermined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor ladās legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boyās chest in a classic pose of victory.
āYou are just dead,ā he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayneās smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
āPrincess,ā he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
āAn impressive display, Ser Gwayne,ā you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, whenā
āI must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.ā
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
āA knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,ā he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize itāthat you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
āIs that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.ā
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadnāt asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadnāt looked at him as you do now.
āWe are to be married in no less than a moon,ā he reminded you, still with a smile. āTell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?ā
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
āCompliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?ā
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. āI shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.ā
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didnāt give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayneās language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
āYou do not like it,ā he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
āIt is exquisite. Truly,ā you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. āBut... you must not expect me to wear it often.ā
āIs it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, orāā
āI assure you, I know your intentions are kind,ā you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. āIt is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.ā
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayneās smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
āI just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,ā he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. āWhenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.ā
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. āYour kind thoughts are much appreciated.ā
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the Kingās nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Cristonāthe Dornishman!āCole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
āGood day, Ser Criston,ā Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didnāt quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. āMy betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldnāt have to sully yourself with the dirt.ā
āI was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.ā As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. āThe competition looks fierce today.ā
What about him? You hadnāt thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
āFierce for some, mayhaps,ā Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Coleās line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
āBut I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.ā
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
āYour romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.ā You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, ābut victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.ā
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
āIt is said even a scrap of favor from oneās bride can turn the tide of many battles,ā Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. āUnless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?ā
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
āMay the best knight win, ser.ā
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
āNo, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.ā
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldnāt help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
āFrom today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.ā
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didnāt possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should beā genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Ottoās son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your beingāthe manās thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your fatherās bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadnāt asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his fatherās sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They chargedā one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Coleās lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Coleās lance hadnāt just brokenā it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arenaādesperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
āWill he be alright?ā your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. āTell me he will be alright.ā
āThe steel hasnāt pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,ā one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayneās gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand awayā
āDo not touch me,ā he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasnāt just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realmāand worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldnāt bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldnāt bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
āIāmā fine,ā he choked out then. āSo... go back to the Keep.ā
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heirās Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truthā you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightowerās son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicentās son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you allā
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
āMrawgh...ā
āIām not lonely,ā you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghostās silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass fasterā he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your saviorās lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chestāpressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
āSteady there,ā the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he wasā
āGwayne!ā you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. āWhy are youāyour wound! I didnāt mean toāā
āI am fine, truly,ā he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. āIt is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.ā
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale stillā
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
āYou are supposed to be resting!ā Your voice rose despite yourself. āWhy are you here?!ā
This wasnāt what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldnāt bear the thought of losing himā
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
āIf I wasnāt here, then you would take a fall.ā His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. āI canāt very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?ā
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayneās thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
āTell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Deathās door, for you to look at me like this?ā
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
āEven if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...ā he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, ā...my heart might just run out, one of these days.ā
He gave you one last, kind smileāa look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didnāt want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
āSer Gwayne!ā
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinchingā
But then he heard you sob.
āPrincess...?ā he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayneās breath hitched in his throat.
He didnāt think. He didnāt let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
āShh, please do not weep,ā he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. āDarling... please.ā
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimplesā still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didnāt wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collarā
āand pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
āYou really areāā he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, āmy utter undoing, Princess.ā
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gaspsā
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mindās eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
āSer Gwayneāā your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
āWell, you did kiss me first, Princess,ā Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. āIf I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.ā
āPlease donāt,ā you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
āAh, but think of the romanceā a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his brideās arms.ā
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
āYou might not know it,ā he whispered, ābut I have been in love with you for a very long time.ā
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
āSo let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.ā
In that moment, you couldnāt have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldnāt have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Oh you bet your silver dollar that I ate this UP
