this gif of freddie fox makes me so insane like i feel like a werewolf ripping my shirt open to howl at the full moon oh my goddddd he's so [barking and snarling]
summary: After a peaceful morning together, Gwayne leaves for his duties at the harbor while you spend the day stitching a blanket for Prince Daeron. During the day, you experience sudden dizziness and severe nausea, prompting Lord Ormund to call the Maester. The Maester reveals that you aren't sick but...
notes: no warnings, little morning sickness? i guess. 6.4k words. you can find the first 3 chapters here
paring: Gwayne Hightower x You
characters: Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Highower, Daeron Targaryen
The first light of morning filtered through the arched windows of the manse, painting the stone walls in soft shades of amber and gold. Exactly two moons had passed since Prince Daeron’s arrival in Oldtown. The chaos of those early days and Lord Ormund’s ceaseless grumbling had gradually given way to a calm, peaceful routine. Yet inside this room, behind the heavy wooden door that kept the outside world at bay, time always flowed at its own calm rhythm.
Gwayne was still fast asleep right beside you, his arm wrapped possessively around your waist, holding you tightly against his chest. His auburn hair, was in a charming mess across the soft pillows. In sleep, the sharp angles of his face had softened completely. Gone was the tired knight who had crossed long roads in the shadow of dragons; there was only the man who loved you with all his heart.
You shifted slightly, gently running your fingertips over his cheekbone and across his chest beneath his white linen shirt.
At your touch, Gwayne stirred softly, a contented murmur rising from his throat. Without opening his eyes, he tightened his arm around your waist, closing what little distance remained between you. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he pulled in the scent of you with a deep, heavy breath.
"If you keep touching me like that," Gwayne said, his voice thick and raspy with sleep, "We’re never getting out of this bed today."
Feeling the warm vibration of his lips against your neck, you let out a soft chuckle. "The sun has been up for a long time, Ser Gwayne. It’s been high in the sky for two hours, and life outside has already begun."
Gwayne groaned playfully before finally opening his eyes. His sleepy yet deeply warm gaze met yours. With a deep, affectionate smile spreading across his face, he propped himself up on an elbow, leaning over to press a soft, lingering kiss onto your lips.
"The sun can do whatever it pleases," he whispered against your lips, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "Everything I care about is right here."
Before the duties of the House Hightower could call him away, he kissed you once more, deeper and more lingering this time, as if savoring the sweet quiet of the morning. Afterwards, he lay back on his spine, placing one arm under his head while intertwining the fingers of his other hand with yours.
"Now, tell me, my sweet wife..." he said, a sweet, lazy gleam of newfound wakefulness in his eyes. "What kind of rush awaits you today? I’m certain Ormund has already found something to nag about."
Smiling, you rested your head on his shoulder. "First, we shall have a nice, quiet breakfast together. Then we shall see little Daeron’s room; he was fretful before falling asleep last night, so I hope he’s in better spirits this morning. I’m nearly finished with that blanket I started for him, so I’ll keep stitching the edges while he sleeps peacefully."
Gwayne smiled at your affectionate nature, a proud and devoted expression gleaming in his eyes. Lifting your intertwined fingers to his lips, he pressed a warm kiss onto the back of your hand. "When that blanket is finished, it shall be our little prince’s dearest possession, I am sure of it."
Then, letting out a soft sigh, he fixed his eyes on the ceiling, his tone shifting slightly toward official duty: "As for me, I will head down to the harbor after breakfast. I have a meeting with a few merchants regarding the trade ships arriving from King’s Landing and the court's supply lines. Ormund takes great pleasure in dumping these tasks on me. But I will try not to drag it out. I will be back by evening."
"Don’t push yourself too hard in all that harbor crowd," you said, your free hand tracing feather-light strokes across his chest. "When you return, I will be waiting right here for you, in this very room."
Gwayne turned his head toward you and pressed another tender kiss onto your cheek. "Then I have a wonderful reason to return to this bed..."
Following Gwayne’s sweet words, neither of you indulged in lounging in bed any longer and decided to start the day. As you slipped out from under the feather duvet, the faint embers in the fireplace were cutting through the morning chill. While Gwayne stepped behind the dressing screen to pull on a fresh, dark green tunic and leather boots, you slipped into the elegant, lightweight green gown you had chosen for the day.
After settling the shoulders and bodice of the dress, you reached around to pull and tie the tight corset laces on your back. But the moment you gripped the final strings and pulled them tight, your vision suddenly went dim. A wave of dizziness washed over you, throwing off your balance; your hand instinctively reached out to grip the edge of the adjacent vanity table.
"Gwayne..." you said, your voice sounding weak and breathy. "...Could you help me with the laces? My head feels a little distraught."
Stepping out from behind the screen, Gwayne’s playful expression vanished the instant he saw you clinging to the table, your face drained of color. A look of deep worry settled over his features. With swift, worrifull steps, he came to your side, his hands gently steadying your shoulders.
"Are you alright? You’ve turned pale all of a sudden," he said, his voice dropping into a tone of serious concern. As you released the strings, his hands moved to your back, tying the corset laces expertly and gently, without pulling them unnecessarily tight.
He then turned you toward him, placing a hand on your cheek and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. "Did you pull the laces too tight, or is it something else? If you’re not feeling well, I will not go to the harbor. The merchants can wait; Ormund can deal with them. Let me stay by your side today."
You smiled softly at his sudden protective and anxious demeanor. Placing your hand over his on your cheek, you gave it a comforting squeeze. "No, no, absolutely not, dear husband," you said in a sweet, heartfelt voice. "I just moved too quickly, and I suppose I’m feeling this way from hunger. I also pulled the laces in a bit of a rush, that is all. I really do feel fine. I would never want to keep you from your work."
Gwayne looked intently into your eyes, weighing the truth of your words. Letting out a deep breath, the tension on his face slowly eased. "Are you certain?" he asked, still needing reassurance.
"Completely certain," you replied with a smile.
Gwayne offered a faint nod, though he had no intention of dropping his vigilance entirely. Bending his left arm toward you, he offered it with a playful yet commanding air. "Then we shall hae our breakfast," he declared. "Take my arm, my Lady. I can not allow any missteps on our way to the hall."
Responding to his thoughtful manner, you slipped your arm through his. Together, you left the room, navigating the stone corridors and stairs down toward the great dining hall.
Stepping through the heavy doors of the dining hall, you saw that Ormund was not alone. Seated alongside him at the table was his old friend and loyal soldier, Ser Bold Jon Roxton, known for his fierce bravery. The two were speaking in low tones over plates and goblets.
The moment they noticed your entrance, their conversation ceased. Ser Jon Roxton stood up immediately, the metal pieces of his armor clinking softly. A respectful expression appeared on his stern face.
"Ser Gwayne, my Lady," Jon Roxton greeted, bowing his head respectfully to you both. "Good morrow."
"Ser Jon," Gwayne acknowledged with a nod.
"My Lord," Jon Roxton said, turning back to Ormund. "We can discuss the details of our matter later. I’ll leave you to your family."
With Ormund’s approving nod, Ser Jon gathered his helmet and sword from the edge of the table, bowed respectfully once more, and stepped out of the hall. As the door closed behind him, only you, Gwayne, and Ormund remained.
Ormund was in high spirits. Throughout the meal, with a broad grin on his face, he spoke incessantly about his crucial upcoming meeting with members of House Tarly in the city center later that day. Toward the end of the lively conversation he finished the last bite on his plate and wagged a admonishing finger toward Gwayne.
"And you, cousin... Do not, under any circumstances, botch the shipment business down at the harbor. The Tarlys appreciate order," he said cheerfully. Standing up from the table to adjust his attire, he added, "Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare and take a long, hot bath. I can not go into the city center looking like a dusty, filthy lord."
As Ormund departed with jaunty steps and disappeared toward his chambers, a momentary silence settled over the table with the thud of the heavy wooden door closing behind him.
Leaning back in his chair, Gwayne watched his cousin leave, shook his head, and let a playful smirk grace his lips. Turning his gaze to you, he lowered his voice slightly:
"The man is practically going to bathe in perfume before presenting himself to Lady Tarly."
As you let out a soft giggle, the softness in Gwayne's eyes deepened. Without losing a moment, he began moving the freshly sliced figs, sweet grapes, and peeled apple slices from his own plate over to yours, one by one. As you watched him, trying to understand what he was up to, he carefully placed the final piece of fruit right in the center of your plate.
"Gwayne, what are you doing?" you asked. He slid his chair a bit closer to yours, his expression a mix of rogue charm and protectiveness.
"Filling your plate," he said, striving for an utterly solemn tone. "You haven’t been eating enough these past few days. You need to keep your strength up. If I’m to survive Ormund dumping his harbor chores on me while he makes merry with the Tarlys, I need you strong and by my side."
Gently resting his hand over yours, he stroked the back of it with his thumb. "Come on, finish it all."
Unable to resist his endearing behavior, you giggled softly. Looking at the pile of fruit he had accumulated on your plate, you shook your head, reached out with your fork, and picked up one of the sweetest-looking slices of fig.
"Very well, Ser Gwayne," you said after swallowing, a playful slyness in your smile. "Since all of this is for me to gather my strength and look after you..."
As the meal wound down and the plates cleared, your thoughts turned to little Prince Daeron. Setting your fork on the edge of the plate, you leaned eagerly toward Gwayne.
"Daeron" you said, lowering your voice as your eyes lit up. "When we visit Daeron today, you will see for yourself. I think he’s very, very close to speaking his first words."
Gwayne raised an eyebrow, looking at you with curiosity. "Oh, is that so?"
"Yes!" you said joyfully. "The other day, while I was reading him a story, he started making little sounds, moving his lips as if he was trying to imitate me. He’s such a clever boy... Just like his uncle. I could swear he’s already etching the words into his mind."
Gwayne couldn't help but smile with pride and devotion at you comparing his intelligence to the child's. Looking at you with that soft light in his eyes, he straightened up in his chair. "So, clever like me, is he? In that case, we shall not keep this clever nephew of mine waiting for a visit from his sweet aunt."
Rising from the table, Gwayne once again extended his left arm in his thoughtful manner. "If you please, my Lady."
Smiling, you slipped your arm into his. Together, you left the great hall and walked along the stone corridor toward Daeron’s quarters. Arriving at the door, Gwayne knocked lightly and pushed it open.
Inside, there was a sweet bustle of activity: two maids were airing out the room and tidying up, while another paced near the windows, gently rocking little Daeron, who was napping in her arms.
Noticing your entrance, the maids immediately bowed and stepped aside. Gwayne turned to them in his calm, authoritative yet gentle voice: "You may resume your duties later. Leave us for now."
The maids bowed respectfully and slipped out one by one, while the last maid gently placed Daeron into his cradle before departing. As Gwayne lingered at the threshold to give a few final instructions, you headed straight for the table.
From it, you picked up the soft blanket you had left half-finished the night before. Setting the hoop and needles aside, you folded the blanket neatly over your arm and walked over to the cradle. Daeron was sleeping like an angel, his tiny hands clasped over his chest.
Sensing Gwayne approaching behind you, you turned to look at him. "Look," you whispered, glancing back down at the crib.
Carefully unfolding the blanket in your arms, you turned toward Gwayne. Holding up the soft fabric brought to life by colorful threads, you proudly displayed its fine details so he could see.
"Here.." you whispered, gently tracing a finger over the embroidered motifs. "Here are the ships docking at the harbor. And right beside them, fields of lavender..."
Then, your finger rested on a small figure running joyfully among vibrant green trees in the very center of the blanket. The figure’s carefully stitched auburn-red hair shimmered in the hearth light.
"And right here..." you said, looking up at Gwayne with a playful, affectionate gaze, "...is Daeron, running free among the tall trees."
Gwayne couldn't hide the admiration in his eyes upon seeing the delicate craft and the scene brought to life on the fabric. Stepping closer, he gently stroked the little red-haired figure with his fingertips. A deep smile spread across his face.
"This is truly incredible skill..." he said in a low tone filled with wonder. "Daeron is going to adore this."
Then his eyes drifted to the corner of the blanket that remained empty. He paused; a sweet longing and a thoughtful expression touched his gaze. Turning his head toward you, he spoke in a soft, pleading tone:
"Tell me, my lady... Could you do me a favor and add another little girl with silver hair right beside this sweet boy?"
When you raised your eyebrows inquisitively, Gwayne smiled softly and continued: "I’m speaking of my niece, Helaena... Queen Alicent say she spends most of her time in the gardens, inspecting bugs, winged creatures, and colorful flowers. If you embroider Helaena alongside her beloved little insects and blossoms among these green trees... it shall be a fairytale garden for them both. The little prince will have his big sister right beside him."
Touched by his thoughtful and loving request, you smiled softly. Taking a step toward him to close the distance, you tilted your head up and looked into his eyes with warmth.
"Of course I will," you said softly and sincerely. "Little Helaena will suit this garden wonderfully... Wherever Daeron goes, his sister will always be right there by his side."
As you stepped toward him, Gwayne reached out and gently wrapped his arms around your waist. Pulling you close into a tight embrace, he rested his chin atop your head, amidst your hair. The only sound in the room was the tiny breaths of Daeron sleeping soundly.
In the deep, peaceful silence that stretched between you, Gwayne lingered. Clearly, his mind had drifted far away, to the darkest, loneliest memories of his childhood. After a long pause, he spoke again, a deep sigh passing from his chest.
"Perhaps..." he said, his voice slightly veiled, heavy with the ache of the past. "...perhaps you could add Alicent as well. They could all be together in that green garden, among the flowers..."
The quiet sorrow in his words seemed to diffuse into the air like mist. Though he spoke of Alicent, the underlying void was clear as day. It was the silent, unfulfilled yearning for the mother he was separated from as a young boy and subsequently lost... That picture of his sister, Alicent, and her family together in a peaceful garden was, in truth, the stitched manifestation of the home he had never fully tasted in his own childhood.
Moved by the tenderness of touching his hidden wound, you pressed your head gently against his chest. "Of course," you whispered, your voice brimming with understanding. "I will bring them all together in that garden. Not a single one will be missing."
Carefully folding the blanket, you placed it on the wooden chair beside the crib. Then, taking Gwayne’s hand, you led him toward the cradle.
Together, you leaned slightly over the crib. Extending the large fingers that usually wore heavy armor and held swords, Gwayne stroked little Daeron’s hair with incredible gentleness, light as a feather. You touched the babe's chubby cheek and adjusted the light blanket over him. As if sensing your love, little Daeron shifted his tiny hand, a faint smile appearing in his sleep.
As the two of you stood leaned over the crib, adoring the stirring baby with tender touches, a soft knock sounded at the heavy door. Two guards entered, stopping at the threshold with respectful bows.
"Ser Gwayne," one of the guards reported in a formal tone. "The captain awaits you at the harbor. It is time for the meeting with the shipment merchants from the city center."
Gwayne took a deep breath and straightened up. Gathering his soft, melancholy, and loving expression, he turned back to you. Reaching out, he took your hands in his and pressed a long, warm, and deep kiss onto the back of your fingers.
"I shall return soon, my lady," he whispered, looking into your eyes. "Take good care of yourself and our sweet boy."
"Return with good news, Ser Gwayne," you replied with a smile.
Gwayne stroked your cheek one last time before exiting the room with the guards. As the sound of armor and footsteps faded down the stone corridor, silence settled deeply over the room once more.
With Gwayne gone, you gathered the colorful threads, the hoop, and the blanket you had set on the chair. You settled into the comfortable wooden seat right beside the crib. Fitting the blank corner of the fabric into the hoop and tightening its screws, you suddenly realized your eyes had grown misty, your lashes wet with tears.
Wiping away the few tears that slipped down your cheeks, you let out a soft smile. You had been strangely emotional these days; the slightest whisper, a departing step, or a memory of the past made your heart ache instantly. You thought of Gwayne’s request, spoken in that vulnerable voice... Alicent, little Helaena, the flowers, and the bugs... As you pondered the yearning for a mother and the raw hunger for family warmth that your husband hid behind his armor and stern knightly posture, your tears fell lightly onto the cloth.
Drying your eyes, you took a deep breath and threaded a fine, silver strand into the needle.
You began stitching Helaena first. Right beside the green wooded area where Daeron ran, you started crafting the figure of a little girl kneeling joyfully in delicate drapes. With every pass of the needle through the cloth, her silver hair took shape. Next, you embroidered a tiny, golden-yellow caterpillar held in her palm, followed by purple lavenders and yellow daisies scattered around the hem of her dress.
Right behind them, you placed Alicent in olive-green robes, watching over her children with a protective, tender, and noble stance... As the threads intertwined on the fabric, that peaceful garden from Gwayne’s mind was coming to life through your hands.
You lost track of time. The rhythmic motion of the needle, Daeron’s steady breathing, and the warmth of the room carried you away to another world when... suddenly, a sharp, violent wave of nausea surged from the center of your chest up to your throat.
A bitter taste flooded your mouth, and your head spun violently. Without knowing how you managed to drop the hoop and needle onto the chair, you pressed a hand to your stomach and sprang to your feet. Your face turned pale as chalk in an instant. Struggling to breathe and realizing you couldn't hold it back, you rushed out of Daeron’s room. Breathless, you tried to navigate the cold stone corridor while fighting the unrelenting nausea rising from your stomach. Your vision darkened; your footsteps stumbled.
As you tried to find the way to the nearest privy, hurried footsteps echoed behind you.
"My Lady! My Lady, please wait!"
Elia, your young maid, came running up behind you, catching your faltering body in her gentle yet firm arms just in time. "Are you alright? You look sick, please lean on me," she urged, placing a hand around your waist to support you with all her strength. The girl’s genuine concern and tender grip felt like the only anchor keeping you upright.
Just then, cheerful humming and footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Lord Ormund appeared, practically floating with joy after wrapping up his meeting with the Tarly family. In his hand was a small, gold-embroidered scent sachet filled with the rarest flower essences brought by merchants to Oldtown's harbor. Bringing the sachet to his nose, he drew in the rich fragrance deeply, only to spot you in the middle of the corridor, leaning heavily on the servant girl as you tried to compose yourself.
Slowing his pace, he approached. Without losing an ounce of his triumphant and boastful demeanor, he cast a somewhat mocking, yet condescendingly gracious look your way.
"What is the meaning of this?" Ormund remarked, continuing to sniff the sachet gently as he waved it about. "It’s hard to believe you still haven't fully adjusted to Oldtown's air. Nothing can ruin my spirits today. The meeting with the Tarlys went as splendidly as I could have wished."
Pulling the sachet from his nose, he gave the maidservant a brief glance. "I will send word to the Maesters. Let them make you peppermint tea or whatever else they stuff you with. But you’d best rest in your chambers; don't wander about looking so sickly and souring everyone’s spirits."
Following his indifferent yet 'helpful' remarks, Ormund resumed sniffing his sachet and marched proudly down the corridor. You were in no condition to care about his arrogant antics.
As soon as Ormund was out of earshot, the maidservant turned to you, whispering with deep concern in her eyes: "Come, my Lady, let me take you to your room right away. Lie down on your bed, and I will care for you."
Leaning heavily on the girl's arm, you made your way to your chamber with slow, trembling steps. Once inside, she gently laid you down on the bed. Your face was still pale, a fine cold sweat glistening on your temples. Fetching a warm cloth wetted from a copper pitcher near the hearth, she placed it on your forehead, then sat on the edge of the bed and began massaging your trembling wrists in delicate, circular motions. Her tender touch and the quiet peace of the room slowly eased your nausea.
Just as your eyes fluttered shut and you took a deep breath, a soft knock sounded at the door. The Maester summoned by Ormund entered, carrying a small wooden satchel filled with medicinal herbs. The old man bowed respectfully in greeting.
"My Lady," the Maester said in a soft, reassuring tone as he took a seat on the chair beside the bed. "Lord Ormund mentioned that you fell ill. If I may, I need to ask a few questions to understand your condition."
Releasing your wrists, the girl stepped back slightly but remained in the room. You gave a slight nod, granting the Maester permission.
Setting his satchel on the table, the Maester examined your face and eyes attentively. "First, did this nausea strike suddenly? Do you suspect something you ate?"
"No..." you replied, your voice still slightly faint. "I was fine this morrow. It was just... sudden distraught, followed by this nausea. I think I’ve also become a bit sensitive to smells recently, like Lord Ormund."
The Maester nodded understandingly, resting his hand on his chin in thought before continuing: "I see. And lately, have you found yourself feeling unusually tired or in sorrowfull spirits, any ache in your wrists or sudden changes in your appetite?"
The tender moment you shared with Gwayne, your lack of appetite this morrow, and your tears earlier flashed through your mind. "Aye," you admitted in surprise. "I’ve been feeling strangely exhausted and weary these days..."
With a subtle, knowing smile, the Maester leaned forward slightly to ask his final question: "And tell me, my Lady... when was your last moonly bleeding? Have you experienced a delay?"
The question hung in the air, causing you to freeze. In your mind, you began counting back the days and weeks. Between the bustling pace of Oldtown, Gwayne’s return, and caring for Daeron... you realized you had completely forgotten your own calendar. Your bleeding should have arrived weeks ago, yet it hadn't.
Your eyes widened in astonishment. Your heart suddenly beat so wildly it felt as though it might burst from your chest.
"I..." you stammered, your voice trembling with excitement. "I... think a considerable amount of time has passed."
The smile on the Maester's face deepened, his serious demeanor melting into one of warm congratulation. "Then you suffer from no illness, my Lady," he said gently. "Your nausea and distraught are entirely natural. You are with child. Ser Gwayne and you... shall hold your own babe in moons time."
A wave of realization washed over you like lightning. A babe? That little life you and Gwayne had dreamed of... was growing inside you right now. Astonishment gave way to a happiness so immense and pure that tears spilled from your eyes unbidden. Your hand instinctively rested upon your belly. A wide, trembling smile spread across your lips.
After preparing a few light herbal tea to help you regain your strength and advising you to rest, the Maester bowed respectfully and left the room.
The moment the heavy door closed, Elia rushed excitedly to the side of the bed, her eyes shining as she took your hands.
"My Lady! This... this is marvelous news!" the girl cried, beside herself with joy. "Imagine what Ser Gwayne will do when he hears!"
With your hand still resting on your stomach, you looked at her through your tears and smiled. "I can not believe it..." you whispered, your voice shaking with happiness. "I am with child. Gwayne... how am I going to tell him when he returns from the harbor?"
"It will be the greatest gift you could ever give him, my Lady," the maidsaid.
With that profound warmth radiating inside you, you leaned back against the pillows. Neither the nausea nor the dizziness mattered anymore; your mind held only the anticipation of the moment the door would open and you would give Gwayne this joyous news. Filled with a newly ignited protective instinct, you cupped the teacup in your hands. Taking tiny sips of the herbal tea the Maester had prepared, the warmth of the cup merged with the overwhelming joy within you. As the tea went down, the turmoil in your stomach gradually settled, replaced by a deep serenity.
Setting the cup on the table, you smiled affectionately at the maid watching you from the edge of the bed.
"Thank you so much," you said, your voice softening with genuine gratitude. "You’ve been a wonderful support. Now, I have a favor to ask... Please go downstairs and tell them to continue looking after Prince Daeron. And could you bring my half-finished blanket and threads from the chair in his room?"
The girl bowed her head with delight. "Right away, my Lady!" she said, hurrying out of the room.
When she left and the door shut, the room returned to its peaceful silence. Slipping out of bed, you walked barefoot across the cold stone floor to stand before the vanity mirror.
You looked at your reflection... A soft, rosy warmth had returned to your face, displacing the earlier paleness. A deep, protective light shone in your eyes, one that had never been there before. Your hands slid downward, resting through the fabric of your gown upon your stomach. There, right under your palm, grew a tiny life, unfelt as of yet, but its presence already altering your world.
You thought of Gwayne... The expression that would sweep across his face when he returned from the harbor to hear this news. You envisioned how that stern, disciplined knight would suddenly falter, his eyes filling with pride and adoration. You could see him wrapping his arms around you tightly in protective instinct, his fingers trembling slightly as he placed his hands over your belly and an unstoppable smile spread across your lips.
A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. The maid entered, handing you the neatly folded blanket alongside the hoop and colorful threads. Thanking her, you saw her off and carried the blanket back to your bed. Leaning your back against the soft pillows, you spread the fabric over your knees.
When you threaded the needle again, every single stitch on the cloth carried an entirely different meaning.
You looked at the red-haired boy running among flowers and green trees. Beside him, you looked at little girl Helaena you had begun stitching, and Alicent watching over them with a protective stance... And now, a new addition was destined for this fairytale garden. Your own child.
With every push and pull of the needle through the cloth, your mind drifted into a loving flow. On one hand was little Daeron sleeping soundly in his crib; on the other was Gwayne, who would soon finish his work at the harbor and return home to you... And now, this tiny miracle born of your love, growing softly within your womb. As your fingers glided gracefully over the fabric, you continued to embroider the most peaceful, meaningful piece of your life.
As the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon of Oldtown, painting the sky in shades of crimson and purple, Gwayne completed his long, tiring meetings at the harbor and returned to the manse. Brushing the light dust from his clothes as he climbed the stairs, he ran into Ormund pacing the corridor, wine goblet in hand.
The moment Ormund spotted Gwayne, he paused with that familiar teasing smirk on his lips. Taking a sip from his goblet, he stepped toward his cousin.
"Ah, you’ve finally returned, Gwayne," Ormund said in a taunting, patronizing tone. "While you were wrestling with merchants down at the harbor, your delicate bride here fell... rather ill. She collapsed right in the middle of the corridor into the servants' arms. I had to send her the Maester."
The moment the word "ill" hit Gwayne’s ears, the fatigue on his face vanished completely. His heart hammered in his chest; the morning's dizziness and her pale face flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightning. Without waiting for Ormund to finish his sentence, without uttering a single word, he turned around and marched down the corridor with swift, forceful strides.
He burst the heavy wooden door open without even bothering to knock. His gaze swept directly to the bed, landing on you as you leaned against the pillows holding the blanket.
In seconds, he was at the bedside, sitting down beside you. A dark anxiety gripped his face, a desperate panic in his eyes. Casting his armored gauntlets aside, he clasped your hands tightly within his large, warm palms.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice trembling as his eyes scanned you from head to toe. "Ormund said you collapsed in the hall. The Maester came... What happened? Was it that matter from this morning? Tell me, where does it hurt?"
Seeing him panicked, his eyes wide with worry, a warm smile spread across your lips. Reaching out, you placed your hand on his cheek, your finger stroking his tense features. Sitting up slightly in bed, you took a deep breath.
"Calm down, Gwayne," you said, softening your voice as much as possible. "I’m alright, I’m truly alright. In fact, I’ve never been better."
Gwayne furrowed his brows, looking at you in confusion. "You’re alright? But Ormund..."
"Ormund didn't even understand what was happening," you said with a light giggle. Then, slowly unfolding the blanket in your lap, you turned it toward him. You placed your finger over a tiny, unfinished figure in that green garden, one you had just begun stitching with immense care.
"Look..." you said, your eyes shining brightly. "I was going to add Daeron, Helaena, and Alicent to this garden, remember?"
Gwayne, still in shock and trying to comprehend, stared at the hoop. "Yes... yes, that's what we agreed on."
"The Maester was here today, Gwayne..." you said, your voice trembling with excitement and pure joy. "And he told me... we’ll need to add one more figure to this garden. Right near our dear boy Daeron."
Gwayne paused for a moment. His gaze drifted from the blanket up to your face. You watched step-by-step as the gears turned in his mind, catching that brief moment of bewilderment in his eyes. "One more figure?"
He couldn't finish his sentence. His eyes darted down to your other hand, resting with delicate fingers over your stomach, and he froze instantly. The tense, worried look on his face gave way to a stunned, motionless disbelief. A deep breath caught in his throat.
"You..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Are you... with child...?"
With a joyful tear slipping down your cheek, you nodded softly. "I am with child, Gwayne."
Gwayne stood entirely frozen, utterly overwhelmed by the sweetest shock of his life. Then, a smile spread across his face.
His eyes shining with brilliant light, he released your hands and wrapped his arms tightly around you. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he pulled you closer on the bed, pressing you firmly against his chest. The joyful laughter of you both echoed off the stone walls of the chamber.
"Gwayne!" you laughed happily amidst his embrace.
Gwayne pulled back in instant panic, loosening his grip just a fraction as though holding the most delicate porcelain in the world, yet refusing to let you go entirely. His face held both that childlike delight and a sudden, protective gravity.
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!" he blurted out, gently resting his hands upon your stomach. Leaning in close, he pressed his forehead against yours. "From now on, you will be careful with everything. When you walk, when you get up, even when you breathe! No more tiring yourself out, no more running around after Ormund, no more of anything..."
Watching him turn so instantly overprotective, you let out a bright giggle. Unable to contain his boundless affection, Gwayne pressed a long, deep, and proud kiss onto your lips. Keeping his hands over your belly without missing a single second, he kept gazing into your eyes with the unbridled pride of a man who had just won the greatest victory of his life.
Inching even closer, Gwayne never took his hands off your stomach. That deep admiration, mingled with childlike wonder, still lingered on his features. Eyes locked onto your belly, he seemed utterly lost on which of the dozens of questions swirling in his head to ask first.
"So..." he said, his voice dropping to a soft, hushed murmur. "Can... can it feel me right now? Do you think it can hear my voice?"
You smiled tenderly at his pure, unreserved curiosity. Placing your hand over his, you stroked them with gentle affection. "It’s still very early, my sweet knight," you said in a soft, affectionate tone. "It might not hear your voice directly for a few more moons, but I’m certain it can already feel your love and your presence."
Upon hearing your words, Gwayne looked at you with that deeply enamored light in his eyes. Unable to hold back any longer, he reached out, cupping your face in both hands and holding your head between them. Pressing his lips against yours, he kissed you in a long, deep, and passionate embrace.
When he pulled back slightly, he spoke breathlessly against your forehead: "I can not find a single word to describe how much I love you."
Slowly drawing back, he began unlacing his leather doublet and white linen shirt with deliberate care. From beneath his shirt, he pulled out a ring suspended from a thin leather cord around his chest. Hanging at the end of the cord, shimmering elegantly in the hearthfire's red glow, was a finely crafted gold ring set with a pale blue stone. Slipping the ring free from the cord, he held it in his palm.
"This..." you whispered, your voice hushed in awe and reverence. "This is your mother’s ring... Lady Alyrie’s."
"Yes," Gwayne said, turning his gaze down to the ring as he drew a deep breath. The solemnity on his face softened into its rawest, most vulnerable form. Holding the ring between his fingers, he looked deeply into your eyes.
"Ever since the Stranger took my mother, I’ve carried this against my chest, right over my heart. Through every battle, through those long and dark nights, it was always a sanctuary to me," he said, his voice trembling with heartfelt emotion. "My beloved... Now, I want this ring to belong to the most precious treasure of my life, I want it to protect you and the child growing inside you."
Gwayne gently took your hand. Sliding his mother’s cherished ring onto your delicate finger, it fit perfectly. Once set in place, he pressed a deep, reverent kiss onto the back of your hand.
"I swear to protect you and this little miracle growing inside you until my very last breath," he whispered.
With tears of joy spilling from your eyes, you leaned toward him and threw your arms around his neck. As Gwayne wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close against his chest, you both stepped into a brand-new chapter of your lives together.
genre: fluff, domestic softness, married idiots in love
warnings: none really — one (1) mention of the coming war, some mild kissing, gwayne being insufferable about his hair
summary: a morning in the gardens beneath OldTown, a basket of peaches, and a knight who has never once in his life won an argument with his wife.
(set a year or so before the dance. everyone is alive. everyone is happy. we do not speak of what comes next.)
╭┈◦•◦❥•◦
The gardens of Oldtown were at their best in the hour after dawn, and you had learned in two years of marriage that you were the only person in the whole keep who believed it.
The stone paths were still dark with dew. The bees had not properly woken. Fog came up off the Honeywine in long grey ribbons and caught in the myrtle hedges, and the great tower itself stood behind you with its beacon gone dim and pale, the way a candle looks when someone opens the shutters. Everything smelled of wet earth and lemon blossom and, faintly, of the sea.
You had a basket on your arm, half-full of peaches, and grass stains on the hem of a gown that had cost more than a horse.
"Now, my lady," came a voice from the top of the terrace steps, "I have been told a great many things about you, but no one warned me you were a common orchard thief."
You did not turn around. You had known him by the sound of his boots on the steps for a year and a half now; Gwayne walked like a man who suspected there might be an audience.
"They're my peaches.”
“They are my father's peaches."
"Your father is in King's Landing," you said, choosing another, turning it in the light to check the blush of it. "The peaches have been left in my care. I am inspecting them. Rigorously."
"You've eaten two already."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because I've been standing here since the bell," said Ser Gwayne Hightower, coming down the steps in that ambling unhurried way of his, "watching my wife commit crimes."
You turned.
He had come straight from the yard, which meant he had come straight from the yard and then gone somewhere to make himself presentable about it, because his hair was damp and combed back off his brow and his shirt was clean and open at the throat, and no man alive had ever left a morning's swordwork looking like that by accident. There was a bruise blooming just under his jaw. He was grinning about it.
"You've been watching me for an hour," you said.
"A quarter hour."
"An hour, Gwayne. The bell rang at dawn."
He came to a stop in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin, and he did not deny it. He looked down at the basket instead, took out a peach, considered it with the gravity of a maester examining a wound, and bit into it.
"Well," he said, with his mouth full. "Now I'm complicit."
"You're a knight of the Reach."
"I am. And this is the finest fruit in the Reach, and my wife stole it, and I intend to eat the evidence." He wiped his thumb along his lip. "Nobody hangs for a peach."
"Your father might."
"My father would write a letter about it," Gwayne said. "Six pages. With citations."
You laughed before you could help it, and he looked so pleased with himself, the way he always did, like a boy who had just cleared a fence he wasn't sure of. That was the thing nobody told you about him, back when your marriage was still ink and seals and two families shaking hands over your head. They told you he was vain. They told you he was clever and quick and difficult to pin down. Nobody told you he would look at you like that when you laughed, as if the sound were a coin he'd found in the street.
"Come," you said, and hooked your free arm through his. "Walk with me before the fog goes."
The path curved down past the fountain and under the arch of climbing roses that your good-mother had planted before she died, white ones, heavy-headed, dropping petals into the water. Gwayne finished the peach and threw the stone into the hedge with the underhand flick of a man who had spent his life throwing things into hedges.
"That'll grow," you said.
"Then Oldtown will have one more peach tree and my father will have one more thing to be irritated by. Everyone profits."
"You're very cheerful this morning."
"I'm very cheerful most mornings."
"You are cheerful in company," you corrected. "This morning you're cheerful with me, which is different, which means something has happened. Did you win?"
He put a hand to his chest. "You wound me. You think I only smile when I've won."
"Gwayne."
"I won," he admitted immediately. "Twice. Ser Robin has developed a habit of dropping his shoulder before he comes over the top, and I have been very patient about not telling him, and this morning I collected on my patience."
"That's cheating."
"That's observation."
"It's cheating dressed for a feast."
"Which is what all the best things are," he said, and stole a second peach out of your basket without breaking stride.
You let him. You had learned to let him. In the first months you had counted every little liberty he took as a battle lost, because you had come into this marriage braced for something; you weren't sure what, only that women told you to brace and it had taken you the better part of a year to understand that Gwayne Hightower was not laying siege to you. He was just like this. He took peaches. He talked through the septon's sermons under his breath. He put his cold feet on your legs in the night and pretended to be asleep when you shoved him. He was the least dangerous man in Westeros and he was armed at all times.
You reached the low wall at the garden's southern edge, where the ground fell away and the whole of the city lay out below you in the mist: the tangle of roofs, the river, the Citadel's blunt towers, the masts down at the harbour crowded together like a burnt forest. Somewhere a dog was barking. Somewhere else, someone was singing badly.
Gwayne set his hands on the wall and breathed out.
"Say it," you said.
"Say what?"
"Whatever you climbed all the way down here to say. You've been circling it since the peaches."
He glanced sideways at you. Green eyes, Hightower green, the same as his sister's, though on Alicent they always looked like a held breath and on him they looked like a joke you hadn't heard yet.
"You're a witch," he said. "I married a witch. My father will write a letter about that too."
"Gwayne."
"There's a letter from King's Landing."
Your stomach did the small ugly drop it always did now. Two years ago the words there's a letter from King's Landing would have meant nothing to you at all. Now everyone said them the way they said there's a storm coming in off the sea; flatly, and while already looking for the shutters.
"From your father."
"From my sister, in fact, which is worse, because my father tells me what to do and my sister tells me how she is." He turned around and leaned back against the wall with his elbows on it, tipping his face up to the thin sun. "She says she is very well. She says the children are very well. She says the king's health is much improved, which is the sort of thing you write when a man cannot hold a spoon."
"Gwayne."
"I know." He shut his eyes. "I know."
You said nothing for a moment. Below, the mist was pulling apart over the river.
"Does she ask you to come?"
"She never asks. That's the trick of her. She writes six pages about the weather and the septs and how Daeron is growing, and then at the very bottom, in a hand so small you'd think she was ashamed of it, she writes, it would gladden me to see you." He opened one eye. "Which is asking. That's my sister asking with both hands."
"And your father?"
"Oh, my father asks like a battering ram. His last letter said, and I quote, I trust the pleasures of Oldtown have not made you soft."
You considered this. "Have they?"
"Grievously," said Gwayne. "I sleep on feathers. I eat three times a day. I have a wife who steals fruit for me. I am the softest man in the Reach and I intend to defend the title."
"Then we shan't go."
He was quiet. That was the thing that told you it was serious; Gwayne Hightower quiet, for the length of three heartbeats, with the sun on his throat.
"Not yet," he said at last. "Not this year, I think."
"Not this year," you agreed.
"They'll want me eventually. When my father runs out of Hightowers who'll answer him and comes back round to the one who won't stop making jokes." He said it lightly, and it landed the way a light thing lands when it's made of iron. "But not this year. This year I'm going to stand in this garden and watch my wife rob an orchard, and if my father wants an accounting of my time, he may have it."
"He'll be delighted."
"He'll be apoplectic," Gwayne said, brightening. "Write it down, would you? Ser Gwayne rose at dawn, defeated Ser Robin twice, ate two peaches he did not pay for, and spent the remainder of the morning being soft at his wife. Send it under seal. Make it look important."
"You are a terrible son."
"I am the firstborn son," he said. "It's practically a vocation."
You made him carry the basket after that, because he was there and because he complained about it in a way that clearly meant he wanted to be asked, and you walked back up through the terraces to the little walled garden your good-mother had called the Quiet Court a square of grass and old fig trees with a bench nobody ever sat on, because it faced the wrong way for the view and the right way for the sun.
You sat on the grass instead. You always sat on the grass. Gwayne dropped down beside you with the graceless thump of a man in his own home, stretched his legs out, crossed them at the ankle, and put his head in your lap without asking, as though it were a chair that belonged to him.
"Comfortable?" you said.
"Extremely. Don't move."
"I have to move eventually."
"No, you don't. I'll have your meals brought."
You snorted, and set your hand in his hair, and he made a small pleased sound in the back of his throat that he would have denied under torture.
The sun was properly up now. It came down warm through the fig leaves and made moving coins of light all over him, over his shirt and his forearms and the bruise under his jaw, and the bees had woken and were going seriously about their business in the lavender, and the whole garden hummed with it. You could hear the Citadel bells, far off. You could hear a maid laughing somewhere up in the keep.
"Tell me something," you said.
"Anything. I have a great many opinions."
"When they told you who you were marrying… what did you think?"
He opened his eyes. "That's a dangerous question."
"It's a very safe question. You're lying in my lap. I have all the power here."
"You have all the power," he agreed, "at all times, in all places, which is a matter I intend to raise with the septons." He was quiet a moment, and then, in a slightly different voice: "I thought, well, that's that, then."
"Charming."
"No — listen." He shifted so he could look up at you properly. "You must understand what it is to be the firstborn son of Otto Hightower. Everything about my life was decided by other people in rooms I wasn't in. My sister was decided. My name, my knighting, my horse was decided. So when they said you will marry her, I thought: well, that's that, then. Another thing that happened to me."
"That's worse than charming. That's tragic."
"And then," he went on, ignoring you entirely, "you came to Oldtown, and on your third night here you told me at table, in front of my septa that my hair was too long for a fighting man and that vanity was one of the seven kinds of sin, though you couldn't recall which."
You winced. "I was nervous."
"You were magnificent. My septa choked on her wine. And I sat there and I thought, oh no." He grinned. "Oh no. She's going to be the great catastrophe of my life."
"And was I?"
"You are," he said. "Ongoing. Sustained. No end in sight."
You looked down at him for a moment, at the sun-coins sliding over his stupid handsome face, and then you leaned over and kissed him, upside down and badly, and he laughed into it and caught the back of your neck with one hand as if to say yes, that, do that again.
When you sat up your hair had come loose on one side. He looked immensely satisfied about it.
"Your hair is still too long," you said.
"My hair is perfect."
"It's not."
"It is better than yours."
"Gwayne."
"I'm sorry, my love, but it simply is. The gods gave me one gift and I am obliged to be a good steward of it." He settled back down. "Criston Cole wears his cropped like a scullion and look at the state of the man's disposition."
"You've never met Criston Cole."
"I've heard about Criston Cole. That's worse."
You said nothing. You reached over, very quietly, and picked a stem of lavender.
Gwayne, eyes closed, said, "What are you doing."
"Nothing."
"You're doing something. I can hear you doing something."
"You cannot hear nothing."
"I've been married two years," he said. "I can hear nothing better than any man in the Seven King— don't."
You had already begun. You took a thin section of hair at his temple and started plaiting the lavender into it, and he made a noise of pure theatrical anguish and did not, you noticed, move his head one inch off your lap.
"This is an assault," he informed the fig trees. "This is an assault upon my person."
"Hold still."
"On the honour of House Hightower."
"You'll look lovely."
"I will look like a hedge—"
"Gwayne."
He held still.
You worked slowly, because it was slow work and because there was no reason on earth to hurry. Lavender, then a sprig of rosemary because it smelled good, then three of the little white roses from the arch, snapped off short. His hair was fine and slippery and hard to keep hold of, which he would have been delighted to hear, so you didn't say it. Somewhere in the middle of it his breathing went long and even, and you thought he'd genuinely fallen asleep until he said, without opening his eyes.
"Are you happy?"
Your hands paused. "That's a dangerous question," you said.
"It's a very safe question. My head's in your lap. You have all the power."
You looked down at him. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes now that hadn't been there when you married from squinting into the sun, from laughing, from a life spent mostly outdoors and mostly amused. There was a white knot of a scar through one eyebrow that he claimed was from a boar and that his squire claimed was from a door.
"Yes," you said.
He waited.
"Truly, yes," you said. "Which frightens me a little."
"Why?"
"Because I've read enough songs to know that no one's happy in the middle of a song."
Gwayne opened his eyes. "Then we shan't be in one," he said.
"You can't decide that."
"I can decide a great deal. I've decided about the peaches. I've decided about my father." He reached up and caught your wrist gently, his thumb over the small bones of it and held it there against his chest, where you could feel his heart going along steady and unbothered underneath. "Listen. Somewhere out east there are dragons and there are men writing letters about dragons, and one day someone will come up that road and knock on that door and I will have to go and be a Hightower at them. I know it. You know it. My father has known it since before I was born, I expect; he's a man who plans that far ahead."
"Gwayne—"
"But that's not today," he said. "Today there's fog on the river and my wife has put a garden in my hair and I have eaten two stolen peaches and won two bouts, and if this is the middle of the song then it's the best part and I refuse to hurry it." He kissed the inside of your wrist, quick, careless, like it was nothing. "That's all. That's my whole philosophy. I've been working on it for years."
"It's a very short philosophy."
"It's a very efficient philosophy," he said. "You could have married a man with a long one and been bored to death by midwinter."
You laughed, and your eyes stung a little, and you covered it by tugging his hair.
"Ow."
"Hold still. I'm nearly done."
When you were done he sat up and shook his head like a dog, and about half of it fell out, which was frankly less than you'd expected.
"Well?" he said, turning his face to give you the good side, which was the same as the other side. "Tell me honestly. Ruined?"
You looked at him. Lavender and rosemary and three white roses, sun through the leaves, grass on his shoulder, that bruise going purple under his jaw.
"You look," you said, "like a maiden in a song."
"Excellent. Which one?"
"The one who gets carried off."
"By whom?"
"By her husband, in a moment, if she doesn't stop talking."
He grinned so wide it must have hurt. "Threats. In my garden."
"My garden. You said so yourself. You've told everyone in Oldtown it's my garden since the day I asked for it."
"I have," he admitted, "because when I say my wife's garden the maesters look at me as though I've done something worthwhile, and I've found I like the feeling." He plucked one of the roses back out of his hair and, with great ceremony, tucked it behind your ear. "There. Now we match. Now nobody can say anything."
"Everybody will say something."
"Let them," said Gwayne Hightower, and kissed you.
It was a slow one this time, unhurried, one hand at your jaw and the other braced in the grass, and you tasted peach and he smelled of lavender and clean linen and horse, and above you the fig leaves shifted and the light moved and the bees kept up their work in the lavender, entirely unimpressed. You had a fistful of his shirt. You did not remember deciding to take it.
Which of course was the exact moment that somebody came through the gate at the far end of the Quiet Court.
"Ser — oh. Oh. Ser, I— the master-at-arms says—"
Gwayne did not let go of you. He turned his head, with the rosemary sticking out over his ear, and regarded his squire with the calm of a man who had been interrupted in gardens by squires his entire adult life.
"Yes, Willem."
"The master-at-arms says you're wanted in the yard," said Willem, aged fourteen, magenta from the collar up, examining the sky. "He says. He says you promised him. He says you swore."
"Did I swear?"
"You swore on your sword, ser."
"That does sound like me." Gwayne sighed and let his forehead drop against yours for a moment. "The trouble with being charming," he murmured, "is that you make so very many promises."
"Go," you said.
"I don't want to."
"You'll want to in ten minutes. You'll want to enormously. You'll come back at noon and tell me about it at extraordinary length."
"...That's true," he said, wounded by the accuracy of it, and got up.
He brushed the grass off, and put a hand up to his hair, and stopped; you watched him remember what was in it. You watched him weigh it. You watched, delighted, as Ser Gwayne Hightower, first born son of the Hand of the King, decided.
"Willem," he said. "How do I look?"
The boy, trapped, said: "...Very well, ser."
"Very well," Gwayne repeated. "You hear that? Very well. The lad has an eye." He pointed at you as he backed toward the gate. "Noon. Don't eat all the peaches."
"I make no promises."
"You never do. It's the worst thing about you." He was at the gate. He turned, one hand on the stone, sun in his eyes, lavender in his hair, and for a moment; a small one, a moment you would take out and hold a great many times in the years that came after, on the road, in the dark, in rooms full of men shouting about dragons; he just looked at you across the grass, and didn't say anything clever at all.
Then he said, "I love you, my wife," in the offhand way he said everything that mattered, and was gone down the steps two at a time with his squire trotting after him.
You sat back in the grass with the basket in your lap and the rose behind your ear.
The bees went on. The fog burned off the river. Above you the Hightower stood white and enormous against a sky going properly blue at last, and somewhere far away in King's Landing a sick king was being helped to sit up in bed, and a queen was writing six pages about the weather, and none of it, this morning, had reached the gardens.
You ate another peach.
a/n: no i will not be writing the sequel. gwayne stays in the garden. gwayne stays in the garden forever. reblogs and tags are my bread and butter 🤍
in which your husband leaves you with unsavory company (ormund hightower), and you are forced to feign tolerance whilst you wait for his return
PAIRINGS: gwayne hightower x fem!reader, gwayne hightower x wife!reader, daeron targaryen x aunt!reader
WARNINGS: yearning to the max, angst, ormund hightower, pregnancy, protective!reader, simp!gwayne (when is he not), gwayne being sad, daeron being sad, reader being super sad, arguing, the slightest fluff ending
WORD COUNT: 4.6k
🎶 : sailor song - gigi perez
AN: 🩵♥️💗💛 - my sweet gwayne. this was so much fun to write!! also daeron is a perfect little angel wafe. happy reading!!
The sun shone through the curtains, and you hummed, rolling over into your husband’s chest. “Save me, Ser.”
“From whom shall I save you from, my lady?”
Your hand pointed towards the window, mumbling. “It has offended me.”
“You expect me to slay the sun?” Gwayne’s laugh filled the room, and you couldn't help but smile into his soft skin. “How else will your beloved garden continue to grow?”
“That is your beloved garden, not mine. Is what I have asked such an impossible request?” You looked up, attempting to manipulate him with your feminine wiles. “Your lady wife has asked you a question.”
“You are spirited this morning.” His smile was almost as bright as the sun. “Did you sleep well?”
“With you by my side, how can I not?” You pulled yourself to his lips. “Promise me that you will come back to me.”
“Always.” He whispered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “I shall never leave your side. Not for a moment.”
“Lies.” You smirked. “Thought I would not insult you and pretend that I do not appreciate the sentiment.”
“I am glad that my promise suits you.” Gwayne’s hand shot out, pulling you close to him. Your stomach flipped, wrapping your leg around his waist. “How fares the babe?”
“She is eager, as always.” You grabbed at his wrist, guiding his hand to your stomach. “She wants her father.”
“Soon, my love.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling when your eyes fluttered shut. “Soon.”
“My lady.”
You hummed, your hand shooting out to Gwayne’s side as you attempted to bury your face into the pillow. So he was gone. You frowned, another terribly life-like dream. Your maid, Lila, completely unaware of your melancholic state, laughed before attempting to wake you once more. “I hate to disturb you, but it is urgent. From Lord Hightower.”
You shot up, heart beating faster than it should. “Gwayne has written?”
“No, my lady.” Lila frowned. “It is from the Lord Hightower.”
You huffed, letting yourself fall back into the comfort of your warm bed. “Read it to me then.”
“He requests your presence in Tumbleton. He says he wants to-” She scoffed, and you pretended not to hear. “He wants to present a united front for the future king, Daeron.”
You shot up once more. “Daeron? King?”
“That is what he says, my lady.”
“Is there anything else?”
“He- he asks that you arrive as quickly as possible.”
“I do not see how that will be possible, seeing as the roads are thick with thieves and Hightower enemies.” Your hand gravitated toward your swollen stomach. “I will not put my child in harm’s way for Ormund Hightower’s sake.”
“He says that Daeron will come fetch you by Dragonback.”
“Seven hells.” Your heart sank. “How will I bring my things-”
“I will ensure everything is taken care of, my lady.” Lila rushes to rid you of your worries. “You must rest, and prepare yourself.”
“Well said, Lila.” You stood, rounding your bed to don Gwayne’s robe. It still smelled ever so slightly of him, bringing you comfort in his absence. “I will break my fast in the gardens today.”
“An excellent choice, my lady.”
Daeron had grown since you last saw him.
Since Ormund took him away from the one home he had ever known to risk his life for the sake of glory. When you had last seen him, he had been three and ten, nearly four and ten.
His voice was deeper, his eyes were sadder.
You wanted to kill Ormund.
Ever the gentleman, Daeron helped you on and off of the Tessarion, his hand providing proof of you and Gwayne’s guidance, to always be kind, to always stay true to his heart.
You kissed his cheek, smiling brightly when his face turned bright red. “Have I embarrassed you, nephew?”
“Compared to Uncle Ormund’s actions, it is nothing.” He quipped, linking your arm through his as he escorted you into the Tumbleton estate. “I have missed you.”
“And I you, sweet boy.” You pulled him closer. “How have you fared since your departure?”
“Well enough.” His smile was tight, secretive. “Others have it far worse than I. Others in this very city-”
“I am well aware of other’s troubles, Daeron. We shall remedy that soon enough.” You stopped just before the door you assumed would lead you to Ormund, whispering. “I asked how you fared?”
“I am fine.” He nodded, straightening his posture as if that would comfort you. It did not. “All is well.”
“If you insist.” You huffed. “Shall we face the beast?”
“Aunt!” Daeron’s eyes widened, collecting himself before he motioned to the guards to open the door.
“Cousin!” Ormund stood behind a great oak desk. “How good of you to join us.”
“My lord.” You curtsied quickly. “How could I refuse such a kind invitation from the Lord of Oldtown?”
“Still…” Ormund had caught your obvious disdain for him the moment you entered the room. You were glad of it, if he had not, he would have been far stupider than you thought him to already be. “Is the babe-” You almost laughed at his attempt to show care.
“Fine. Thank you.”
“I am sure after such an arduous journey, that you would like to rest.”
“That would be most appreciated, my lord.” You squinted, wary of his sudden kindness. Ormund was not known for his consideration of others.
“I have had the maids fix the finest room they could find. Daeron shall escort you.” He sat at the table, plopping a grape into his mouth casually. “And I shall see you in the morrow.”
You curtsied once more before bidding him goodbye. “Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
Had Ormund broken?
Yes, he had.
This very morning, he, in the same breath, denied Lord and Lady Footling their bedchambers, threatened to end their lives, and swore that his men would be on their best behavior, all whilst bare as the day he was born.
Now, he asks that you come along to deal with a diplomacy issue.
Lady Footling is as fierce as she is proud, stepping forward to confront the intruder of her home once more. “You said your men were honorable. This one-” She pointed to the Hightower knight standing to her right, his face bloodied and beaten. “Has sinned.”
“I was billeted at the smithy, my lord. But the smith didn’t like it. Mayhaps he resents the imposition or mayhaps he is loyal to Rhaenyra. But he struck me.”
“My lord.” The smith stepped forward. “Now, if it please you, we bear you no ill will. But this man went to ravish my sister and then broke my wife’s arm when she tried to stop him. She is a weaver. We need what little she earns.”
“Is this true?” Ormund looked at the Hightower knight with a look of neutrality. You do not trust him for a moment.
“No, my lord.” The knight replies.
Cries break out as a result. The women look utterly fearful, on the verge of tears when Ormund raises his hand. “I will have calm. What is your name?”
“Garrick, my lord, of Whitegrove.”
“Garrick of Whitegrove. You have violated guest right. You have debauched yourself upon a woman and injured another. Your punishment will fit your crime. You will be gelded, and you will have your own arm broken. You may remain in my service, but trespass again, and you will hang.”
The knight’s face was white. “My lord. I have a wife.”
“You should have thought of that then,” You stepped forward. “Before you attempted to defile a woman’s virtue. The House of Hightower will not allow this dishonorable act to go unpunished.”
Ormund said nothing, simply signaling the knights to take him away. “See them home. Have a maester tend to their wounds.” He waited until their ears were out of reach to address Daeron. “We must keep a firm grip, tensions are high. Lawlessness and disorder claw at our gates.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And your aunt is right.” He smiled firmly. “House Hightower will not allow its honor to be questioned.”
“She is quite beautiful.” You whisper, caressing Tessarion’s snout sweetly. “Sweet too.”
“Is she much different from the dragons you have known in the past?” Daeron pressed his forehead against her scales. “I have none to compare her to, it would seem.”
“In stature, no. She is very similar to your-” You gulped, wondering how you might rephrase your answer. “To your sister’s dragon.”
“Dreamfyre?” Daeron’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I have heard she is of a similar color. Kind too.”
“Yes.” You pursed your lips. Thank the gods you did not mention Syrax. “Has she been out since you escorted me here?”
“No.” He frowned. “She longs to fly. We hardly ever have the chance as of late.”
“She will feel the wind beneath her wings once more, I am sure of it.”
Tessarion purred from the loss of his touch. He smiled, leaning his forehead against her once more. “Patience, my girl. It won’t be long.”
A high screech left the dragon’s mouth, startling you. “I have warned you against indulging in affection for that beast.”
Tessarion grew restless, bellowing at the Hightower lord. You fought the smirk that was forming on your lips: even the dragon could sense how dismal his presence was. “Lykiri.”
“Have you come down here to try and dull his longing to ride?” Ormund addressed you.
“Quite the opposite.” You smiled tightly. “He is a Targaryen, he should want to bond with his dragon.” You stepped forward, pulling your robes closer. “Or would you deny him his birthright?”
Ormund chose not to respond, simply ignoring your act of defiance. “You are a good boy. You speak kindly, and you say your prayers. I have raised you in the light of the Seven, and the Father smiles upon you. But there is a taint in your blood. The Targaryens are a savage race, poor in intellect, but rich in cunning. With dark spells, they created abominations to subdue what was rightly ours. We are the superior men. But against that, we could not stand.” Tessarion growled as Ormund placed, or at least tried to, his hand on Daeron's shoulder. “The gods have put you to divine purpose, my boy.”
“What purpose, sire?”
“The brutes raise a woman to the Iron Throne. A desecration!” You held your tongue, deciding not to remind the man that Alicent had sat the throne for years in Viserys stead. “It was a blessing that you came to ward in Oldtown. Your brothers are lost, but you remain a Hightower, raised in the shadow of the Citadel, in the light of the Starry Sept. Now, you must be king.”
Amongst other unfortunate virtues, your cousin (by marriage) was overbearing and intense. He could not lose, and he could not admit any wrongdoing. When his mind was set on a path, there was no changing it. You had witnessed many a passionate speech from the man, and this was shaping up to be one that you wanted to leave.
And you would have, if not for Daeron’s sake.
“You would not wish, surely, for me to turn cloak against my brothers.”
You stepped forward, grabbing Daeron’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze as Ormund walked up the stairs and motioned towards the door.
Your eyes widened as Ormund’s right hand man dragged in the smith from earlier, whose wife had been assaulted. A hand subconsciously fell to your stomach, fear coursing through your veins. “I thought you let him go.”
“A righteous king must demonstrate he upholds many virtues. Honor, wisdom, justice.”
“He only acted when our man attacked a woman.”
“He laid hands on a Hightower.”
“You speak of justice yet you punish this man for something you yourself condemned.” You stepped forward, putting yourself between Daeron and the madman. “You are committing a grave mistake.”
“Quiet, woman. That soldier is an extension of you, of the crown. Justice must be done.”
“Is not mercy a kingly virtue?” Your heart swelled with pride at Daeron’s argument.
“That sounds like something your father would say.”
You pushed Daeron back, glaring as Ormund took a step closer, and drew his sword. “He is a boy, Ormund.”
“He is the king.”
“He is not the king!” You yelled. “He is sweet, and he is kind, but he is not a king. You cannot force him to carry out your ventures. It is not right.”
“What is not right is you speaking out of turn-”
“I beg your pardon?” You clenched your hands into tight fists. “He will not do it.”
“Aunt-” Daeron whispered. “It is alright, truly.”
“I will do it in his stead-” Your eyes welled up. “He’s just a boy. My boy.”
“Aunt-” Daeron stepped around you, grabbing the sword from his uncle’s hands. “It must be done.”
“Daeron, please-”
He stood tall, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he stared at the smith. “Do not look. It will only upset you more.”
Your sleep was plagued with visions of Gwayne, both real memories and falsified. Your longing for your husband had gotten to the point where you considered sleeping forever so you could at least see him there.
You lay on your lounge chair, staring out the window of your chambers. If you could not sleep, perhaps you could daydream. Tumbleton was loud, louder than Oldtown ever was, even on its busiest day. You could not leave the estate, courtesy of Ormund’s lockdown. Not leaving the estate ruined your plans to explore the city, hand out food to those less fortunate, and roam the woods.
All things you could do freely in Oldtown. All things you could be doing with Gwayne if his cousin had simply bent the knee and left this mess alone.
Instead, you were stuck here, like a prisoner in a dank cell.
A cell that had its own maid and delicious food, courtesy of the Footly’s chef, Mrs. Allen.
You were much more well off than most, you reminded yourself.
That didn’t stop you, however, from storming out of your room, your skirts swishing side to side, as you prepared to confront your cousin. Ormund sat behind his obnoxiously large desk, staring at a paper like it had personally offended him.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Daydreaming would have to wait for another day. “I’ve been awake for hours, thank you.” You scoffed. “If you must know, I have been avoiding your presence.”
“What have I done to upset you this time?” He sat back in his chair, smug as ever.
“Other than refusing to let me return home and be at peace?”
“Yes.”
“You treat that boy-” You pointed to Daeron, who was dead silent, most likely in fear of being punished by his tyrant of an uncle. “Like a prize to be won. Not like the child that he is-”
“He is six and ten.”
“I believe you yourself were nine and ten when your father finally let you enter a tourney. Interesting, how you are permitted to shy away from the complexities of court, yet Daeron is forced to entertain your kingly notions.”
He glared. “Get to the point.”
“You must see reason and relinquish this city. Go back to Oldtown in good faith, and try to reach an agreement with the Queen.”
“The Queen?” Ormund smirked. “Are you implying that Aegon, and by association, his younger brothers, are not the true line?”
“I am implying that she is currently the Queen. Aegon and Aemond have fled.” You crossed your arms. “Do not twist my words. Surely, you see that-”
“Uncle Gwayne!” Daeron's face lit up. “You've returned!”
Your breath catches as you whip around. Perhaps, you reason with yourself, this is all part of another of your terrifyingly realistic dreams. You pray that the auburn-haired knight in front of you is not a trick of the light. He looks worn to the bone, but you do not care. Your eyes well with tears, and Gwayne's face falls into an ever deeper pit of despair. “Are you alright, my love?”
Stalking forward, you grab his face in your hands, squeezing his cheeks lightly. “Are you real?”
“My girl.” His hands grab at your hips, pulling you close. “I have missed you so-”
You pull your hands from his face, shoving at his chest between each word. “You left me!”
“What is the meaning of this?” A deep frown forms on his weary face.
“You left me with him!” Tears threaten to fall from your eyes. “Do you have any idea the things-”
Ormund cannot help but glare. “Watch your tongue, woman-”
“Shut your mouth, Ormund.” You hiss.
Gwayne grabs your wrists, halting your attack and perhaps, in the process, saving everyone from the wrath of his cousin. “I have craved your touch for two moons now. Surely, you can wait to reprimand me until after I have bathed.”
“You-” The tears released in steady streams. “I worried you were dead.”
He pulled you close, kissing your lips gently. “Do not cry, my love, please.”
“I cannot help it.” You huffed. “You did this to me.”
“Did what exactly?” He laughs. You stepped back, motioning to your stomach. He raised an eyebrow, visibly confused. “I-”
You turned to the side, letting the shape of your gown give him an indication as to what you could be implying. “Gwayne-”
“Are you-” He grinned, stepping forward. “Are you with child?”
“As much as I hate to interrupt this touching reunion-” Ormund cleared his throat. “You must tell me why you are here. I believed you to be in the woods with Criston Cole.”
Gwayne’s smile faltered, and you frowned, caressing his cheek gently. “Are you alright, my love?”
“Ser Criston stayed to fight the Tully army with our remaining men.”
“And so, he fights on, and yet you have returned. Because…”
“Because fighting on is madness.” When you really look at your husband, you see sadness, a broken man whose values had been proven extinct long ago.
“Do you think me mad, Your Grace?” Ormund looks at Daeron expectantly.
“No, sire.”
“You mean to fight on?” Gwayne scoffs. “With what? There’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us, and five more not thirty leagues away.”
“Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, squeamish.”
“If your host leaves these walls, they burn.” Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “Aemond has fled, and Rhaenyra holds my sister hostage. The River army draws closer by the day. You have put these countless peoples lives in jeopardy, my wife and unborn child’s lives in jeopardy. What possible course is there to remedy this?”
“Your uncle lacks imagination as well as courage.” Gwayne squeezes your hand, noticing when your eyes ignite with a dangerous look. Daeron smiles at the quip, and you can’t help it when your heart breaks just a little. “I would take one Hightower sword over three Tully mudmen. When the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our terms, our grounds. We have the clear advantage. The great houses cannot help but come to our side.”
“Have any yet come?” A laugh leaves your lips, and you slap a hand over your mouth, looking away.
“The patient hunter gets the kill. Something our most craven must learn.”
“I have marched a long road, fought and killed, and suffered my comrades to be killed about me.”
“Yes, you have endured much.” Ormund leans against his desk, a sly smirk etched on his lips. “I’m sure you found solace in your brothers at arms.”
“I am fatigued.” Gwayne does not give way to his cousin’s taunts. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a feather bed, and months since I’ve held my wife. By your leave.”
“You might escort your Aunt and Uncle to their quarters, Your Grace. Make sure he bathes.” He laughs, calling out after you. “Oh, and mind yourself. Keep your back to the wall.”
You see red as you reach out, gripping Daeron’s wrist. “We’re leaving. Do not listen to that craven man.”
Gwayne waits until they’ve turned the corner to speak. “He calls you Your Grace?”
“I’m sorry, I had to get through it.”
“And this is your way? Fawning?”
You whisper, wary of being watched. “Daeron knows how to deal with the man. Ormund has reached a new height of madness, one you and I have never seen.”
“He has styled you the bloody king,” Gwayne grumbles.
“Well, you left me alone with him. You know what he is. I do what I can.”
“You have done as well as anyone can, my boy.” You kiss the back of his hand. “But you know as well as I that your Uncle had no choice but to leave.”
“It certainly didn’t grieve him to ride away.” Daeron ripped his hand from your hold, standing in the middle of the hall.
Gwayne scoffed. “Mind yourself, Daeron.”
“Gwayne-”
“I hate who I am with him, and you- you don’t understand. He wants me to be the king. It is his greatest ambition.”
“Then tell him you won’t do it.”
“Who will protect me then?”
“You could cast him down.” Gwayne smiled. “If you were king.”
“A merciful and noble king. You would be even better than your father.” You reassured. “I know it.”
“I will never be king, Aunt.”
“I must-” Gwayne groaned. “I must bathe. Bath and lie down.”
“You will stay?” The boy sounded hopeful for the first time in months.
“And do what? Bear witness as Ormund marches our house to its doom? I’m second in line. I shall return to Oldtown and prepare to pick up the pieces.”
“Don’t leave me again.” Daeron cried. “Please.”
“You would be more than welcome to come with us, my sweet.” You look at Gwayne, whose face is blank.
“He’s Ormund’s treasure now. He’ll be safer here.”
You scoffed. “Surely, you do not mean that. Daeron, do not listen to-” But Daeron had left, and all the joy you’d felt when you’d seen your husband turned to anger. “Why would you say that to him?”
“Darling-”
“I cannot begin to describe the anger I feel towards you at this very moment.” You hissed, stalking around him.
“You must understand-”
You whipped around, your eyes fiery as you spoke. “I understand nothing. And seeing as you refuse to talk to me about the hardships you have faced-”
“I have not had the chance.” He stepped forward. “If you recall, I’ve only just arrived.”
“And what an impact you have made.” You scoffed. “Destroying what was left of that boy’s happiness.”
“You cannot meant to imply-”
“And yet I have.” You shoved past him. “Do not speak to me for the rest of the evening.”
Gwayne’s eyes had not left you since your disagreement, bearing into your soul. You hated him for it: he had found the loophole in your request.
You never said he couldn’t look at you.
It didn’t help you in the slightest that, as angry as you were with him at the moment, your heart screamed for him, your skin craved his touch. Still, you glared. “Could you look elsewhere?”
“I seem to recall a time when you begged for me to look upon you.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Do you think me vain?”
“Not at all.” The water splashed as he sat up in the bath. “I find you to be a perfectly well-balanced lady.”
You squinted, wary of his kindness. “Do not try to blind me with your false niceties.”
“You know as well as I that the things I tell you are not false.” He pauses for a moment, trying to catch your eyes. When you refuse to look at him, he continues. “Do you know how miserable it truly is to be fighting, to be away from one's home?"
You shake your head, and he nods. "I thought as such."
"That does not serve as an excuse to- to act a villain."
"Is that what you think of me?" When you do not respond, he looks away, eyes dark. "What a sad revelation."
"Gwayne-"
"Do you know what I thought of when I was away?” You shrug, your heart pumping wildly. “I thought of you. Only you-”
“I cannot-” Your voice gave out, and so you stood, leaving his side to give yourself some respite.
“I thought of-” His voice broke. “You in the morning, when I’d wake before you and watch as you laid there, not a care in the world. The peace you had, the soft smile your lips carried. You turned your back to him, staring out the window as silent tears fell down your cheeks. “I would remind myself of that image, of your image, every time we went into battle. I love you so intensely that it hurts my soul.” In the middle of all the emotion, he had left the bath, appearing behind you with the stealth of an assassin.
You leaned your back against his chest, eyes shut as his hands wrapped gently around your waist. “You are my whole world, my whole life. Do not think for a moment that I too did not want you by my side every waking moment you were gone. When I learned I was with child, I sobbed for days. All I did was wail for you from our bed, wishing that you would survive this bloody war.” You turn in his hold. “Never doubt my love for you. Never.” His forehead fell to lie against yours, his eyes falling to your lips with every breath. “I am upset with you because I know the man you are. And the man you are would never address that darling boy the way you have today.”
“I am sorry-”
“It is not I that you must apologize to.” Your hands shamelessly drifted up his bare chest, heat rising to your cheeks. “Please talk to him. Before it is too late. Before we-” You gulped. “Before we inevitably-”
“I swear on the old gods and the new that nothing will happen to you or the babe. You will be safe from whatever we face here.” His chest heaved as his hands drifted up and down the side of you. “I made a vow to protect, and I would rather die than see you breathe your last breath.”
“You are terribly dutiful.” You stretched your neck, delicately kissing the corner of his mouth. “But you do admit that you were callous with Daeron.”
“I will apologize to him on the morrow; this I swear to you.” He nudged his nose against your jaw, tilting your head to make way for his affection. Slowly, his lips leave feathery kisses down your jaw and neck, stealing your breath away.
“Gwayne-” You gasp. “I- you-”
“What?” He teased, knowing your mind was struggling to form coherent thoughts. He knew this because he reacted the same way whenever you touched him. “I cannot begin to decipher what you are thinking if you cannot tell me-”
“You are cruel.” Your voice sounded utterly wrecked. “So terribly cruel.”
“I hoped my wife would never utter those words.” He laughed. “But under these circumstances, I will allow it.”
The sun shone through the curtains, and you hummed. Your hands rose to your eyes, rubbing the sleep away. They slowly opened, an immediate sense of dread settling over you, the worst racing through your mind.
Had Gwayne truly returned, or had you dreamt it in order to deal with the pain that came with being apart? Your head whipped to the other side of the bed, a soft laugh leaving your lips.
Gwayne looked utterly exhausted. His mouth was open ever so slightly, his hair a mess from tossing and turning. You slide his tunic up, planting sweet kisses on the bruises that were still blooming on his perfect skin, still in disbelief that he was really, truly with you.
His hand wrapped around your waist, his eyes still closed as he pressed a kiss to your temple, grumbling a quiet good morning.
pairing — Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Targtower!Aemond’s Twin!Reader
warnings — canon typical violence, mention of death, self-harming behavior, graphic descriptions of gore/body horror, self deprecating MC inner monologue </3 highkey a little angsty
notes — hi guys! woof, this one is quite a pill, honestly. don’t even know what to say. not sure if I like it, but the show must go on. also, if you’re better at Valyrian translations than me, please don’t judge me, lmao. I know nothing of the sentence structure and I really only know a couple words/phrases so I used a translator for most of it. also wasn’t sure if I wanted Aemond to refer to her as hāedar or mandia, since there isn’t a word for twin and I never really specified who was born first. but I settled on hāedar, so I guess it was Aemond, lol. (mostly because Helaena could then be the sister he refers to as mandia, and MC the sister he refers to as hāedar, just to make it less confusing… possibly… in the future). anyways I hope you enjoy! xoxo
masterlist — previous chapter
The dinner was already wrong before anyone had said a word. The moment you stepped foot into your father’s private chambers the air felt… off. The room looked inviting enough, a myriad of candles all around washing the walls alight in a warm glow, delicious aromas wafting over from the near-endless options of food spread out over the table, and your whole family, together as one. You arrived a bit later than the rest, everyone having seemingly already taken their seats — all apart from your father, who was still absent from the room. Your mother catches your eyes, giving you a reassuring smile, though you feel the discomfort spill through the cracks of it. Aemond beckons you over to the empty seat beside him and you let yourself fall in to it with a small sigh. You and your twin brother have always been quite quiet, even when together, preferring to observe rather than add to your surroundings. The same is true now, as Aemond fills your glass for you in silence as soon as you make contact with the chair, no words needed between the two of you for him to know what you need. You thank him with a subtle nod of your head, one he returns with a soft ‘hm’. You try not to let your eyes drift across the table, to the sweet brown eyes that held your gaze earlier today in the gardens.
As you and Aegon, who sits across the table from you on Aemond’s other side, softly greet each other with a mutual raise of glass, having not seen each other since this morning, the grand doors to the chambers open again for the first time since you made your way here, revealing the withering form of your father, your grandsire helping him walk into the room. Everyone around the table standing up to receive the King as he makes his way towards the chair meant for him, the one in between your sister Rhaenyra and your mother. After helping him into his seat, your grandsire goes to find his own, a pace away from your mother’s and the King’s, next to you. Everyone takes their seats once more.
Your father sits keened over in his chair, slumped over to the side his mask is situated on, as if it is weighing him down. He wears a marvelous, regal robe, lined with red fabric, a gold chain keeping it situated across his shoulders. The smiles before plastered on the faces of your sister and her husband, your uncle, as well as those situated on the faces of the rest of your family members, ones you may have missed, have slipped off, leaving behind a quiet seriousness as everyone waits patiently for the King to speak. You hold your breath in anticipation. “How good it is,” your father manages to get out, finally, among heavy, withered breaths, clutching on to his cane like a lifeline, “to see you all tonight. Together.” You swallow, offering a practiced smile his way, though his attention does not find you. Instead he turns his head, with great effort, to his right, where your sister avoids his gaze.
“Prayer before we begin?” your mother offers, your father’s attention turning back to his other side as he nods in agreement, letting out a soft “Yes.” Your parents bow over the table slightly, faces casting small shadows over their intertwined hands. From your place at one end of the table you see that, apart from you, Jacaerys is the only one with his hands also joined and raised in prayer. Your cousins, Baela and Rhaena, only lowering their faces to the table, Aegon’s eyes on the fidgeting hands laid to rest in his lap, Helaena looking straight ahead at your grandsire, Lucerys’ head hangs limpest of all, you can only see his crown from your spot across from him. Out of the corner of your eye you see Aemond glance around the table much the same as you had moments before. You let your eyes close before his gaze lands on you.
“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love,” the smooth, comforting cadence of your mother’s voice rings out melodically from a place vaguely to your right. With your eyes closed you can pretend this is just a normal dinner, as you share every night with your mother. However, you find the tension you feel somewhere deep in the center of your chest hard to ignore as she goes on. You feel your brother shift beside you, laying his hands crossed on the table next to yours. “May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long,” You let your eyes open again, finding the growing unease that shouts at you in every breath you take near unbearable, like your corset has been cinched too tight. “And to Vaemond Velaryon,” you catch your uncle’s small smirk as he looks over to your mother briefly, before righting his head just as quickly as he’d let it wander. “May the Gods give him rest.” Your mother finishes. Your uncle’s gaze turns up in what you can only assume is a jest, a bitter taste coats your tongue. Your grandsire shakes his head next to you, and you cannot help but agree. It is silent for a moment before your mother lets her hands fall out of each other’s grip, settling back further into her chair, letting her words linger in the warm air.
Your father tries to nod, you think, and takes in another unsteady breath. “This is an occasion… for celebration… it seems.” He heaves heavily in between words. You catch your grandfather’s eye as he lets his face turn from the gold-plated side of the King’s in what you can only describe as a sad kind of disappointment. Your brows furrow subconsciously, you try to straighten them out. “My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.” Oh, of course.
You let your eyes drift to both pairs, watching them share coy glances with their betrotheds respectively. You feel entirely removed from the emotions displayed on their faces, an inexplainable hollowness settling near the unease that has made its home in your chest. “I toast to the young Princes.” Your father continues jovially, his speech seems muffled in your ears. “And their betrothed.” Aemond’s foot kicks your shin with just enough strength to snap you out of your… shock? You are not sure what exactly the names of the feelings inside you are, and gives you a pointed look, his glass in his hand. A subtle look around the table reveals everyone’s glass is in their hand, and you quickly grab yours to join in, your brother’s brow furrowed in your direction for a moment longer before he, too, turns back to your father. The sip you take of the wine is much deeper than you usually would have, but you find you greet the dizziness it brings you with open arms.
“Let us toast as well, to Prince Lucerys.” Your father’s voice fills the silence again, and you have never wanted to leave a room more than you do at this moment. Could everyone just stop talking already? The nerves keep building in your chest and you find an extra sip of wine in between toasts does little to smother the feeling. “A future Lord of the Tides.” You ignore the whispers exchanged across the table, Rhaena whispering something you can’t quite catch to Lucerys next to her, your brother Aegon turning to his right in a feigned stretch of his arms as he whispers to Jacaerys, taunting him, surely. Aemond’s one eye locked across the table on Luke’s bashful face in a stare so intense, you wonder how your nephew hasn’t felt it yet. You allow yourself to indulge in looking at Jacaerys, his face stern, nothing like it was this afternoon as you spoke with him in the gardens. Aegon smirks his way, you know his jests can cross a line, especially with the part of your family he holds such little respect for. You cannot pick up on their whispers from your place at the table.
Your attention is taken by your father’s grunts as he tries to get up from his chair on his own, knuckles white in gripping his cane. He almost falls over the table, neither your mother nor Rhaenyra try to help him, you know he wouldn’t want them to. You say nothing. Finally, after some struggle, he stands on his own, weakly, as he looks across the table at the faces of his family, his mouth perpetually open in breath, showing the rot of his teeth. “It both gladdens my heart, and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table.” He pauses for breath once more, you know he can’t help it, still it unsettles you. “The faces most dear to me in all the world.” You don’t let yourself look away from your father’s trembling form. “You’ve grown so distant from each other in the years past.” He lets his head hang, shoulders hunched as he leans over the table. He struggles for a couple seconds with the straps that hold his mask to his face, before pulling it off completely. You cannot look away as his eye socket is revealed to you, the rot you could see only a small portion of yesterday on full display for all to see now. His right cheek, more hollow than his left one, like insects have already begun to feast at the flesh, the open wounds glistening, oozing with something unknown that takes your appetite away. Pieces of his skin are black, as if they are dead already, as they hang around the gaping holes in his face. You fight to keep your face neutral as you take in your father’s appearance.
“My own face is no longer a handsome one,” You cannot help but agree as your father continues, pressing your lips together and letting your hands find one another under the table, roughly pulling at the skin near your fingernails to try and keep your breathing under control. “If indeed it ever was.” You let your eyes snap from his form finally, turning your head down to your fingers with a soft hiss as you peel a part of your skin back, watching red blood flow slowly out of the open wound, paint your skin red, and trickle down in a way so painful it turns satisfying. It distracts you from the unease still ever-present beneath your ribs. “But tonight,” Your father’s voice brings you back to the present and you partially raise your head, your long hair shielding your face from most people around the table, letting your eyes settle on his face again as it finally turns to you. One eye bright, one socket gaping in the absence of one, as he lets himself look at you, his youngest daughter. “I wish you to see me as I am.” He gestures with his hand holding the mask to his chest, breathing labored and loud as it echoes across the quiet chamber. “Not just a King, but your father,” he lets it linger for a second before he moves his singular gaze from your face, out towards the table again. You let your head fall in it’s absence. “Your brother, your husband, and your grandsire. Who may not seem to walk for much longer among you.” You feel a wetness in your eyes, hands slippery from the red coating your palms and fingers as they grip onto one another for dear life. You jump almost imperceptibly at the clang your father’s mask makes as it hits the table.
“Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts.” From where you sit it seems almost like a corpse come to life is talking to you, the holes all around your father’s face stretching unnaturally around his moving mouth, a drip of some kind of yellowish fluid falling slowly from the wound in his cheek down to his jaw. His voice has turned harsher. “The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of The Dragon remains divided.” His hand, still clutching the gold of his mask makes harsh contact with the table as he slams it down once again. You bite your cheek. “Set aside your grievances.” Your siblings, cousins, and nephews look around the table, your gaze remains solely on the decomposing profile of your father. “If not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all, so dearly.” His voice is near a growl at the end of his sentence, phlegm surely stuck in his throat, though he does not cough to clear it. The faces around the table look solemn, your mother’s eyes shiny and your uncle looking back and forth between his plate and his brother like a child who just got told off, something akin to a pout gracing his lips.
It is quiet for a minute, as everyone takes in your father’s speech in their own way. You feel sick, though part of you feels strangely proud. You It is quiet for a minute, as everyone takes in your father’s speech in their own way. You feel sick, though part of you feels strangely proud. You had put aside your grievances, well, they were not really yours to begin with, though many in your family don’t seem to make that distinction as you do. You had talked with Jacaerys all morning, bleeding into afternoon, as you strolled through the gardens. He had told you of Dragonstone, of the beaches and the cliffs and the caves, and you understood much better now than you did before why he missed it so. You had smiled, had told him of your spot in the library, how all the books, in the case closest to the windowsill you liked to sit on, had mysteriously transformed into fairytales. How you’d gotten rid of all the books about wars and tyranny, and replaced them with books of love and friendship. How the maesters and servants knew not to disturb the order in which you’d placed them. How, sometimes, they’d put ones you hadn’t read on one of the shelves if they thought you might like it, in hopes you’d read it, and you always did. You didn’t need this lecture. You already put aside the prejudice with which your side of the family seemed to treat your half-sister’s. You know your father didn’t mean for it to irk you, but you felt a bit slighted. Didn’t you deserve any credit for the way you already behaved in a way he desired? You let it go. The man’s face was barely held together by his own skin, how could he possibly know that his most boring child had already formed a familiarity with the other side of the family? You don’t blame him. He could not be aware of the fact that you had already spoken to your nephew as though the years between you had not mattered. You were not cruel to him, he was not cruel to you. He made you laugh. You’d like to see him again. You wonder if Jacaerys feels the same way about the speech as you do.
Before you know it you’re watching him again. The stiffness of his posture, the way his jaw clenches, the way he tries not to react to Aegon’s teasing, his expression carefully schooled into something approaching indifference. The way he holds himself so differently than he had when it was only the two of you in the gardens. You suppose you must be different too. You watch as Baela shifts closer to him, her hand coming to rest lightly against his arm. His attention turns toward her almost immediately. What you feel is different from the unease that has lived beneath your ribs since yesterday. Sharper. Smaller. More concentrated. Like a knife being pushed between your lungs. You draw in a breath too quickly. A thousand needles seem to pierce your throat from the inside, and you swallow hard against the sudden sting. Why did that bother you? You do not know. You do not want to know. You tear your eyes away from them and reach for your wine instead, taking a swallow far deeper than you ought to. The warmth burns its way down your throat, briefly drowning out the strange sensation beneath your ribs. You tell yourself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
When you look back over to the side of the table opposite your nephew you see your mother help put the golden mask back on to your father’s decayed face. Rhaenyra’s chair makes a low noise as she stands up, raising her cup once more for yet another toast. You find you wouldn’t mind having a valid excuse to take another sip, to drink in a way that differed so from your usual pace. Your sister does not raise her eyes as she speaks, “I wish to raise my cup to her grace, the Queen.” The words strangle to come out of her mouth, it can’t help but sound forced. You watch as her gaze meets your mother’s and are taken aback to see a genuineness dance in her eyes, candles painting the violet glow in an otherworldly sheen. Perhaps it is just hard for her to speak with such veracity?
“I love my father.” There is more emotion in her voice now. Does it truly sound smoother, or is that just how you wish it to be? “But I must admit that no one has stood,” She thinks for a moment, “More loyally by his side than his good wife.” You catch the small smile she gives your mother before she lets herself turn to the other people seated around the table. “She has tended to him with unveiling devotion,” She catches your mother’s gaze again and a small smile has fully bloomed on her face now. It makes some of the worry inside you dissipate for a small moment. “Love, and honor. And for that she has my gratitude.” A small pause lets you study your mother’s features. Brows set in that same worried frown she always wears, lips downturned — almost comically so, though you can’t find any humor in it — and eyes wide. “And my apology.” Rhaenyra finishes, settling down gracefully back into her seat. You catch your mother’s eyes for a moment, her face easing itself back into a more schooled expression. Moving, trying to get comfortable in her seat again, though you fear her discomfort is not physical. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.” Your mother stammers out, tone getting clearer the more she talks. “We are both mothers, and we love our children.” Her face is set on Rhaenyra’s as she speaks, though your sister keeps her profile facing forward, eyes angled slightly down, as if she’s in thought. “We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Your mother’s voice wavers near the end of her sentence, and when you look at her you see only sincerity. Though, of course, you know; your mother does not lie.
She gets up with a start, “I raise my cup to you, and to your House” your mother says, and you cannot help but notice your poor father still slumped over in his chair, more noticeable now that your mother’s sitting form isn’t shielding part of him from your view. Your heart aches for him. “You will make a fine queen.” Her chest heaves with heavy breath, your grandsire gives her a look from the corner of his eye, you catch it. It makes some of your newfound ease slip away. You hope you aren’t frowning, that would certainly send the wrong message. You see Rhaenyra look back to her plate after a shared look with your mother, trying not to smile. Your father shakily raises his cup, and drinks. Everyone else does too, and you do not hesitate to join. You see Jace smile, a twinkle in his eye that was not there before, when Aegon was jeering him, and it makes your chest ache. You snap your eyes away from his form once again. What is it about him that makes you feel so illogically? You did not feel this throe when you saw your mother smile, you did not feel it when Rhaenyra smiled, so why? Perhaps because seeing him reminded you that he was almost leaving, and though you were happy he could return to the home he missed so much, you couldn’t help but mourn the potential friendship you could see yourself having with him. You got along very well, after all. Better than you had expected. Better than you did with most people in the Keep. There had been no effort in speaking to him, no need to weigh every word before letting it leave your mouth, no need to wonder whether a smile was genuine or whether a kindness would be mistaken for weakness. You had simply spoken, and he had listened. He had spoken, and you had wanted to listen. Perhaps that was all it was. You had found someone you liked, someone you could have been friends with, and now he was leaving. That is all. It has to be.
A sudden slam of hands on the table snaps you back to reality, cutlery rattles in sharp tangs, you turn to the sound with a start. Your brother is standing in between where Baela sits, and Jacaerys stands — his hands are on the table. Had your brother been pestering him again? It made you frown at Aegon as he stood, goblet of wine pressed to his chest. His violet eyes caught your reprimanding ones and he took a few steps back with a mischievous grin stretched over his lips. You hear Baela whisper to the standing figure of your nephew next to her, something that lamented how close the two already were. “Jace.” They had always been close, even in childhood. You remembered how they used to train commands with their dragons when you were all small, you and Aemond forced to watch from the sidelines. You didn’t mind watching your cousin and nephews train with their small dragons, you liked to see the way the sun caught on their scales — it’s why Sunfyre was always your favorite growing up, and you used to beg for hours to ride along with Aegon. Aemond didn’t enjoy it as much. You feel the ache again, clenching your jaw and looking towards your hands. You should probably clean them up a bit before the dinner truly begins. Even though your House words are Fire and Blood, you do not wish to scare anyone with your crimson stained fingernails. You subtly reach for the kerchief next to your plate and drag it under the table into your lap, as the chair next to yours screeches and your twin brother joins Aegon and Jacaerys in standing at the table, before Aegon sits down again, and it’s just Aemond and your nephew.
You watch as your twin brother stares across the table at Jacaerys, unblinking. You look back to him as well, following your brother’s gaze. He grabs his cup from the table slowly, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid the bones might crack, as he brings it up, his other hand softly hitting Aegon’s shoulder as he composes himself. He inhales deeply, his eyes don’t meet yours as he smirks at your twin brother, meeting his lone eye with his twinkling brown ones. Though the twinkle in them is not mirth. “To Prince Aegon, and Prince Aemond.” His voice is soft and controlled as he speaks, ever the dutiful Heir. You admire his ability to keep his head cool, especially because you know first hand how aggravating your brother can be, when he wants to. “We have not seen each other in years,” He lets his eyes leave Aemond’s and travel around the table as he speaks. “But I have fond memories of our shared youth.” His eyes finally land on yours, and somehow that one look is like a thousand suns suddenly shine upon you. His eyes look more like they did this morning, the softness returning in his gaze. You study his eyes, you cannot help but smile back at him, lips quirking up before you have any plan to. They are so different from his mother’s eyes, but so alike at the same time. The color may be different, but the way they glow, the way they blink, the way they seem to search yours in return. It is the same look his mother gave your mother, and now you know her look was sincere. For you feel his warmth take over the ache in your body, and hope fill the chasms between your ribs. “And as men, I hope we may yet be friends, and allies.” His eyes leave yours again, but some of the warmth remains. It seems, with one look, your nephew has quelled some of your worries. Yes, you would’ve made good friends indeed. And if you were to believe his words, he thought the same thing. Would make it happen, even. And you could not help the longing for his hopes to come true. “To your, and your family’s good health, uncles.” He finishes, some of the warmth in his eyes gone as he looks to your twin brother again, before taking a sip of his glass.
You look up to Aemond now, quizzically, wondering why he ever stood up if he wasn’t going to make a toast. He looks back to you and sits down again. You resume the cleaning of your hands, making the half-dried blood crackle off your palms. Helaena stands from her chair too, glass raised, and it catches your attention, halting your movements once more. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena.” She smiles their way, you see them smile back at your sister sweetly. “They’ll be married soon.” Her smile slowly vanishes. “It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you.” You grimace, looking from Aegon’s uneasy figure, rocking back-and-forth, to your sister’s blank face. You can’t say you look much forward to your marriage, seeing theirs. “Except sometimes, when he’s drunk.” She said it as though she were warning them about the weather. You wonder if your future husband would treat you much the same, or if he would treat you with kindness. Your grandsire forces a laugh, you don’t join him.
You had always been Aemond’s best friend. He always knew when you needed something, when you felt something, what you were thinking, and why. He knew you inside and out. He knew how you liked your hair braided, which book you were currently reading, which desserts you did and didn’t like — no lemon cakes, you didn’t like the sour taste of the dough — he knew you. And you knew him. It’s what twins did. It’s what they were. Intrinsically. Forever. Each other’s other half. You used to be more alike, back when he was weak, back when he still ran to his mother, or you, crying because Aegon had teased him again, because his nephews beat him at swordplay, because he didn’t have a dragon.
Then, he claimed Vhagar, and he became a man. A dragon. A Prince. A King. He became smarter, faster, stronger — everything he needed to be. He did his best to make sure you kept up with him, dragged you along to the library to study High Valyrian, encouraged you to fly with him to Dragonstone without telling anyone, so you could claim your dragon and not fall behind him. But you refused, too afraid of your mother’s wrath and of the island you had never been to, filled with dragons that you didn’t know how to command. He sneered at you then, ashamed that his own twin sister was so weak and afraid where he found himself bold and brave. But he calmed down, and realized that you didn’t need to be. It was not easy, to kill the weakness inside of him, he could admit as much. Why should you have to go through the same thing, when he could protect you instead? He was strong enough for the both of you now. You could stay the sweet, delicate Princess you were always meant to be and he could protect you. And the older he got, the more he understood it. Believed it. If you were not born by his side, you would live in scrutiny. He had been the one person strong enough to keep it from reaching you, and he prides himself on that. He prides himself on a lot of things, like his ability to see small details, for example. To observe. He knows you do, too. But the thing you’ve been observing as of late is quite different from your usual sculpture, bird, or scullery maid. Your eyes seem stuck on your nephew, Prince Jacaerys.
He first noticed in the throne room, yesterday. The way your eyes lingered on the Prince longer than his brother or his mother, or even the man so bravely speaking the truth of his nephews’ bastardy. The way you forced your gaze away, only to dart back, once, twice, three times. You didn’t usually take such an interest in people. In fact, sometimes you’d look over whole groups of them, not granting them a single glance in acknowledgement, like they simply did not exist. Now, you cannot seem to tear your eyes away. It unsettles him. For the first time in a long time, Aemond does not know what you’re thinking. He doesn’t get the chance to talk to you much that day, as Vaemond’s head gets chopped off, and you slip away with Helaena. So the morning after, he goes to search for you as soon as he wakes. You have already slipped out of his mother’s chambers when he goes to look for you there. And though he wants to keep searching, he cannot deny his mother’s wishes for him to break his fast with her and Aegon — who sits, nursing a goblet of wine already, across from her at the table, his plate untouched. His mother manages to stall him longer than he planned still, informing him of the impending dinner they would have tonight. He can’t help the smirk from forming on his face, this would certainly be interesting. He finally excuses himself to continue his pursuit, looking all around the Holdfast until stepping out and walking along the gardens.
It takes him a long time before he finds you. At first, he hears your laugh. It makes him smile. It is good to see his sister is still content, happy. That he is excelling at his duty of protection once again. He is the reason you are able to experience such reprieve, he is the reason you can laugh like you are now, without a care in the world, he is the reason- Another laugh joins yours, and startles the grin off his face in an instant. He knows that laugh. He loathes that laugh. It is the same one that followed him after being presented with a pig, the same one that laughed alongside his brother’s whenever he would tease him for not having a dragon, like a proper Targaryen Prince. As he looks around a large rosebush, he finds his hypothesis correct. There, in the grass, sunshine painting the two of you in a light that looks like one out of a fairytale, sit his twin sister, and Jacaerys Strong. Laughing. He can hardly stop himself from marching over and tearing you away from there, but he controls himself and stays put, seething in the shadows. Your giggles fade out and you speak, he can only hear it faintly from his position, but he doesn’t dare move now. “Well,” you begin, voice unworried and full of glee. “If you insist, my Prince.” Jacaerys laughs again in return, the sound grating, especially compared to your melodic cadence. “I definitely do. It is simply criminal that you do not notice the smell you live in.” It makes Aemond frown. The smell? “A Princess such as yourself deserves to breathe the freshest air. It is what I find myself missing most about Dragonstone, now.”
Aemond hears you hum in return, you smile at Jacaerys as if you’ve known him your whole life. Which — technically you did — but you didn’t actually know each other. Why were you so comfortable? Alone in the garden with a bastard. Have you no shame? And what was this his nephew was insinuating? That you’d, what, travel to Dragonstone with them? With your spoiled excuse for a half-sister Rhaenyra, of all people? No. Aemond would not have it.
He keeps watching your conversation, the way you both seem to move in such calm tranquility, the way your face lights up when Jacaerys shows interest in your books, the way he looks at you when you’re not looking back. And, though nothing improper is going on, Aemond realizes something that bothers him more than Jacaerys touching you ever could: you are different around him. Not happier, necessarily. Just… unguarded. It seems you do not feel the need to preform. It hurts him more than he would ever care to admit. There is something you haven’t told him. He had always known what you were thinking, it was one of the few things in this world he had never doubted. But now, watching you smile at the Strong bastard from beneath the shade of the rosebush, he realizes he has no idea what is going through your mind. For the first time in his life, his twin had a secret from him.
It is that thought which keeps his mind occupied for the rest of the day, even during dinner. He saw the blood on your hands, you are stressed, something his nephew was clearly responsible for — he was the only person you talked to today, he had asked around. Your stare was still skittish, going back and forth between your father, your fingers, and Jacaerys, respectively, throughout the dinner. His father has since retired to his chambers, you a little ways away from the table on the makeshift dance floor — with Jacaerys, again. The bastard dancing with Helaena and you wrapped around Baela’s arm as you twirl about. A soft violin is playing in the background as a roast pig is brought to the table and set down near his person. He looks across the vast wood to the little prick, Lucerys, the one who took his eye. He’s laughing when his gaze catches Aemond’s, darting back and forth between him and the pig, and it enrages him. He lets his fist make contact with the mahogany, startling the musicians. The violin ceases to play as he stands from his seat, you jump at the sudden disruption, letting your touch fall away from the girl in front of you as you turn to your twin brother. He catches your eye as he raises his glass, he quickly shifts his gaze away from you in favor of looking straight ahead. This toast was not for you.
“Final tribute,” His voice rings out across the suddenly quiet room, Daemon’s head lazing casually in the palm of his hand, Rhaenyra — next to him — more alert. “To the health of my nephews: Jace,” He lets his eye glide over to the boy in question, he looks nervously back at the table, Aemond suppresses a smirk. “Luke,” Catching the little bastard’s eye with his own, seeing the way the boy gulps, it fills him with a sort of satisfaction he couldn’t find anywhere else. “And Joffrey.” All eyes around the table look his way now, his mother’s eyebrows have a slight crease in them. He’s not sure if it’s because she anticipates his words, or because it’s simply etched permanently into her skin now. “Each of them handsome, wise,” He pauses a moment, letting it linger. He purses his lips, his jaw set, “Strong.” His mother swiftly interjects him with a call of his name, but he does not listen. “Come,” He bellows loudly over his mother’s reprimand, letting a smile stretch onto his face as he sees the tense way Jacaerys holds himself together, slightly bowed over, shoulders broad, hands clenched. It is thrilling to see what a couple simple words could do to the composed exterior of his nephew, the façade of perfect Prince melting away like snow bathed in dragonfire. As he keeps speaking Aegon raises his cup to match his brother’s, small grin making it’s way onto his features as well. “Let us drain our cups to these three, *strong*, boys.” His nephew is positively seething now. “I dare you to say that again.” He bites back, jaw tight and brows furrowed towards Aemond’s carefree expression. “Why?” Aemond shoots back, “Twas only a compliment.” He moves, seeing the way Jacaerys is stalking towards his form, continuing his prodding. “Do you not think yourself strong?” The bastard swiftly takes another step toward him and hits him square across the face. Aemond can feel a faraway throb in his jaw, it does nothing to diminish his smile as he hears Aegon get up from the table and smash little Luke Strong’s ugly face into the wood with a resounding smack. Someone shouts his nephew’s name, someone else, probably his mother, shouts ‘enough’. He can hear your distinct gasp as you push Helaena away from the fighting, shielding her with your body, ever the epitome of selflessness, as you are. He smirks, and with one hand pushes Jacaerys to the ground, he hears you chastise him with a sharp ‘Aemond.’ The boy lays pathetically at your feet for a second, before he shoots back up with a grunt. Darting towards Aemond’s person before being held back by a guard.
His mother makes her way quickly over to him as his nephews are held back by gold cloaks and wrestled to the other side of the room. You guide Helaena back to the table, giving all the previously fighting men a wide berth as you pass. She grabs at his arm, trying to make eye contact with him, he looks away. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” His mother moans, worried look colored over her features. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” He retaliates, finally meeting her gaze. “Hm. It seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs.” He rips his arm from his mother’s hand and stalks back towards the boys in question — struggling against the guards. As Jacaerys gets free from his restraints and darts forward, so do you, and so does Daemon. His nephew stops immediately at the sight of his stepfather before him, beckoning him with one hand to stay calm and back up. You, however, grab on to Aemond’s arm, where your mother had just released him. He turns his face slightly to yours, your brows are furrowed and your eyes are shiny. When you speak to him your tone is melancholy, disappointed. The violent display must have scared you. “Skorī syt ao gaomagon kesor?” You ask him, exasperated, in the language only you two speak. Aegon had given up on High Valyrian, had never been good at it. And Helaena had never even attempted to learn it. His mother couldn’t speak it. His father could, he just didn’t speak it with him. So he knows you are speaking only for him, it warms him a little, despite the words you use. Why would you do that? You had asked him.
As Rhaenyra commands her sons and step-daughters to return to their quarters, Daemon turns to him, leveling him with a stare that says ‘You too’ without him ever having to open his mouth. He hums again, letting his gaze fall away from his uncle’s to yours. You’re still holding his arm in your grip, he lets his hand settle on top of yours as he gives you a genuine smile, hoping to reassure you. He truly didn’t mean to frighten you.“Gaomagon daor vūjō, hāedar.” Do not be scared, sister. He replies, peeling your hand off his arm and stalking past Daemon with heavy steps, making eye contact as he passes, before walking out of his father’s chamber door at last. He still hadn’t had the chance to talk with you just yet, but he’d make sure to sit you down tomorrow, when the bastards finally leave for their ugly rock once more.
Summary: After months away fighting in this civil war. After seeing things were lost, Gwayne decides to go back him to his wife in Oldtown.
Tags: Gwayne Hightower x Wife!Reader, Mentions of war, missing one another, yearning, mentions of blood and dirt, husband and wife reunited, no use of y/n
A/N: I really wanted to write for Gwayne since he has bewitched me. I just wanted him back home safe in Oldtown so yay reunion. lol Hopefully you all enjoy and I'm sorry I haven't been able to write as much as i'm used to.
Word Count: 2k
The first thing you noticed was the hour. Oldtown slept beneath a moonless sky, the great city hushed save for the distant tolling of a bell somewhere beyond the walls. The Hightower rose pale against the darkness, its beacon burning above the rooftops like a solitary star.
You had been awake for some time. Sleep had become a fickle thing since your husband had gone off to war to fight for the Greens and against Rhaenyra’s hosts.
Some nights you managed it. Others, you lay upon your side with one hand beneath your cheek and stared into the darkness, remembering the weight of Gwayne’s arm across your waist.
Tonight was one of the latter. You turned beneath the blankets, pulling them closer around yourself. It had been months. Months since you had last felt his arms around you. Months since you’d heard his laugh echo through these chambers. Months since he’d kissed you farewell and promised, with that infuriating confidence of his, that he would return to you.
“I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”
You had nearly laughed when he’d said it. Now, you though you might have killed for the sound of his voice.
You closed your eyes trying to go back to sleep. Then came the sound. Three knocks. They were not loud, nor were they the sharp pounding of a servant at the door.
Three measured knocks. You frowned, who would be knocking at this hour?
You pushed yourself upright, gathering the loose folds of your nightgown around your legs.
Another knock. You crossed the chamber and opened the door. And then you forgot how to breathe. For a heartbeat, you thought you were dreaming.
There in the corridor before you stood Gwayne. Your Gwayne.
He was thinner. Gods, he was thinner.
His auburn hair was longer than when he left, tangled by rain and travel. The months have not been kind to him, giving him a harder, older appearance. His cloak was filthy, his boots covered with mud, and there was a fresh cut along his cheek.
But his yes—his eyes were exactly as you remembered. They found yours and everything in his face broke.
“My wife.” His words came out barely above a whisper.
Your hands flew to your mouth. “Gwayne? Is it really you?”
He swallowed and he stepped forward. You did not wait for him to say another word. You threw yourself into his arms. He caught you with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his arms closing around you so tightly that your feet nearly left the floor.
You buried your face against his shoulder. He smelled of horses, smoke, rain, leather, and the road. It was the most beautiful scent you had ever known.
“You’re home,” you whispered.
“I am home.” He repeated in that gravelly voice of his you loved so much.
Your fingers twisted into the back of his cloak. “You said you’d be home before I would have time to miss you.”
The strain in his voice you could tell he regretted saying those words to you. “I was wrong.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were starting to water. That frightened you more than the blood. Rarely did he show this kind of feeling.
“What happened?” you asked cautiously.
Gwayne’s jaw tightened and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his forehead came down against yours. “Everything.”
Your heart sank instantly. You reached up and touched the cut upon his cheek. “You are hurt.”
“Nothing worth fretting over. I have been worst.” He admitted.
“Gwayne….”
He gave you the faintest smile at the sound of his name. “There she is. The wife who worries.”
You frowned, “You must mean the wife who has spent the last few months wondering if her husband was ever going to come back to me.”
His smile vanished then. He caught your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles.
“I truly am sorry for this.” He spoke.
You nodded, “Yes as you should be. You should have written or have sent some type of word to let me know that you were alive.”
“I tried.” He replied.
“You should have—”
“I missed you.” He interrupted.
The words stopped you cold. His thumb brushed over the ring he gave you all those years ago. “I missed you every gods forsaken day since I left you here.”
Your anger dissolved so quickly it almost hurt. You touched his face, lightly brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I missed you too.”
He closed his eyes. For several breaths, neither of you moved. Then he whispered, “I thought I would never see you again.”
You felt your throat tighten. “What happened?”
Gwayne stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He removed his dirty cloak and let it fall carelessly upon the floor. You had never seen him do such a thing. Gwayne Hightower was a man who could be particular about the polishing of his boots and of his sword. Tonight though, he seemed barely aware that he had feet.
“Ser Criston. He was a good man, but I do not know what took hold of him in the end.”
You stared at him urging him to go on.
“He means to find the Tully host.”
“In the Riverlands?” you asked.
“Where else would you find them?” His laugh was bitter after he said that.
“We’ve been marching through mud and rain, half starved, with hardly enough men to fill a lord’s hall by the end. Every road led us to an ambush against smaller parties on their way to join their Lord Paramount. But they finally caught on to our tactics and returned what we started.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “We were sent onward when we should have withdrawn.”
“By Ser Criston?”
All Gwayne could do was nod, “Yes by Ser Criston.”
There was something in the way he said the name be it resignation, disgust, or fear. Gwayne sat heavily upon the edge of your bed.
“I looked at the men marching beside me,” he said quietly, “Good men. Men with wives. Sons. Daughters. Men who had already lost brothers.”
He stared at his hands, “And I thought, For What? For a war between a brother and sister?”
You came to sit beside him then and he looked at you. “I knew if I kept going with him, I would die.”
Your heart stopped but he continued. “And I realized….” He reached for your hand. “I did not want to any longer.”
You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Because of the war?”
His gaze softened. “No, because of you.”
Your eyes burned then trying not to let the tears fall that have been threatening the moment you laid your eyes upon him again.
He lifted your hand to his mouth and placed a kiss upon each knuckle. “I have spent months trying to convince myself that honor was worth more than everything else.”
His voice broke slightly then. “I do not believe that anymore.”
You leaned toward him. “And you came home.”
“I came home.” Echoing your words.
“To me.”
“Always.” He spoke softly.
You kissed him finally. It was not graceful. It was not the sort of kiss poets wrote about. It was desperate. Months of loneliness poured into it. His hands came around your waist, pulling you into his lap as though he feared you might disappear as if this were a dream. You cupped his face between your hands. He kissed you again, slower this time as if savoring the moment.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “You are real,” he murmured.
You laughed softly through the tears that finally broke. “I should hope so.”
“I dreamt of you.” He whispered.
“Often?” you asked.
“Every night.”
Your breath caught. He rested his forehead against your shoulder. “Sometimes I would wake in the mud and reach for you.”
His fingers slipped beneath the loose sleeve of your nightgown, touching the bare skin of your arm. “And then I’d remember how far away you truly were.”
You ran your fingers through his auburn hair. “I did the same if I’m being honest.”
His eyes darkened instantly at your admission. “You did?”
You blushed from the heat of his gaze alone. “Sometimes.”
A slow wicked grin appeared on his face. “Did you?”
“Do not look so pleased with yourself.” Swatting your husband’s arm.
“I have been away at war for months. Surely, I am entitled to a little vanity. Especially when my wife has admitted she longed for me after all these months.”
“You are entitled to nothing.” You teased.
“Not even a kiss?”
You pretended to consider it. “Hmm perhaps one.”
And so, he kissed you more than once. You could not help but smile against his mouth. “That was more than one.”
“I am a soldier. I have poor counting skills.” He jested.
“You were never poor at counting.”
His eyebrow rose. “Oh?”
You felt heat rise into your cheeks again. “Do not make me regret welcoming you home.”
His arms tightened around you as if not wanting to let you go. “I have regretted many things these past months.” His voice softened. “Coming home is not one of them regardless at what they may say about me.”
You kissed his forehead. He rested his head against your shoulder again. For a long while, neither of you spoke. You simply held him. Your husband. Alive and home in your arms.
Eventually, you whispered, “Will you stay?”
He lifted his head, “I am not going anywhere.”
“You simply cannot promise that.”
His hand settled over your heart then. “I can promise you this. Tonight, I am here and the day after I will be here.”
“And what about the day after that?” you asked and he couldn’t help but smile. “You are becoming demanding.”
“I think it is the least of what I deserve. I have waited a very long time for you to come back to me.” You said
“I know.’ He spoke. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I intend to make up for every loss moment.”
Your breath caught once again. There was something warm in his eyes now,something that had not been there when he’d first entered the room. You knew that look. You had missed that look almost as much as you’d miss him.
“Gwayne…”
“Yes, my love?”
“You are simply filthy.”
He glanced down at himself then. “Ah. Yes, seems that I am.”
“You smell like your horse, and you tracked mud all over the floor.”
He looked down at himself and the trail of mud that led to your shared bed.
“I am going to call for the servants to bring you a bath.”
“Yes, my lady.” He answered.
“And then we are going to sleep.”
He smiled, “Yes, my love.”
“And?”
He leaned closer. “And what my love?”
“I believe you know what I desire.”
His smile became slow and wicked from your admission. “I believe I do.”
You pushed lightly against his chest.
“We must get you your bath.”
He caught your wrist before you could move away to call for the servants.
“Will you join me?” he asked.
You stared at him. “Gwayne.”
“I have spent months sleeping beneath the stars and in the mud, eating hard bread, and being shot at by men who would very much like me dead.” He kissed your palm. “I think I’ve earned a bath with my wife.”
“You are shameless Gwayne Hightower.”
“Yes, but I have missed you.” He spoke.
You softened then, “I have missed you too.” Placing another kiss upon his lips.
He stood, ushering you to call for a bath with a wicked grin. There was no chance you two would be getting much sleep tonight.
For the first time since he had left Oldtown, you saw something resembling peace settle across his face. And when he kissed you again, you understood something.
War might have taken months from you. It might have taken friends, certainty, and whatever faith Gwayne once placed in men like Ser Criston. But it had not taken this.
It had not taken him.
And when the door finally closed behind you both from the servants setting up for this long overdue bath, the Hightower’s beacon continued to burn above Oldtown.
A light in the darkness.
A promise that, for tonight at least, Gwayne Hightower was home.
summary: gwayne visits the honey inn when he returns home from the war, where he pays for your company by the hour, and where ormund finds something he'd much rather keep. and with the city about to fall or hold to the black army, every hightower intends to find a use for you before it does. (8k)
contents: sex worker!reader, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, love triangle, hurt/comfort, angst, jealousy, bi!gwayne, protective!gwayne, possessive!ormund, cw for manipulation, coercion, smut 18+ (MDNI) unprotected sex, exhibitionism/voyeurism, sub!gwayne, dom!ormund, dubcon
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
gif creds: vhagar-balerion-meraxes
Gwayne’s arrival from the slaughter of war is announced, not by a knock, but by the low groaning of an old door thrown open on its hinges — as though he had forgotten such courtesies existed after so long on the road. You turn upon your vanity stool to find the man swaying in the doorframe, backlit by the torches burning low on their sconces. And, for a flicker of a moment, you do not recognize him at all.
He wears the road all over. Mud caked to the knee and smeared dark across his porcelain skin. Blood gone the color of rust-brown stained on the collar of his quilted gambeson, though whether it is his own or some stranger’s you could not say — and you do not think he could give you an answer if you asked. His long auburn hair hangs over his forehead, dark and clinging to his skin from the sweat along his brow.
He longs to fill his lungs with the familiar, floral scent of your apartment at The Honey Inn, but cannot seem to escape the smell of copper and horse and dirty earth that’s been clinging to every inch of him on the unforgiving road.
“Well… Look at what the storm’s dragged in…” you croon at the sight of him, rising slowly from your chair. You flash the man a smile in turn, because there’s something distinctly heavy in the moment that seems to beg for a bit of lightness to cut through it. “It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten whether I should curtsy… Or kneel.”
Gwayne gives you nothing in response.
For the first time since you met — late in your adolescence, when he needed something to prove and you needed coin to make; when everything between you was all warm cheeks and trembling hands — Gwayne is at a loss for a clever word, and unmoved by the slyness of your grin. He closes the distance between you instead, flinging the door shut behind him with a careless hand and staggering with each uneven step.
You meet him in the center of the expansive apartment — paid for, in part, by his Hightower coin alone. You hold him tentatively by the forearms, and feel the worn wool crack stiff with dried mud. “Gwayne…” you murmur gently to him, all the mockery long gone from your voice. You search his empty face with worried eyes. “Look at me— Are you hurt?”
He does not answer that either. Instead, his trembling hands lift to find your waist. The callouses along his palms snag briefly in the soft silk of your robe. He finds himself very suddenly overcome by the familiarity of having you in his arms again; a nostalgia that rises in his throat and strangles him. His dirty chin quivers as he leans further into you, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder and knotting his fists hard into your dress.
You feel the trembling start in his shoulders before you feel something warm and wet smear along your collarbone. The man weeps over you with great, shuddering snivels that he hides into your neck. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him, you think, even more so than the day you met — when all the other highborn boys teased him for his lack of experience, saying that he must not have the appetite for women, and sent him scrambling here to prove himself.
He found you instead; a girl of his age, new to both Oldtown and the Honey Inn. A girl who saw right through him and refused to take his coin, or anything else he offered that night; but embellished enough stories that made all the taunting whispers about him finally stop. It was a small kindness, though one that threatened to undo him entirely.
He’s warmed your bed ever since, both as client and something less easily named. You hold him now the same way you did that first night, asking nothing of him and expecting even less.
You draw him a bath once his breaths come more easily to him. You peel the ruined gambeson and sweat-stiff small clothes from his pale skin, and make no comment about how thin he’s grown as you lower him into the steaming water. The water runs brown, then dusty rose, and then finally clear as you work a soft cloth over his skin. Across his shoulders, down his spine, and over the frail skin of his hairless chest.
“You needn’t—” Gwayne attempts to speak, his very first words since he crossed your threshold, though his voice comes out cracked and low with disuse. He feels half smothered beneath the foreign tenderness you offer him, but he does not flinch under your touch. He never has. “You needn’t do this for me, you know?”
“I know…” you nod and smooth the cloth along the milky-white column of his throat when he tips his chin to look at you, kneeling just outside the tub. “But I want to.”
When the warm water cools, you towel him dry and dress him in clothes a size too big for his frame — softly worn trousers and a loose linen tunic; souvenirs from previous patrons, washed by your own hands. Gwayne tries not to think about who might have shared your bed while he laid shivering in the mud. It was much easier to imagine you as his and only his, though he’s never quite found the courage to ask that of you.
“I’m sorry,” he says from where he lies within your silken sheets, wrapped in the sweet scent of your perfume and the particular stench of sweat that clings to the walls of the establishment. He doesn’t ask if you’ve taken clients today; he doesn’t want to know the answer — but the hour is early enough that he lets himself believe his body is the only one your hands have touched so far.
“For what?” you scoff, sliding beneath the cool sheets to join him. The feather mattress dips slightly under your weight until your legs tangle with his scruffy ones out of habit. “For tracking half the Kingsroad across my good Naathi rug? Because Mistress Aleena will absolutely dock you for it— whether you bought it or not.”
Gwayne exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, pink lips curling into a tired grin. “For all of it,” he says, pale eyes as dull and empty as his voice. “For… coming here like a beggar, for… crying on you like a child. For—”
“Gwayne,” you sigh, splaying a free hand over the newfound hollow of his jaw. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not tonight, not ever if I have any say on the matter. Do you understand?”
Gwayne’s eyes soften around the edges as they flit back and forth between your steady gaze. His chapped lips part but cannot seem to summon an answer for you. Your soft grin widens into a more devilish thing as your hand trails down the curve of his jaw, past his sternum still flushed from the bath, and over the soft trail of auburn hair above the hem of his trousers.
“I said…” Your fingers creep beneath the fabric to find the dense patch of coarse hair there. “Do you understand?”
The words of a response die on his tongue when your palm squeezes gently at his cock, soft like velvet and achingly sensitive under your touch. A broken sigh spills from his parted mouth as he tips his head back, damp auburn hair wild on the pillow. He twitches slowly stiff in your hand, dribbling pearls of pre-cum at the soft pink tip that you use to lubricate each slow stroke.
He only vaguely feels the tip of your nose nudging the side of his, right before you press a tender kiss to his chapped mouth. He exhales hard through his nose as your lips slot effortlessly together, breath fanning warm along your cupid’s bow. His hips buck up into your hand with a sort of desperation you haven’t seen from him in quite some time, and your mouth curls into a smile pressed against his.
The distant creaking of the fourth step in the hall — an old plank that’s had a way of warning you of every approaching patron since you first took this room — shatters the moment entirely. Your head tilts upward against Gwayne’s when the heavy oak door swings open without a pretense of a knock, as if the man on the other side didn’t know that closed doors in a house like these only ever meant one thing.
Gwayne makes a weak, wounded sound in his throat when your hand slows around his cock. “Why’d you stop?” he mutters against your mouth, heavy eyes fluttering open to find you glancing off towards the door.
“It seems like we have company…” you croon with a smile.
Gwayne’s brows lower in confusion right before his head turns against the pillow. The screwed look drains into something far closer to dread when his eyes fall on his cousin looming in the doorway — standing a head taller and twice as broad through the shoulders. He reaches for the silver pomander chained perpetually to his scabbard and lifts it to his nose. His nostrils flare as he inhales the earthy incense, trying hopelessly to escape the stench of sex clinging to the walls of the Honey Inn.
You knew Ormund Hightower mostly by reputation rather than appearance. He’s handsome in the manner that most Hightower men were handsome, and chiseled cold in a manner that suggests all the unkind stories Gwayne’s told you about the man over the years were likely unembellished.
“So… This is where you’ve run off to,” Ormund says in a melodic voice as he strolls further inside. He scans the room with pale, attentive eyes — the tub running low by the window, the discarded clothes just beside it, and his cousin freshly home from war and spending his return in a whore’s bed. A thin smile curls at the corner of his mouth accordingly: “I confess, I do find myself surprised, cousin… I hadn’t realized you possessed the… appetite for this sort of thing…”
Gwayne goes rigid underneath you while his cock softens once more in your fist. An age-old humiliation flickers behind his eyes — the same look you remember seeing on him all those years ago.
“It’ll cost you extra if you mean to join us, my lord,” you call to the older man, with an ease about you that suggests you’re utterly unbothered by an audience. Your head tilts to your shoulder as you study the man, eyes raking slowly over his broad form. “Though I’d wager you have more than enough coin for it… And the face for it, too, no doubt…”
Ormund’s chest burns with a strange mixture of offense and pride. His strong, shaven chin lifts slightly upward as he drops the pomander back on its chain, giving you the whole of his attention now. “My faith does not permit such… indulgences,” he says in a smooth voice. “As I’m sure you very well know.”
“Mm… Well, if the Seven are half as kind as everyone insists, they wouldn’t begrudge a man for having a little fun now and then,” you answer without missing a beat. “Could do wonders for you, my lord— You look dreadfully tense.”
Ormund’s pale eyes do not stray from your squinted stare. There’s something almost involuntary in it, in the way his gaze snags and catches with yours — even when your hand starts moving again under the blankets and Gwayne’s pale form tenses beneath your touch.
“Well…” Ormund hums, trying hard not to choke on his embarrassment. “You’re a bold thing, aren’t you? For a woman who sells herself by the hour.”
“And you’re a bold thing for walking into a lady’s room uninvited, my lord,” you quip and watch him falter at the volley. You turn back to Gwayne with a huff, and swing your leg to straddle his thigh as you call back to the older man, “You can watch if you like. Or wait your turn in the hall— Either way, I’m afraid I’m with a patron at present.”
Gwayne’s eyes you with a wide, worried gaze as you coax him hard again with your hand. You swipe your thumb over the bulbous tip and gather the pearly beads drooling there, before lining him at the entrance of your cunt. His pale hands settle on either side of your waist, clenching hard at the delicate fabric of your robe. Any words of protest that might’ve risen onto his tongue dissolve into a broken moan when you pierce yourself with him, slow and without concern for the man still standing across the room.
Ormund lingers there for a while longer than he’d like to admit. He tells himself that the sour feeling curling in his stomach is disgust — decent and godly disgust that any devout man ought to feel at such a display. He, admittedly, has always been good at telling himself things.
But still, his feet do not move. And the longer he watches your hips move slowly on top of Gwayne’s — the sight of it only partially shielded by your robe and the sheets gathered at your thighs — the harder it becomes to name the thing coiled in his chest. A curiosity, perhaps, of what your hips would feel like in his hands; of what it would feel like to be nestled in your cunt—
Ormund despises himself the moment the thought surfaces, for how long the dreadful image lingers in the back of his head before he can shake it away.
He turns on his heel and storms towards the door with a mixture of jealousy and disgust and distant intrigue rising into his throat like bile. He pulls the heavy oak shut behind him with a resounding thud that fills the quiet room.
Gwayne shakes his head against the pillow when he’s finally gone. His pale eyes are still wide with alarm but glassy with a lingering pleasure too, as you continue grinding your hips over his lap. Your velvety cunt squeezes him with each pass, threatening to milk his orgasm from him entirely.
“You should not have done that,” he confesses breathlessly, and wears the warning etched across his pretty features.
“Done what?” you respond through panted breaths, bracing yourself on his soft chest. “Defended you? Dreadfully sorry, my lord— next time I’ll let him have the last word—”
“That’s not—” He inhales sharply and grabs hard at your waist to stop your movements, so that he might concentrate on something other than your warm, drooling cunt for more than a second. Gwayne peers up at you with a suddenly solemn look. “He’ll want it now. My cousin— What he saw now in this room. He’ll want it now simply because it’s mine.”
You arch a brow in a playful look. “So I’m yours now, am I?” you joke.
Gwayne exhales hard through his nose when you fail to heed his warning with any real seriousness, chest deflating under your touch. Your smile only widens at the half-hearted glare he gives you then.
“You don’t know him the way I do,” he mutters.
“No. I don’t,” you agree, planting your palms on either side of his head as you lean down over him again. The plush of your breasts threatens to spill over the low neckline of your robe; you smile when you catch Gwayne’s unabashed staring. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way… Which is a pity because I might’ve made an exception for that face of his… A shame, really, that the Gods wasted such a pretty face on such an unpleasant man…”
Gwayne’s mouth lifts into a crooked smile despite himself. “You’re going to be the death of one of us, you know that?” he tells you, close enough now that your noses brush with every word. “Though I can’t be entirely sure which…”
“Mm…” you hum, and feel Gwayne’s chest rumble with a groan when you roll your hips over his again. “I do hope it’s the more tiresome cousin then.”
You kiss him before Gwayne can argue the point. And this time, he does not pull away — and he does not for a long while after.
Gwayne makes himself at home in your bed the way he has since boyhood. He returns not quite a week later, when word of Criston Cole’s death reaches Oldtown — his handsome head struck from his shoulder and mounted on a pike by the Winter Wolves, no more than a three-day ride from the Reach now. He tells you this with his heavy head laid in your lap, staring distantly at the crackling hearth across the room, and blinking back burning tears before they can stain your pretty silk dress.
His auburn hair slides like silk between your fingers as you run your hands through it, with the same unthinking tenderness you’ve shown him a thousand nights before this one, though he feels far less deserving of it now.
“You needn’t perform this for me, you know?” he mutters, rubbing his cheek along your covered thigh while his thumb smooths absently over your knee. “I know what I am to you…”
“Oh, really?” you say with a smile evident in your voice, though he cannot see it from where he lies. “And who might that be?”
Gwayne turns his head to peer up at you. A weary half-smile hints at the very edges of his mouth as he answers, “A man who’s paid twice over for the privilege of your company over the years…”
You flinch at his words before you can properly catch yourself. It had been years since Gwayne last put coin in your palm for anything; longer since, perhaps, than he’s stopped truly needing to. He’s filled your larder more times than you could count, dressed you in silks finer than half the highborn ladies at court, and furnished this very room with the good Myrish looking glass and the featherbed you share now — all without once being asked.
So it stings a little now, to hear him speak of you still in the language of ledger — as though even after everything, he still cannot quite let himself believe he might simply be loved and not owed.
“Yes…” you sigh, combing your fingers from his temple to the side of his neck. “You’ve paid me a great deal of coin to take care of you… But no one pays me extra to love you. And I find that I very much do.”
The words threaten to undo him completely. He has not grown any more accustomed to tenderness since the war ended than he was before it began. He was not raised to think himself particularly deserving of love; not with a family that whispered often of his peculiar appetite and a cousin who made a sport of his shame at every turn. And then you came along and never once made him feel like the freak everyone at court had long decided that he must be. You are, he thinks, the closest thing to a miracle he’s ever been given.
“Where will you go?” he wonders suddenly aloud, auburn brows pinching low in curiosity. “When Rhaenyra’s army arrives, I mean?”
You shrug, and the thin sleeve of your nightgown slips from your shoulder. “The crypts with everyone else, I expect—”
“What if we left?” he blurts before he can properly weigh the words in his head. His eyes dart wildly across your face, aglow now with a prophecy he can see so vividly in his head. “Daeron has Tessarion. And surely the three of us are not so heavy a burden for a dragon to bear. We could be gone from the city before anyone thought to look for us— and already leagues away before they could try.”
“And do what, exactly?” you wonder with a warm laugh. “Comb my hair by firelight and pray the open road pays half so well as Oldtown? I have a trade here, Gwayne, one that will long outlast this useless war. And one that does not travel well.”
“You wouldn’t need a trade,” Gwayne scoffs. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits up ahead of you, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his forearms across them. His face is very suddenly close to yours now, and very suddenly solemn. “I’d take care of you.”
“So I’d go around being your whore then? Is that it?”
His face screws in a pained sort of look. “You wouldn’t be my whore. You’d be my lady.”
The promise steals the words of a clever response from your mouth. You’ve heard enough of them fall from enough men over the years to fill a maester’s ledger — vows made drunk with sex and unmade sober when it was done; declarations of earnest men who meant well but were misled by their own wanting. You’ve learned the sound of deceit well enough over the years to recognize that this was not one of them.
Gwayne was, perhaps, the first man of any real means to offer you true courtesy that was not only spent with his coin; and you would like nothing more than to return the favor, to be his lady. But you learned long ago, the hard way a girl born into nothing usually learns such things, that some fates are simply not written for women like you.
A strange feeling settles heavy in your chest accordingly. It weighs down the edges of your tender smile as you reach to smooth a piece of silken auburn hair back from his temple, if only to buy yourself half a moment before you answer him.
“I cannot leave,” you mutter gently to him. “The road is not… gentle to women, whatever protection you mean to offer me… What if we were separated? What if you grew bored of me? What if I became a burden to you—?”
“Never,” Gwayne protests, words sharp with hurt.
You meet his frown with a much softer look in return. “Whatever’s coming for this city is no kinder than whatever’s waiting for me out there…”
Gwayne’s face falls. His taut look of offense softens slowly, through a thick swallow in his throat — the kindling hope of the fleeting moment folds in on itself like a flower at last light.
“But I do want you to go, Gwayne,” you whisper, bringing both hands to cradle his flushed cheeks. “You’ve never been happy in this city, not truly, not since I’ve known you. Take the boy and go somewhere it’s safe. You deserve that much, if nothing else."
He shakes his head between your palms, though not quite in protest. “Who will take care of you with me gone, hm?” he asks with a sad sort of grin.
“I take care of me," you answer with narrowed eyes. “I always have. Long before I found you, and long after I expect.”
Gwayne falls quiet for a moment thereafter. It takes him a while to find the words to speak again, and when he does, the words go as distant as his forlorn gaze. “I’m not certain I could manage it regardless… Ormund watches everything— every-one. He always has… He’d know I meant to slip away before I’d so much as breathed a word of it to Daeron…”
Your thumb stills on the warm apple of his cheek. “All you’d need as a distraction,” you shrug. “Something shiny enough… And perhaps close enough to his own doorstep that he’d have no choice but to look at that instead of you…”
Gwayne catches the change in your voice before he catches the true meaning underneath it. His brows lower in a dubious look. “…Do you have something in mind?”
You give him a slow, sly, and devilish smile in response. “Oh, I have a great many things in mind…” you coo to him. “Do try to keep up, my lord…”
The plan comes together slowly after that, whispered low against the pillows with the candles burning down to near nothing. You outline the basics of it, and Gwayne fills the gaps with everything he knows of his cousin — of his habits, his pride, his cruel nature. And though you find yourself almost fond of it, the surest way you can think of to buy Gwayne and his nephew their escape, the man cannot quite stomach the thought.
“Ormund is not the kind of man who plays fair,” he warns you in a whisper. “Even in games he thinks he’s winning, if he so much as suspects—”
“He won’t,” you assure him, tracing a slow finger along the tense edge of his jaw. “I’ve made a trade of reading men like him, Gwayne, and it’s only for one night. You find Daeron, ready the dragon, and leave your cousin to me. Trust me, I have handled far worse men for far less worthy causes.”
“The scouts say they’re a day’s ride out, maybe less,” Ormund says beneath the soft scraping of his boots along the dim passageway. His voice bounces off the walls, where the torches gutter low with the late hour. “Though… Rhaenyra’s army has proven rather slow as of yet, haven’t they? Dragged down by supply, no doubt, and by the unfamiliar country… Much to our advantage, just as I knew it would be.”
Gwayne tenses his jaw, struggling to stomach the older man’s hubris — a thing he has choked down often enough over the years that it should no longer taste of anything at all, though it still has a way of burning going down. There is a small satisfaction in it, though, Gwayne realizes; in knowing something that, for once, his cousin does not. A little victory in knowing that Daeron is saddling Tessarion in the dragon’s stable at this very moment, while Ormund waltzes through this castle, utterly unaware of it.
“Many men will die regardless,” Gwayne reminds him.
“Yes. We will lose men,” Ormund nods on an exhaled breath, then tilts his head to flash the man a feigned look of sincerity — a kind, tight-lipped smile with no warmth in it at all. “Which means you’ve got nothing to worry about, cousin. You were never counted among the men anyway, were you?”
He lifts a ringed hand to pat the younger man on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary, before wrenching open the door ahead of him. Gwayne stands in place and watches him, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. He clenches his hands into fists, exhales a slow breath through his nose, and lets the insult pass slowly over him. He watches, instead, as Ormund strolls into his solar and falters a half-step past the threshold.
Ormund’s nose catches it before his eyes do — a strikingly foreign scent hanging in the air, of warm oil and crushed petals, sorely out of place amid the leather and parchment and wet stone. His nostrils flare faintly as his eyes finish the work his nose began. His gaze scans the room until it lands finally on you, arranged on the couch by the hearth like a thing to be painted. The sleeves of your dress threaten to slip from your shoulders as the neckline dips low enough to reveal the canvas of your plush breasts, kissed by the flickering candlelight.
Something in his chest leaps before he can help it, a red-hot flare of gladness at the sight of you lounging so delicately in his own chamber, which was only ever possible in his dreams before now — vividly and more often than he’d like to admit, since the morning he found you at the Honey Inn. He told himself it was only the irritation of you that lingered, the bitter memory of a woman far too bold for her station, though the lie only stuck so much.
He swallows down the boyish excitement rising like bile in his throat, and disgust follows hard on its heels — first at himself and then at the reflexive worry of some guard or handmaiden or septa seeing someone like you waltz into his chambers looking like that. He has spent too long manufacturing his reputation for it to go to waste on some common whore.
“What… is she… doing here?” Ormund spits each word like venom.
“You said it yourself. Rhaenyra’s army will likely make Oldtown before break of day,” Gwayne says lowly as the door clicks shut behind him. “This could very well be the last night either of us has left… And I thought you might want one happy memory before you give yourself to the dust.”
Ormund’s ringed hands twitch into loose fists at his sides. He tilts his chin and swallows hard and finds that it’s near-impossible to break your stare, no matter how plainly he wears the mask of disgust across his face. It takes him a second too long to turn away from you, and to plaster a brittle smile on his mouth when he looks over his shoulder at Gwayne.
“So you’ve brought me your leftovers?” he says with a short, humorless laugh. “How generous of you, cousin.”
“Well, leftovers would imply that I was once his, my lord,” you call from your place on the couch, twisting your pointer finger around the golden tassel of the pillow just beside you. “And I don’t much recall belonging to anyone… It’s bad for business,” you punctuate your quip in a whisper and with a devilish grin.
Ormund gives you a realer smile this time, though it’s quickly swallowed by his usual narrow-eyed look of composure. “Well… You’ve certainly got a mouth on you, don’t you?”
“Hm…” you shrug, and let the sleeve of your gown slip from your shoulder. “So I’ve been told.”
Your glimmering look of amusement stays locked with his pale-eyed stare as he saunters slowly towards you, like a predator to prey — though you look rather pleased to be caught in comparison. So much so that Ormund struggles to tell which of you is the apex now, even as he towers over you lounging form.
“You’re very devout, I hear,” you tell him, tilting your head to your bare shoulder to study the breadth of his frame — his long legs, his ringed hands, his broad chest, his sharp jaw, his cold cold eyes. “The Faith frowns on this sort of thing, doesn’t it?”
Ormund scoffs out a laugh. “Whoring?”
“Idle hands.”
You shift on the plush cushions until you’re on your knees before him, eye level with his scabbard and the silver pomander glinting in the torchlight. You reach for his hands in a smooth, unabashed motion — palms soft against the rough skin of his knuckles as you splay his ringed fingers flat against your ribs, just beneath the swell of your breasts.
His hands go stiff beneath yours, forgetting how to move them for a moment. And though his breath catches at the foreign contact, he does not step back from you, not even when a faint red flush begins to climb up the column of his throat. His mouth parts softly as his pale eyes go lidded, and your smile sharpens at the sight of it.
“You can touch me if you like, my lord,” you tell him, smoothing your hands over his green-leather coat up towards his shoulders. “I promise I don’t bite… Unless you’d prefer that I did.”
Gwayne watches your arms curl around Ormund’s shoulders with his stomach in knots. He feels suddenly very nauseous, watching his brutish cousin rest his undeserving hands where Gwayne has lain his own a thousand times over. Even now, knowing exactly what game you’re playing and why, he wants so desperately to pull you away and take you back to the Honey Inn and drown in your silk sheets forever.
But the gods aren’t that kind, and you are far too stubborn to come with him, so he clears his throat and bids his final goodbye. “Well…” he calls into the quiet, forcing a lightness into his voice as he folds his hands behind his back and moves towards the door. “I guess I’ll leave you to it…”
“Stay,” Ormund commands in a flat voice, without once taking his eyes off yours.
Gwayne freezes mid-step. His eyes widen right before an awkward laugh sputters from his mouth. “What?” he chuckles, forced from a half-strangled throat. “You’ll surely not have much fun with me standing about, cousin—”
Ormund turns finally to face him. A hint of a pleasant smile sits on his mouth, though his eyes carry a much icier glare in comparison. “Stay,” he repeats. “It’s only fair, isn’t it? You’ve been keeping her to yourself all these years, I’ve heard. Now you’ll have your turn to watch. I find I rather like the idea of you learning what that feels like.”
A flicker of anger passes over Gwayne’s face.
Ormund’s smug grin widens. “Do sit, cousin. You’ll want a good view, I expect.”
Gwayne does not move from where he stands but does not close the scant distance between him and his escape either. He has seen what Ormund does to people who do not abide by his every command, and he is less inclined to witness it himself now — or, worst of all, have that cruelty brought upon you.
You watch the exchange with an unreadable expression and file the encounter in the back of your head for later use, should you need it. One hand drags from his shoulder to his neck, coaxing him to look your way again with gentle fingers splayed along his shaven jaw.
“Fond of an audience, are you, my lord?” you murmur to him. “I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you before now.”
Ormund nods, almost pleased. “There’s a great deal about me that you couldn’t possibly guess,” he retorts in a low voice.
“Good thing I’m a quick learner then, isn’t it?”
You urge him further down and tilt your chin to meet him halfway, slotting your lips in a lingering kiss. He’s warm and firm pressed against you, though his tongue tastes of nothing more than mint leaves and well-water when you lick into his mouth; as clean and sterile as all the rest of him. So much so that you think he could probably get drunk on the Dornish wine stained on your tongue alone. And you figure that he must, the way he relaxes against you with a slow breath, planting one hand along the back of the couch to brace himself and urging you backward along with it.
Your lips part with a quiet click. You smile to yourself when Ormund attempts to chase your mouth, nudging the tip of your nose against his broader one. “Let the poor boy go,” you coo softly to him. “I don’t suspect you’ll want an audience for the things I have planned for you, my lord.”
Ormund’s broad chest warms at the promise in your words, but his stubborn will never wavers. “No… I don’t think I will.”
You try not to let your face fall completely as you scramble for another excuse that might set Gwayne free. The auburn-haired man scoffs a faint laugh from across the room. “Cousin, I—”
“You will stay,” Ormund commands. “And learn exactly how it feels to stand apart and watch.”
Something cold and heavy settles in the pit of your stomach at his words — at Gwayne’s previous warning come to life right before your eyes. “He’ll want it now,” he’d told you. “He’ll want it simply because it’s mine.” You hadn’t understood the true weight of his meaning until now, with both you and Gwayne trapped beneath the man’s easily irritable, if not dangerous temper; and watching the promise of freedom slip through your fists like grains of sand.
You replace the distant look of worry on your face with another small smile the moment Ormund turns back to you, and try hard to kiss him back without reservation when he presses his mouth to yours again. There is little restraint in him now — in the tongue he licks between your parted lips, or in the ringed hands that trace the neckline of your dress.
His fingers curl beneath the thin fabric, urging it down down down until your bare breasts are exposed to the firelight and your delicate nipples pebble in the cool air. They’re sensitive within his rough hands as he cups them in his palms. You sigh hard in place of a moan, and feel Ormund grin softly into his kiss at the sound of it. His wet mouth smears across your skin as he trails his kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down your neck, before planting them to your left breast.
You sit back on your haunches and cradle the back of his hand, whimpering quietly when his tongue flicks across the sensitive nipple. Your eyes fall to Gwayne’s on instinct, where he remains across the room with his jaw locked tight, his hands balled into fists, and his pale eyes flaming with a withheld rage. He feels every inch of the late hour slipping away from you both — Daeron is still waiting for him at the stables now, and soon it will be too late to flee. And somewhere beneath his fear is a simmering jealousy, as he’s forced to watch his cousin’s undeserving mouth caress your body.
Your eyes dart to the door just beside him; a silent plea for him to leave with Ormund now distracted, as his mouth trails to your right breast. Gwayne answers with a curt shake of his head, to the left and back again. He wouldn’t make it down the hall before Ormund would realize he’d gone, and the both of you would likely suffer far worse for it.
So he suffers the sight before him instead, watches Ormund’s swollen mouth pluck off your breast and kiss the breath from your lungs once more.
He pulls off of you with a rosier grin. “Alright,” he pants. “Undress me.”
And though you’ve undressed many men over the years, your fingers tremble around each clasp of his leather coat for a reason you can’t name. You struggle now to meet his gaze with as much confidence as you had moments ago, as you urge the heavy fabric from his shoulders. His tunic goes next — the lace unknotted and the hem pulled from his trousers. You tug it up and over his head until the golden canvas of his body is revealed to you, toned from years in the training yard and unblemished from years of hiding from battle.
You run your hands down his shaven chest to the sparse at his stomach, a line that leads down into his pants. You unbuckle his scabbard next and then loosen the knot at his trousers, urging the fabric down his scruffy, muscular thighs. He sighs through his nose when his cock meets the cool air of the solar. He’s a few inches shorter than Gwayne, but thicker where it counts, with veins that trail in jagged lines from the base of his cock to the soft pink tip.
“Go on…” Ormund coaxes with a nod. “Kiss it.”
He’s half-stiff and smoother than velvet when you take him in your fist. He twitches harder in your palm when you duck your head to press a languid kiss to the satin head of his cock, right before swirling your tongue under the ridge of it.
Ormund watches you from the bridge of his nose, laughing through a low moan in the back of his throat. “Look at that… She is a good whore,” he hums with a smug smile, as he cradles the crown of your head in his wide hands. “And I didn’t even have to pay her…”
His head swivels in Gwayne’s direction, where he finds the younger man still scowling by the door, mere inches away from his escape. Ormund’s grin only widens at the sight of it.
“Careful now, cousin, or I’ll start to think you’re jealous… She said it herself, didn’t she? She doesn’t belong to anyone. Bad for business… Right, dove?”
You nod with your lips still wrapped around him, suckling the sensitive tip of his cock and using the remnants of your spit to jerk the rest of him in a slow, firm fist. Ormund grumbles a moan in the back of his throat and tips his heavy head back. His toned stomach tightens as a pleasured feeling coils in the pit of it, wound tight by your expert mouth upon him.
He tries to even his wavering breaths in a feeble attempt to make the moment last — if only to make his cousin watch a little while longer — but the wet sounds of your mouth are enough to undo him. And when you reach a hand to squeeze softly at his heavy balls, he nearly bursts entirely.
“Enough—” he hears himself blurt, pulling you off by your hair. Your lips part from him with a smacking sound. The thin string of saliva connecting you to him pulls thin until it clings to your bottom lip. You peer up at him with wide, glassy eyes. His broad chest heaves with every panted breath as he fights to regain his slipping composure.
“Get out of that dress,” he commands breathlessly, lips quirking into a grin. “And get on your hands and knees.”
You feel your heart thrumming hard in your throat when you reach for the sleeves of your dress, having long slipped from your shoulders now. You slide your arms out and roll the remaining fabric down your torso. The silk pools like water at your feet when you rise to take it the rest of the way off. The air feels cool against your flaming skin, and leaves chills pebbling in its wake. When you turn to plant yourself on the couch, just as he commanded, you feel Ormund swat your ass with a less-than-kind hand.
“Facing him,” he scolds in a gentle voice. “Give him a show now, shall we?”
You settle on your hands and knees along the lush cushions, angling yourself to face the door — to face Gwayne. Your bare chest heaves at the sight of him, pretty face etched with an anger you haven’t quite seen from him before. The quiet wretchedness of a man watching a thing he loves be claimed by a hand that’s already taken so much from him, and knowing that he cannot save you from any of it.
You want so badly to tell him that this is only a means to an end — that you do still love him — but you cannot risk Ormund hearing the words aloud and cannot hide the slick of primal excitement going sticky between your thighs.
So for now, you can only hold Gwayne’s wet-eyed gaze, and hope he can read the apology written in yours.
Gwayne cannot seem to look away from it, not even when Ormund settles in just behind you, with one leg bent on the cushion and the other still planted on the floor. Not even when the man presses two long fingers at the entrance of your weeping cunt, and hums in satisfaction when they slide without friction within your sticky walls.
“Mm…” he laughs beneath your whimpering. “You are lovely, you know— wasted on this trade, if I’m honest…” He curls his fingers and feels you clench around them when he pulls them back out again. “Perhaps I’ll wash some of that sin off you tonight… Make you clean… Make you mine… Would you like that?”
He reaches around to press his pointer and middle finger to your bottom lip, still glimmering with your slick. Your mouth parts for him on instinct, and he presses them to the pad of your tongue. You nod wordlessly with his long fingers in your mouth, salty-sweet with your honey, and imagine their Gwayne’s instead.
“You’ll agree with anything I ask, won’t you?” He laughs when you nod and slides his fingers out of your mouth again. “Like I said… Good whore…”
He grabs himself in his fist and presses the head of his cock to your pulsing entrance. He pierces you slowly, and feels your eager cunt spread around him inch by inch. Your airy sigh mixes with his rumbled groan when he buries himself to the hilt, with his hips pressed flush to your ass.
“Are you watching, Gwayne?” he calls proudly to his cousin, smoothing his rough hands along the canvas of your back.
Gwayne’s fingers curl and loosen into fists at his sides as his features flicker with a choked-back rage. “I’d prefer to take my leave now, cousin,” he answers, half-strangled.
“No…” Ormund coos with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Not until she cums, anyway. So… best work quickly, dove.”
He fucks into you a second later with a sort of precision you’d expect from a man like him. His thrusts are shallow and rhythmic and methodical. His balls smack your leaking cunt with every pass, creating a lewd symphony of sex all around you — of skin clapping against skin, of panted breaths entwining. Gwayne figures the sounds of war must’ve been far less cruel than this.
Ormund braces one hand along the back of your neck, like you’re a hound to be forced into submission, while his other slithers around your hip. The pads of his fingers press hard to your clit and a cry falls from your mouth before you can help it, filling the otherwise quiet solar.
“Rather sensitive for a whore, aren’t you?” Ormund chuckles from behind you. “Because you’ve never been fucked by a man before, I’d wager. Isn’t that right, cousin?”
Gwayne’s eyes burn under the weight of his unshed tears. He has faced death a thousand times over in the past few weeks, yet none of it was quite as heart-aching as this. His rage simmers to a boil in his throat, and it feels like fire when he swallows it down again.
Ormund’s thrusts grow sloppy thereafter, led purely by the pursuit of his own pleasure. But his fingers remain merciless on your swollen clit, and a white-hot pleasure begins to swell in the pit of your stomach accordingly. You grit your teeth and clench your fingers hard around the gold arm of the lavish couch in a feeble attempt to fight it — for your own pride, and perhaps for Gwayne’s, too.
“You’re mine now,” you hear Ormund say from just behind you, choppy between his faltering thrusts. “You’ll answer to no one else’s bed but mine. From this night forward. Is that understood?”
You nod wordlessly in response, if only to appease him for the moment, and feel his hand tighten on the back of your neck.
“Say it.”
“…I understand,” you just barely manage to squeak out.
“Then cum for me.”
He presses harder on your clit. Your face twists with a pleasure you can no longer fight away. You squeeze your eyes shut when your gaze falls instinctively to Gwayne’s, and when his pained features make your chest sear with a burning feeling. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as your cunt gushes around Ormund’s twitching cock. He thrusts into you once, hard, and shudders just against you. His rough groan mixes with the sound of your quiet whimpering as he spits ropes of warm cum into your fluttering pussy, milking him for every drop of it.
“That’s it…” he spits through gritted teeth, fucking you sloppily through the rest of his high. “Take it all— There you go…”
He swats your ass once he’s finally spent himself inside you, gripping hard at the plush skin there and forcing you flush against his scruffy thighs. A satisfied grin sits crooked at his mouth when his lidded gaze falls once more to the man across the room.
“Oh, don’t sulk, cousin,” Ormund calls to him, flushed chest still heaving. “I’ll have another whore sent up for you, if you wish.”
Gwayne flinches instantly at the very thought of it, at being with anyone else but you — at some other woman’s hands being where only yours have been, at having some other stranger’s mouth on him instead of the only one he knows by heart. His features flicker with an involuntary disgust before he can hide it.
“Oh…” Ormund grins wider. “Did you… Did you think you could have this one?”
He punctuates his question by thrusting hard into you once more. You make a pained noise in the back of your throat at your growing sensitivity; head bowed and shoulders heaving as your weeping cunt clenches around his softening cock. Ormund chuckles through another moan at the sensation.
“No. No, no— See, this one’s mine now…” Ormund continues, pale eyes icing over into a glacial sort of look. “And you’d do well to remember it, cousin… Because I’d hate for anyone to come to harm over… so small a misunderstanding, wouldn’t you say?”
Gwayne’s blood runs cold at Ormund’s promise, because he knows his cousin far too well to mistake it for anything less. And he knows now, too, that whatever escape he, Daeron, and Tessarion might’ve made tonight has long since closed in on itself, and will surely not open again while you remain under Ormund’s dangerous, unforgiving hand.
So he will stay. And he will wait for Rhaenyra’s army to march through these gates. And he will make certain that his cousin does not live to see the end of it, so long as it means that Gwayne gets to have you to himself when the ashes finally settle over Oldtown.
Raised in Kingslanding after your father, Daemon, abandoned you. The king decides it's time to marry you off, and who would make a better husband than the chivalrous knight the queen has for a brother? It's just a shame your mother drilled into you a fear of marriage and men that even gentle Gwayne will struggle to mend. (3k words) (requested)
Gwayne Hightower x Targ/Royce!reader
content: MDI, 18+, Loss of virginity, p in v, oral (f receiving), slight angst, fear of intimacy and fear of DA, Gwayne being a perfect gentleman and a munch. Arranged marriage, fluff. Daddy issues/daemon bashing. Referenced canon deaths. praise kink, use of good girl.
“Princess,” Gwyanes' voice greeted you, his hand taking yours as you made your way to the altar. A kind smile on his lips, though his nerves showed in his eyes. You smiled back nervously, taking his hand with sweaty palms.
“Ser,” you greeted in turn, “it's nice to meet you,” you spoke, trying to ignore the nerves that had eaten at you for days.
“It's nice to meet you as well,” he spoke, another kind smile on his lips, squeezing your hand before his focus went to the High Septon as he began to perform the marriage rites.
It was peculiar to think you had never met your husband until this moment. The moment when he was bound to you for all eternity. Though you supposed it twas the fate of many a Westrosi bride. To never know the man they were to be bound to, to have little choice in the matter.
But it was the fate of so many a bride that haunted you, the fate your mother had gone through. Married to Daemon against both their wills. The marriage was harsh and cruel, leaving both to suffer its torment. Your mother more so than him. That marriage had taught you to fear men and what marriage may be. It had made your mother tell you stories of the horrors of marriage, of the marriage bed. Of what men's true nature was and told you to fear it. And you had. For years you feared the man you meant to be your father. The man you had met but twice in your entire life. How had he visited you the day you were born, chosen your name against your mother's wishes and stuck around just long enough for the dragon he placed in your cradle to hatch. You didn't see him again until he killed your mother and gave her the very fate she had taught you to fear. Of husbands killing their wives for their own selfish ambition.
After that, he had abandoned you in King's Landing, attempted to steal your title and home as Lady of Runestone, and left you in the care of your uncle, King Viserys. Had the man not taken pity on you, you feared Daemon would have delivered you to the same fate as your mother. And that fear was what fueled your every move from that day onward. You had tried to beg your uncle to spare you from the world of marriage, but with Otto Hightower whispering in his ear of the usefulness a marriage to a princess can make, you were granted the same fate as all women in Westeros were given. A stranger chosen to be your husband.
A stranger that now stood before you. And as beautiful as he was, as much as he made you blush and believe every word of his gallantry and kindness, you still feared what kind of man he would be underneath it all. And if he would make you suffer as your mother had.
“Princess,” Gwayne whispered to you, squeezing your hand and pulling you from your thoughts, and the Septon continued to prattle endless prayers. “Are you alright?”
You met his eyes, both of you flushing at the eye contact. “Yes…I believe so,”
Gwayne smiled, “It must be daunting, all of this.” he motioned subtly, trying not to draw attention to you both, as you had been made to kneel at the altar for the long prayers the Septon was set to perform. “I know in Runestone you worship the old gods.”
You nodded, smiling, happy that he knew a little of your home. You had feared Otto had persuaded the king for the match just to give his son land and title. Feared that Gwyane may prove to be as self-serving as so many others. “Yes, we do…though there is a sept there, tis small and nothing like this.”
“There is?” he asked, turning to you, a grin on his face.
You nodded. “Yes, it was built for my grandmother, who was a Frey,” you spoke, leaning closer to Gwayne, ensuring your voice was hushed. “My grandsire gifted it to her; she loved it, I am told, as I hope you will also.”
Gwayne smiled, “I am sure I shall love your home dearly, Sept or no.”
You smiled, a small laugh falling from your lips at how kind he sounded “I miss it dearly,i hope you find it a home for yourself, Ser.”
“Gwayne,” he corrected, “please call me Gwyane.” You nodded, insisting he call you by your name in turn.
The septon cleared his throat before you, looking at you both expectantly, holding wine before you both. You turned to each other, laughing softly, nerves forgotten, before taking the wine and finishing the wedding ceremony.
“…Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger”, you both repeated once the rites and prayers were done, both now standing with your hands tied together, the cloak of House Royce replaced with the cloak of House Hightower.
“I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days”
“I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days”, you both repeated, your hands joining once more, as Gwayne lowered his head, and you both spoke the last part of your vows, tying your souls together for eternity.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” he spoke with a kind smile, and the words sounded true despite knowing each other for such little time. You spoke words back softly; the nerves he had made you forget about made a reappearance as you realised your first kiss was to be done before hundreds of strangers.
His lips pressed against your softly, his face moulding against yours perfectly. The kiss was less than chaste, with both of you lingering and holding the other in place as his lips moulded around yours before hundreds of people.
The cough of the septon was what pulled you away. Both blushed furiously as the sept began to fill with cheers.
The feast was loud and full of endless knights and lords whose names, let alone faces, you did not know. Bar the lords and ladies of the Eyrie, you relied entirely on Gwyane to make introductions. The Queen's brother's wedding to a princess they hardly knew had called for celebration and curiosity. As it seemed you endlessly greeted the nobility of the realm, your hand held dearly by Gwyane, who had not once let your hand go since you took it at the altar.
In the few moments between greeting the nobility, conversation with you and Gwayne never once ceased. Smiling and laughing, the nerves you had felt over marriage fading away as Gwayne recounted a tale from his youth as his cousin's squire. “He is, but three years my elder and the day he became a knight, he stole me away from my uncle,” Gwayne began, his thumb caressing your hand as he spoke, his eyes locked with yours. “He had me doing the strangest of tasks, most of which involved cleaning a smell from cloth that i am sure my cousin made up,” he laughed. You both sat huddled close together, exchanging stories as if they were secrets, both of you ignoring the calls for bedding as he recounted his story.
Alicent called both your names, snapping you from the world you had both run away to, “The bedding?” she spoke, ordering you to stand.
“There will be no bedding,” Gwayne demanded, causing the lords to all stop their shouts, as they took in the severity of his tone. “She is a princess and lady of the realm, and my wife; I shall not have another man touch her.”
“Gwayne, it's tradition,” you found yourself mumbling, standing beside him, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. You were surprised he objected; most men would hardly cast a single thought to the bedding and the thoughts and feelings their bride had over the ideal. And yet Gwyane was entirely serious in his objections, defying once again that night that he was not like the men your mother had taught you to fear.
“I care not” he turned to face you. “You are my wife, and tis a disgusting tradition.” he brought your hand up to his lips, kissing it softly, before turning back to the hall, “find another women to claw at, the streets of silk are not far,” he spoke again before moving down from the hightable and leading you out of the hall, ignoring the complaints and whines from the lords and ladies.
Gwyane led you to his guest chambers, your eyes sweeping the room and noting the lack of anything. A bag was placed in the corner, a pile of letters and parchment on the desk, and the wardrobe door lay open, showing clothes enough for a week.
“Is this all of your things?” you asked, surprised. The man packed far too lightly for someone about to uproot their life to a thousand leagues away.
Gwyane smiled, stepping away from you to begin removing his doublet as he spoke, “No, my father saw fit to have all my own belongings, and yours moved to Runestone tonight…he seems eager to have us move to our new home,” Gwyane cleared his throat, “I hope that is okay?” he walked towards you, in just his shirt and breeches now.
“Yes,” you nodded, nerves eating at you as you realised what was to come, “i have wished to return home since my father dragged me here,” you laughed lightly, trying ot forget the memory of your father stealing you in the night, your dragon forcibly left behind. Alongside most of your belongings.
Gwyane smiled, “I am glad,” he spoke, pouring you both some wine. He walked over to you, seeing you lost in thought. “Are you okay?” he asked, offering the wine. Taking it from him with a small yes, before downing the goblet.
“Slow down,” he spoke, taking the goblet from you, his hand coming ot your cheek as you flushed. “If you are nervous, we need not od anything tonight,”
You shook your head, “i am not nervous…i am worried,”
“Worried?” he urged, his hand on the small of oyur bak as he urged you to sit on the bed.
“I do not wish for you to be angry with me,” you began, your fingers toying with the rings on your hand.
“I know you have known me less than a day, my i assure you I could never be angry with you,” he reassured, pulling your hand back to his, rubbing tender circles in comfort.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to speak the words you had never said aloud, the words drilled into you by your mother that were strengthened by her death. “My parents' marriage was not a kind one; he tormented her and treated her cruelly.” You looked to gwayne, noting the kind smile on his face as he urged you to speak, listening to every word from your lips. “My mother taught me of the horrors of marriage, and I have feared it, feared that-”
“That your husband would treat you the same as your father did your mother?” Gwyane finished for you.
You nodded. “I did, but then I heard I was to wed you, and all anyone spoke of was how kind and gallant you were, but the fear still lingered and i-” You swallowed roughly “My mother always told me that the marriage bed was what to fear the most, the pain of it.”
“Sweetling,” Gwyane spoke, his hand going to your chin, urging you to meet his gaze, “it may hurt, but I shall do everything in my power to never hurt you willingly or unwillingly. If it is pain you feel and not pleasure, we shall stop, and I shall never visit your bed unless you desire it.”
“You promise?”
“I vow it, alongside the vows we spoke today, sweetling,” he reassured, his forehead coming to rest on yours.
You smiled, his reassurance easing your nerves. “Will you kiss me?” you asked, your face moving closer to his, your breaths mingling.
“Always,” he mumbled before connecting his lips to yours. The kiss was deeper than the first, his mouth pressing against yours perfectly. A soft gasp left your lips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue slowly pressing into your mouth. His hands slid to your waist, squeezing your hips as he kissed you, never once parting from yours until you were both begging for air.
“Where wearing too much clothes,” you laughed, your hand flying ot his chest, tugging at his shirt. Gwayne chuckled, reaching up to pull his shirt off and reveal the toned planes of his chest. Your own hands reached to undo the neldess laces of your dress, as gwayne stood to remove the rest of his clothes. You faltered at the sight of him bare before you, fully flushing as you took in the sight of him.
Gwayne preened under your gaze. “Do I please you, sweetling?” he asked teasingly.
You laughed softly, standing up and reaching to kiss him once more. This time, as your kiss grew heated, Gwayne's hands reached to pull off your clothes. His eyes never once strayed from your face, even as he pulled the chemise off your body. His hands stayed on your body, squeezing your hips as he continued to kiss you, before moving to pull the endless pins from your hair and jewellery that decorated your skin.
It wasnt until the last pin was pulled from your hair that he broke the kiss and began to walk you back to the bed; his eyes then began to trace the plains of your skin. “So beautiful,” he murmured, kissing you again softly, a soft moan falling from his lips as he slowly moved you down onto the bed.
“Well, take it one step at a time, sweetling,” he reassured, crawling voer your body, his hands on either side of your head, “you’ll tell me to stop if you need to?” he asked, watching you nod before reahcing down to kiss you once more, his lips soft, as his right arm began to trail along your body, caressing you softly as his tongue pushed into your mouth. His hand squeezed your breasts, his eyes tracing your skin as it flushed beneath his touch.
His mouth left yours, trailing down to your jaw and neck before finally working down to your breasts, taking your nipple into his mouth, and placing teasing kisses across your breasts. “Good girl,” he hummed, watching how you reacted to his touch.
“Is this good?” Gwyane asked, his eyes meeting yours. You moaned in response as his hand trailed down from your breasts until he reached your thighs. “Can I touch you?” he hummed, his hand reaching to part your thighs.
“Please,” you begged, preening as he placed another quick kiss to your lips before trailing down your body and parting your thighs to reveal your pretty pussy to him. His thumb reached for your bundle of nerves, rubbing soft circles on it as his tongue reached to lick between your folds.
A loud gasp fell from your mouth as he placed another lick across your slit. “Oh gods,” you moaned, as his fingers reached to spread your folds, revealing your pussy to him. He groaned at the sight of how wet you were. His tongue reached to place another long, teasing lick across the length of your folds. His thumb circled your clit as his tongue began to feast on you, lapping at your pussy, like a man starved. Moans fell from your lips as he feasted, a pleasure like never before lighting every nerve in your body, even more so when his fingers began to circle your entrance, pushing into you slowly.
Loud moans spilled form your lips, “Good girl.” Gwayne praised you again, his voice vibrating through your body as he spoke. A wave of pleasure washed over you as his fingers thrust into you, and something snapped inside of you, your back arching off the bed, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
“Did you like that?” he asked, breaking away from you.
“Yes,” you breathed heavily, your hands reaching to grab Gwayne as he crawled over your body, pulling you back in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as you kissed. You felt his cock line up with your entrance as you kissed, a moan falling from you as his cock nudged your clit.
“Are you ready?” he asked, gathering your slick across his length as he awaited your reply.
“Yes,” you breathed, reaching to connect your lips, focusing your attention on kissing him as he pushed into you. He stilled as he filled you, waiting for your go-ahead to move. “Move, please, “ you begged after a moment, the pain fading quickly.
“So good,” Gwyane moaned. “You look so beautiful,” he praised, his head dropping to your neck as he thrusted in and out of you. Your hands wrapped around his neck. “Taking me so well,” he hummed, kissing your neck. “Such a good girl,” he groaned, his hand gripping your waist, as he urged you to wrap your legs around him. His thrusts deepened at the new angle, hitting a soft, spongy spot inside of you.
“Faster,” you moaned, the sting you felt at first long fading into pleasure as he picked up the pace. Fast and deep, your pleasure racked through you, moans filling your chambers as you felt that coil inside of you tighten and snap suddenly. Your pussy is pulsing and tightening around his cock. He moaned into you, his lips moulding against your as his own wave of pleasure washed over him.
He breathed against you, his breath heavy, as he fell off your body, pulling you close to him. “You did so well,” he praised. “Did it hurt?” he asked, holding you tight to him, as you felt a wave of sleep wash over you, concern evident in his tone.
“No, not at all, it was perfect,” you hummed. And it was. He was perfect. The perfect man and husband. All your fears, all of your mother's words and fears, proved entirely unwarranted. As tonight was only the beginning of a life of marital bliss.
mated dragons aren't ought to be kept apart. based on this request
warnings: twincest. targcest. slight angst. hurt/comfort. slight depiction of depression. kissing. making out kinda. happy ending? aegarax is your dragon's name and he's mated with tessarion. word count: 2k
Ever since you could remember there had never been a moment where you were not right beside Daeron at all times. The ones responsible for your care understood this and even encouraged it given it was less work and time invested in your education. All your lessons with your Septa were shared and you were always there to witness all his trainings; you took morning tea and afternoon walks together on the gardens everyday hand on his arm and would even visit the Starry Sept together every week.
When you were but children it was not an odd thing given you had come to this world together. However, considering you were a girl and a boy as time passed the ones in charge of your care stopped encouraging it. After all you were Targaryens if not by raising then name and they did not wish for you to get the wrong ideas from your ancestors and their customs.
"It is not becoming of a Princess to be present in trainings alone within so many man." had told you Lady Samantha one morning with a tone that left very clear that this was not a simple comment or suggestion but an order.
You did not resent her for it as you knew those could not had been her desires expressed all of a sudden. Lady Samantha had never been particularly maternal towards you nor your brother, but neither did she ever involved herself in your education or the way you were being raised. Those had to be her husband's words put in her mouth for more peaceful understanding.
To not cause a scene were your brother prepared himself to be stronger and protect himself you did as told and stopped attending his trainings which was quickly noted by him. You still watched him through them from your balcony, but it was not the same.
"Has something happened at one of my trainings that made you stopped coming?" he had asked one afternoon during one of your walks. "If so tell me at once and I'll take care of whoever dared bother you."
"It's not that." you answered shaking your head and soothing his arm that was holding yours so properly. "It was Ormund's orders... and i believe it is only the beginning."
He seemed distressed but did not dare to ask further about your thoughts, he knew you were the complete opposite from him, while he always saw the best in people and tried to always asume the best you were always three steps ahead always assuming the worst and parting your judgment about people from there until they prove it otherwise.
If you said this was only the beginning, it most possibly was and as predicted your uncle slowly but surely separated you until you could barely see each other once a week for a couple of minutes. Suddenly he himself wanted to be in charge of Daeron's tutoring on the histories, your own lessons required more time, and his trainings were earlier to accommodate his new studding schedule which did not leave any time left for your morning tea or your afternoon talks. Ormund and his family started joining your visits to the Sept and his children were now welcomed to supper with the rest of the family, their seats being placed in between you and your brother.
What once had been a life where you were attached to the hip parting ways rarely turned into misery in just a few moons where you were rarely in the same room and a sole glance across the table said so many things, longing for just a moment, just a couple of words.
What your uncle could not predict was what he had never been able to understand. Mated dragons were ought to be kept together in order to keep their strength and sanity. Tessarion and Aegarax had grown restless since you were now unable to visit them nor ride them together as times never seem to be right to do so. You barely even had time to visit and ride them separately once or twice a moon and their temper was worse every day. They fought the dragonkeepers and even each other from time to time.
You yourselves were deteriorating fast. It was not intentional as a form of rebelling to Ormund, you had not planned it but somehow it had happened to both of you. Your appetite was lost; you did try to eat but your throat was just as closed no matter how hard you tried. You stopped going outside your room knowing that wherever you went he won't be there and at night sleeping escaped you, being all alone in the dark with your thoughts only served to think of him endlessly.
What would he be doing? Did he thought of you like you did him? Or did he go by his day better than you? You really hoped he did, this torture you would not wish on your worst enemies, certainly would never wish it upon your sweet Daeron.
The first time you were allowed to be together in the same room was to solve the issue of your dragons. Ormund had yelled at you at first, Tessarion and Aegarax had fled the past night and burnt a small area and with it what they were hoping to be a good harvest for the winter that now they would have to relocate and start again hoping for the best.
Ormund was furious and even Gwayne seemed stressed about the situation though a lot more collected than his cousin, he also seemed worried about you, your far more prominent cheekbones and the dark circles under your eyes made him argue with the Lord of the Hightower about you both not being in conditions to go out looking for temperamental dragons but after a painful shared look you reassured them that you were more than fine and ready.
You both saw the opportunity and took it before it could slip throw your fingers. You would still travel with enough guards to start a small uprising to prevent any attempt against the crown but because of it you would be forced to share tent in case of needed to stay out for the night by direct order of your uncle Gwayne which Ormund tried to deny but reluctantly accepted given the number of men that would travel with you and whichever might be their intentions.
The first hours of the trip were quiet and awkward, and it was so strange how suddenly it was so hard and unfamiliar to be this close to your brother, and you hated Ormund for how much he had been able to change between you in such a short period of time but you hated yourself even more for allowing him to accomplish it so well without any type of resistance.
"Look at that, they must be close." he said pointing at something and when you followed his gaze there was a bast meadow with burnt patches covered in animal bones that your dragons had eaten.
Was all it took for you two to urge your horses to ride faster leaving the guards behind trying to keep up with you while you tried to follow their trail before they could leave farther but once you reached the next place, they had settle in it was too late, they were gone again. The bones were fairly warmth, and you knew you were close to finding them but were persuaded to stop the search for the day given the sun was already setting and you needed however last drops of sunlight to settle your camp.
As per usual you were unable to fall asleep tossing and turning in your bed feeling worried about your dear friend Aegarax and also Tessarion but your mind was also troubled thinking about how many hours you had spent right next to Daeron's horse and how you had barely said a word to each other.
"Are you awake?" you whispered not wanting to wake him up if he was getting the rest he so much needed.
"Yes" he answered and by the tone of his voice you could tell he hadn't slept a bit.
"Can I sleep with you?" the silence was long enough you were almost certain he decided to pretend he didn't hear you or fell asleep but in the end without an answer he moved in his bed to make space for you and lifted the covers on your side.
You didn't let another second pass and walked to his bed covering yourself to the neck hiding your face in his chest. He went still for moment but found comfort in your presence as you did in his and soon enough, he was hugging your back pulling you closer. Unconsciously smelling the flowery scent of your hair feeling better than he had in moons.
"I'm sorry..." you whispered against his chest, emotions kept at bay for moons suddenly resurfacing with full strength making you instantly start crying now that you were in the warmth of his arms. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have let him do this."
"Shh..." he soothed your hair as gently as if you were just a babe. "Stop blaming yourself for everything, i could have fight it too."
"No, no, don't say that. It's not your fault..." you tried to deny it even if deep down you knew it was true but defending him came on instinct.
"It is..." he took a deep sigh and looked you in the eyes in a way that took your breath away. "One day you have to stop treating me like a wounded pup. Then maybe i can find the strength in me to fight... For us."
His words left you breathless and a weight settled in the pit of your stomach, too many emotions to process them in time, sadness, happiness, pride, guilt, love. All your life you had tried so hard to be there first in line to protect him that you had failed to see he needed to put on his own front to grow, if you kept being Ormunds punching bag to save him he would never know how to save himself and for that you were deeply sorry.
"For us?" you asked with a new perspective itching something deep inside you.
"For us." he nodded and for a moment everything was silence.
You didn't dare saying something that could ruin the moment and the intensity which with he was looking at you made you go very still. He seemed to be at war with himself for what felt like decades only for him to lean in so fast and suddenly as if he feared he might not do it if he thought about it any longer.
His lips were soft on yours, gentle as you had not hoped any kiss to be. His hand cupped your jaw and caressed the skin of your cheek wiping away the tears you had shed for him as he kissed you soft and slow and you wondered if he had done this before, it didn't feel like he had as he was hesitant in every move, but it felt so good you couldn't help but wonder. Time passed and as much as you felt like you needed to breathe it was impossible to part your lips from his.
You only separated from each other to take in some needed air and kissed again for hours until you felt exhausted and happy enough to sleep what you haven't slept in moons.
Next morning you were up before everyone else and urged your companions to keep moving riding faster and farther from them with renewed enthusiasm and by midday you found your dragons happy and snuggling on a hill which made you look at each other and giggle seeing your dragons' situation mirror yours.
When your company reached you, you made sure to express your desire to return to Oldtown on dragon back and without waiting for an answer you took the skies letting the wind ruin your hair with the biggest smile on your face as Daeron and Tessarion flied right beside you.
they kissedddddd i'm so happy and excited to keep writing about him, he's so kind and sweet and him in the new episode??? he's so tall and dreamy i'm going to need someone to sedate me please.
Summary: After a failed attempt to escape her fate, the princess spends her brief betrothal hiding from the man she is destined to marry. On their wedding night, however, she is forced to confront not the knight from her nightmares, but the man behind them.
"Princess?"
The voice seemed to reach you from very far away.
You blinked slowly, your gaze remaining fixed upon the deep red wine swirling lazily inside your goblet as though the answer to every question you had ever asked might somehow be waiting beneath its surface. The music filling the Great Hall blurred into little more than distant noise, the laughter of lords and ladies melting together until the celebration sounded less like a wedding feast and more like waves breaking endlessly against the shore.
How much had you slept this past week?
You tried to remember. An hour the first night. Perhaps two the next.
You had drifted into exhausted naps whenever your ladies managed to force you into bed, only to wake moments later with your heart racing and smoke still clinging to your lungs from dreams that felt altogether too real.
Ten hours across the entire week, perhaps.
It hardly mattered as you were tired enough that the world no longer felt entirely solid. Worse still, exhaustion had begun to twist time into something unrecognizable. The days had slipped through your fingers like water, each one dissolving into the next until you scarcely knew where one ended and another began.
Somehow, impossibly, it was already your wedding night.
Ever since your betrothal, the dreams had ceased showing you the man himself. No longer did you wake with the image of emerald cloaks or a familiar smile lingering in your thoughts.
Instead, every night unfolded into the same dreadful vision of a kingdom devouring itself. The dragons screamed as they tore one another from the sky and fire swallowed castles whole. The banners of great houses burned until only ash remained and somewhere within the smoke stood your family. One by one, they disappeared, no matter how desperately you ran toward them, your feet never seemed to move.
And always you woke before discovering who had survived.
"Princess."
You startled violently at the gentle nudge against your arm, blinking several times before the Great Hall finally returned to focus.
"...The princess," Gwayne was saying smoothly to the elderly lord and lady standing before the two of you, "...has had very little rest these past several days. Wedding preparations have rather exhausted her. She was terribly eager for today."
You nearly laughed, the only wedding preparation you had been a part of was making sure there was enough wine. You bit the inside of your cheek as the old couple smiled knowingly.
"Entirely understandable," the lady replied warmly. "Every bride grows overwhelmed eventually."
You stared politely for a heartbeat, trying desperately to remember who they were. They were from the Riverlands, you were almost certain. Or perhaps the Reach. You could not remember their names.
"...We merely wished to offer our congratulations," the lord continued. "It is good to see House Targaryen and House Hightower joined in friendship once again."
"How fortunate," you murmured before you could stop yourself, "To become a bridge built for everyone else's benefit."
Silence.
The couple exchanged an uncomfortable glance and beside you, Gwayne cleared his throat with practiced ease, "What my wife means," he said gently, "is that we both hope our families enjoy many years of peace together."
The couple accepted the explanation with relieved smiles before offering another round of blessings and finally drifting back into the sea of nobles filling the hall.
Before your thoughts had the chance to drift away again, Gwayne was already steering you elsewhere with a light hand against the small of your back, politely intercepting another lord who looked eager to offer his congratulations.
You hardly noticed where he was leading you. Your mind had wandered back to dragons. To fire. To ash carried across a blackened sky.
Every night the dreams revealed another piece of a future you could not understand, each one ending before you reached the answer you sought, and every morning you awoke feeling as though you had lived through another lifetime. Somewhere within those visions, something terrible was waiting for your family.
You simply did not know when.
"I cannot decide," Gwayne said after watching you in silence for several moments, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, "whether I ought to be impressed or thoroughly insulted that this is the first conversation we have managed to have since you attempted to climb over the walls of the Red Keep."
That was entirely true. After your failed attempt of fleeing, you had become almost impossible to find on the single week of your betrothal. If he visited the training yard, you wandered the libraries. If someone whispered that Ser Gwayne had been seen crossing the eastern galleries, you slipped into forgotten stairwells known only to servants and children who had spent their lives turning the Red Keep into a playground. You lingered in the dragonpit until dusk, disappeared into abandoned towers, climbed onto rooftops where no lady ought ever to be, and more than once your ladies had distracted curious knights long enough for you to escape through hidden passages behind the old tapestries.
You had convinced yourself it was easier that way. If you never truly knew him, perhaps the dreams would hurt less when they came to pass.
You studied him for a moment before answering with complete seriousness, "You should probably feel insulted."
His mouth twitched, "I suspected as much."
"And your sister certainly is."
You inclined your head toward the royal table where Alicent sat beside your father, regal as ever, though her gaze found the two of you often enough that it was impossible not to notice. Even from across the hall, there remained something watchful in the way she looked at you, as though she expected you to vanish before the evening was through.
Gwayne followed your gaze before smiling with quiet resignation, "She worries."
A dry laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You doubted worry had ever been the proper word.
You knew perfectly well why Alicent had approved of the match. Marriage carried you to Oldtown, away from King's Landing, away from the court, away from the endless disappearances that had become almost expected of Viserys's younger daughter. It solved a problem politely enough that no one could accuse anyone of cruelty.
You kept that thought to yourself and instead chose to stand quietly next to him which in itself, was an odd sort of torment.
There were moments when you forgot you had only met him once before, because your dreams had stolen that unfamiliarity from you years ago. You knew the sound of his voice before he ever spoke, the easy smile that softened his features, the slight crease between his brows whenever he found himself thinking too hard. Every part of him felt strangely familiar.
Yet he looked at you with the curiosity reserved for complete strangers.
What you were not aware of is how desperately he wanted to change that. While you ran from him, he had questioned dragonkeepers, stable boys, guardsmen, maids, cooks, even elderly servants who had watched you grow from infancy, and every one of them had answered him with the same amused smile.
"The princess does that. She'll turn up eventually."
He had begun to wonder whether you intended to appear at your own wedding.
"You are tired." The observation was spoken so softly that it almost disappeared beneath the music.
"It has been a long day."
"It has been a long week."
You offered no reply and Gwayne watched you another moment before quietly rising to his feet.
Without explanation, he crossed the hall toward the royal table.
You followed him with tired eyes, watching as he bent to speak privately with your father. Viserys listened with surprising attentiveness before a warm smile spread slowly across his face, one accompanied by a gentle nod of approval. Beside him, Alicent looked between the two men with obvious skepticism, one elegant brow arching before she sighed in quiet resignation and inclined her head as well.
Only then did Gwayne return.
He extended his hand toward you, "Let us retire."
You looked at him in confusion, "The feast is not over, there are still hours before midnight," then quietly you added, "...and the bedding ceremony."
"There will not be one."
For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face.
The hall continued behind you in laughter and celebration, entirely unaware as your husband led you quietly toward the great doors, leaving the music behind without so much as a backward glance.
-
The silence that greeted your chambers felt almost startling after the endless noise of the feast. Servants slipped inside only long enough to light fresh candles before disappearing as quietly as shadows, leaving the room bathed in warm golden light and blessed stillness.
Almost mechanically, you reached for the jeweled pins woven into your hair, removing them one after another until the intricate braids loosened and silver-white strands spilled heavily over your shoulders. Rings followed. Bracelets. A necklace that had begun to feel unbearably heavy hours ago.
You became aware, little by little, that Gwayne was no longer speaking and the realization surprised you.
Ever since the gardens, he had seemed determined to draw you into conversation whenever circumstance allowed, asking gentle questions you never truly answered, smiling whenever your stubbornness surfaced. Now, he simply let the quiet exist.
He busied himself with small, unnecessary tasks instead, stirring the fire back to life before pouring a modest measure of wine into a silver goblet. When he approached, he offered it without ceremony.
"So you may sleep."
You looked at the goblet, then at him. For the first time since your father had announced the betrothal, uncertainty settled over a different question entirely.
Had you been wrong about him?
Not about the dreams, but about the man standing before you. He had canceled the bedding ceremony without asking anything in return. He had noticed your exhaustion when no one else had cared to. He had remembered the wine not because of gossip, but because he had seen you struggle.
It was a kindness you have not felt from anybody in a long time.
"But, we're meant to...consummate the marriage." The words felt strangely hollow as they left your mouth.
He looked almost bewildered, "You are in no condition for anything except sleep."
"But everyone—"
"I am unconcerned with everyone," his voice softened, "I am only concerned with you."
Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly. He gestured toward the bed, "You should rest, I'll remain by the fire."
You searched his face for some trace of obligation, some hidden expectation that would reveal this gentleness to be little more than courtesy and found none.
Truthfully, you had no desire to sleep. Not because you lacked the exhaustion, but because you knew what awaited you the moment you surrendered to unconsciousness. Yet the words refused to leave your lips. You found yourself unable to confess such a childish fear aloud, especially to a man you had known for scarcely a fortnight and married only hours before. So, swallowing both your pride and your apprehension, you drank the wine without another word.
When the last drop was gone, you set the silver cup aside and crossed slowly toward the bed, every step carrying the strange feeling that you were walking willingly toward the very thing you feared most. Before climbing beneath the covers, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Gwayne was already watching you.
When your eyes met, he offered the faintest of smiles before inclining his head toward the bed as though gently reminding you that it was all right to rest. Then, true to his word, he turned back toward the fire, giving you the privacy.
-
You did not know how long sleep had held you. It could have been minutes or hours. Time rarely existed within your dreams.
One moment you had been wrapped beneath warm blankets while Gwayne sat closely to the fire, and the next you stood beneath a sky stained black with smoke while dragons screamed somewhere beyond walls you could not see. Syndor's cries cut through the chaos with heartbreaking familiarity, each desperate roar carrying the unmistakable panic of a creature searching for the only person who had ever been able to calm him.
You tried to reach him, but something unseen held you in place while his cries grew louder and louder until they became almost unbearable.
Then, you woke with a violent gasp that burned your lungs.
Your eyes had not yet opened, but your hands were already searching frantically through the darkness, clutching at sheets and blankets as though expecting rough chains instead of soft linen beneath your fingertips.
"Syndor..."
The name escaped you before you had fully returned to yourself.
"My dragon..."
The room remained swallowed in darkness, interrupted only by the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. For one terrifying heartbeat, the dream still felt real. Then came the quiet scrape of a chair against stone.
"Princess."
Gwayne's voice was low enough that it scarcely disturbed the silence, yet it carried through the room with a steadiness that slowly began pulling you back to the present.
He was already crossing the room, then stopped almost immediately when he took a look at you.
You had retreated as far back against the carved headboard as the bed would allow, the blankets gathered tightly against your chest while your breathing came in short, uneven bursts. Your wide violet eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, still trapped halfway between nightmare and waking.
Very carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, "It was only a dream," he said quietly.
Before he had even finished speaking, you shook your head, "No."
"Syndor needs me. He's..." You swallowed hard, struggling against the lingering panic. "...he was calling for me."
"He is safe," The reassurance came without hesitation, "You are in your chambers."
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them as though that alone might banish the images still clinging stubbornly to your mind.
"He is asleep in the Dragonpit," Gwayne continued gently. "Nothing has happened to him."
Neither of you spoke after that and the silence settled over the room like a blanket of its own, broken only by the crackling fire and the gradual slowing of your breath until each inhale no longer felt as though it fought against your ribs.
Only when he was certain the worst of the terror had passed did he speak again, "Are you alright?"
You answered with the smallest nod.
"Would you like to try sleeping again?"
"No." The word came too quickly and sharply.
He rested his forearms loosely against his knees, studying the fire for a long moment before asking, almost conversationally, "What do you usually do when you wake from them?"
You followed his gaze toward the embers, "Anything," your shoulders lifted in a tired shrug and your fingers tightened around the blankets, "I walk, or read."
"And when I was younger..." a wistful smile touched your lips before fading just as quickly, "...I used to sneak into my sister's chambers."
He looked back at you, "Rhaenyra?"
You nodded, "We never spoke about the dreams, we would simply talk until the sun came up."
The confession lingered quietly between you and Gwayne found himself smiling. He could picture it with surprising ease, a much younger princess padding barefoot through dark corridors with tangled silver hair, crawling beneath her elder sister's blankets simply because sleep had become too frightening to face alone.
The image was unexpectedly endearing.
Then he noticed something else. Every time he shifted, however slightly, you shifted too. It was subtle, the smallest instinctive retreat. Enough that the space between you never truly disappeared and his smile faded. He searched his memory for something, anything, that might explain it.
Had he spoken too harshly in the gardens? Had he frightened you that evening without realizing it? Or was it simply the marriage itself?
The thought settled heavily inside him.
After a long silence, he drew a quiet breath, "May I ask you something?"
You looked up cautiously before giving the faintest nod. He hesitated, not because he doubted the question, but because he feared the answer. "When I found you in the gardens..." his voice remained gentle, "...you looked at me as though you already knew who I was."
"And just now when I came to you..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "You looked almost frightened of me."
He searched your face, hoping to find an explanation there before he asked the question aloud, "Have I done something to deserve that?"
For a long moment you simply stared at him as your fingers twisted together beneath the blankets.
"I suppose you have not."
Not yet, the little voice in your head told you.
You stopped, struggling to shape feelings that had lived inside you since childhood into words another person might understand. The admission came little more than a whisper, "It is just that...the first time I dreamt of you, I was only a child."
His brows lifted in quiet surprise.
"I didn't know your name, I don't even think I knew what Oldtown was. I only know it was you because you were a knight wearing green."
The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.
"So it is strange," you continued before he could tease you, "Meeting you, I mean."
You looked at him then, "It feels as though I have known you for years. As though, the night in the gardens was not our first meeting."
Gwayne felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. The thought was strangely beautiful. Somewhere, years before either of you had known the other's name, a lonely little princess had dreamed of a knight in green armor. And somehow, she had remembered him.
"I confess," he said after a moment, his voice carrying that same quiet warmth that had followed you throughout the evening, "I feel I have been placed at a considerable disadvantage."
You looked at him, your brows drawing together in sleepy confusion.
"You have known my face since you were a child," he continued, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. "You have spent years deciding what sort of man I am."
"And you?" you asked softly.
"I have scarcely had a week."
Despite everything, despite the lingering ache in your chest and the remnants of terror still clinging stubbornly to your mind, a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, "I suppose that is rather unfair."
"I should think so," he replied. "I have had hardly enough time to convince my own wife that I am tolerable company."
"You have done..." You hesitated, lowering your eyes to your hands. "...better than I expected."
The admission surprised the both of you.
You had not meant to say it aloud. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly look at him, not at the knight who appeared in fragments of prophecy, nor at the stranger fate had insisted you marry, but simply at the man seated beside your bed in the middle of the night with sleep still clinging to his own eyes because he had risen the moment he heard you cry out.
He had asked nothing of you. Not obedience, affection, not even an explanation. Only whether you were well. The realization settled quietly somewhere deep inside your chest.
It made everything infinitely more difficult, because the man before you looked nothing like the one your dreams warned you about.
The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable. Outside the windows the castle had surrendered entirely to the night, the laughter from the feast long since faded until all that remained was the gentle crackling of the fire and the distant rush of wind against the towers.
Eventually Gwayne inclined his head toward the bed, "You should try to sleep again."
The answer came almost before he had finished speaking, "I cannot. The dreams will only return."
He considered your words for a long moment before speaking again, "Then they shall wake me as well. I'll remain here."
"You needn't. You have already done more than enough."
"I don't believe I have." His answer was gentle, but there was an unmistakable certainty beneath it. "If you wake frightened, then I shall wake with you."
He said it so simply that, for a moment, you wondered if he understood what he was promising. "You do not know what you are agreeing to."
"No," he admitted honestly, "But I know you should not have to face them alone."
Your throat tightened. You had spent so many years convincing yourself that the dreams belonged to you alone, that they were yours to endure and yours to hide, that hearing someone speak so matter-of-factly about sharing even the smallest part of that burden felt almost foreign. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you shifted beneath the blankets.
It was not an invitation so much as the smallest surrender and Gwayne seemed to understand the difference.
Silently he extinguished the last candle until only the embers in the hearth painted the room in shades of amber, then crossed quietly to the opposite side of the bed. He lay down carefully atop the covers, leaving enough space between the two of you that propriety remained untouched, his hands folded loosely across his chest as though he feared even the slightest movement might disturb you.
"Good night, Princess."
"Good night, Gwayne"
The distance made you smile despite yourself, then you closed your eyes once more. This time, sleep did not feel quite so terrifying even when you knew, with the same dreadful certainty that had followed you since childhood, that the dreams were waiting just beyond consciousness.
You had not told him everything. You had not told him about the dreams where you reached for him and he never reached back. The ones where you awoke every time with the unbearable certainty that, somehow, someday, he would become the source of a grief too great to imagine.
The thought lingered for only a moment before your gaze drifted toward the man lying quietly beside you. His breathing had already begun to deepen, though you suspected he was not truly asleep, listening instead for the slightest sign that another nightmare had found you.
The ache in your chest remained and yet, you chose not to dwell upon the future your dreams insisted awaited you.
That could wait until morning, tonight, you allowed yourself to remember the kinder dreams instead, the ones where a lonely little girl had found comfort in the company of a nameless knight dressed in green, long before she knew the sorrow the future promised.
And with those memories held close, you surrendered once more to sleep, choosing to believe in the dreams that had taught you how to love him before the ones that warned you how you might lose him.
Notes: I have the craziest urge to write an extremely angsty part three but I have grown attached to reader and do not want to make her suffer even more💔
Summary: in which Oscar Tully decides he WILL marry daemon's sweet daughter and he does not care what daemon thinks about.
Warning: daemon is a protective girl dad
Note: just a fun one
masterlist
One shot
The first time Oscar Tully met Daemon Targaryen's daughter, she was standing beneath the shadow of her dragon.
Smoke curled lazily around her boots as the beast settled behind her, wings folding with a sound like thunder rolling across the Riverlands. Soldiers instinctively stepped back. Even seasoned knights lowered their eyes.
Oscar simply stared.
Not because of the dragon.
Because she was smiling at one of the younger squires who had tripped over his own feet while trying to look brave.
She helped him stand.
Asked if he'd hurt himself.
The dragon behind her snorted, as if offended its rider was comforting frightened boys instead of inspiring fear.
Oscar smiled before he could stop himself.
"Gods," he murmured.
"She's beautiful."
Daemon Targaryen, who had happened to be walking behind him, heard every word.
"So I've been told."
Oscar turned.
Every story about the Rogue Prince had failed to capture just how dangerous he looked.
Dark Sister rested at his hip.
Caraxes lifted his enormous head several yards away, golden eyes settling directly on Oscar.
Most men would've looked away.
Oscar bowed politely.
"My prince."
Daemon folded his arms.
"You're looking at my daughter."
"I was."
"And?"
Oscar considered lying.
He'd never been particularly good at it.
"I'd quite like to marry her."
Silence.
Complete, horrified silence.
A nearby knight actually closed his eyes as though preparing to witness an execution.
Daemon blinked once.
Then Caraxes let out a low, rumbling growl that shook the ground beneath Oscar's boots.
Oscar looked toward the dragon.
"...Good afternoon to you as well."
Caraxes growled louder.
Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Leave."
"Yes, my prince."
Oscar turned obediently.
Then paused.
"I still intend to court her."
The growling stopped.
Daemon stared after him with the same expression one might wear after discovering a sheep had just challenged a wolf.
—
"Your father hates me."
Reader nearly choked on her wine.
"He threatened to feed you to Caraxes."
"Only twice."
She laughed.
"Twice?"
"The first time was after I told him I'd make you very happy."
Reader covered her face with her hands.
"And the second?"
"I asked where I'd need to stand during the wedding."
She burst into helpless laughter.
"You did not."
"I did."
"You've known me four days."
"I know."
"You don't even know my favorite color."
Oscar frowned thoughtfully.
"...Red."
She blinked.
"Because of House Targaryen?"
"No."
He smiled.
"Because whenever you're laughing your cheeks turn pink."
Her heart performed a ridiculous little flip.
Gods.
He was impossible.
—
Daemon tried everything.
He assigned Oscar patrols on the opposite side of camp.
Oscar finished them early.
He buried him beneath meetings with Riverlords.
Oscar attended every one before somehow finding Reader again before sunset.
He sent him into pouring rain to inspect supply wagons.
Oscar returned soaked through, carrying wildflowers he'd picked along the road because he'd thought Reader would like them.
She did.
She pressed them between the pages of her book.
Daemon nearly lost what remained of his patience.
"He cannot possibly be this cheerful."
"He usually is."
"There must be something wrong with him."
"There might be."
"He smiled at Caraxes."
Reader couldn't help herself.
"So did you."
"I was threatening someone."
"So was he."
Daemon frowned.
"...I dislike that you're defending him."
"I noticed."
—
It came to a head three weeks later.
Reader found Oscar sitting beside the river with his boots abandoned in the grass.
"You've survived another day."
"I have."
"My father hasn't killed you."
"He seems busy."
She sat beside him.
The evening sun painted the water gold.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally she asked the question that had been bothering her since the day they'd met.
"Why aren't you afraid of him?"
Oscar laughed quietly.
"I am."
She looked at him in surprise.
"You don't seem afraid."
"I'm terrified."
"You certainly hide it well."
He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water.
"I know exactly what Daemon Targaryen could do to me."
"And yet..."
He looked at her.
"And yet every time I think perhaps I should stay away..."
His smile softened.
"...you smile at someone."
"...or laugh."
"...or stop to help a servant carry something."
"...or spend an hour listening to an old soldier tell stories you've surely heard a hundred times before."
He shrugged.
"I decide frightening your father is the easier task."
She felt her throat tighten.
"Oscar..."
"I don't expect anything."
He spoke so gently that it almost hurt.
"I know this is war."
"I know tomorrow isn't promised."
"I know your father would rather I disappeared."
A pause.
"But if I never told you..."
His voice became almost shy.
"...I'd regret it for the rest of my life."
"I think I've fallen in love with you."
She had been courted before.
Princes.
Lords.
Heirs.
Every one of them had spoken about dragons, beauty, alliances, bloodlines.
Oscar spoke about the way she smiled.
No one ever had.
She reached for his hand.
He froze.
"I think," she whispered, "I've been waiting for you to say that."
His eyes widened.
"Truly?"
She nodded.
He laughed—an honest, joyful sound that echoed across the river.
Unfortunately...
"So."
They both turned.
Daemon stood twenty feet away.
Dark Sister rested casually across one shoulder.
Caraxes loomed behind him.
Reader sighed.
"My father."
Oscar stood.
"My prince."
"I leave the two of you alone for ten minutes."
"It was closer to twenty."
Daemon ignored him.
"You wish to marry my daughter."
"I do."
"You understand that if you ever make her cry—"
"I'll deserve whatever punishment you decide."
Daemon stopped.
That...
wasn't the answer he'd expected.
Oscar continued before courage abandoned him.
"I cannot promise she'll never know hardship."
"We live in difficult times."
"I cannot promise I'll always have the right answer."
"But I can promise she'll never wonder whether she's loved."
Reader felt tears sting her eyes.
Daemon noticed.
His expression softened for the briefest heartbeat.
He looked toward his daughter.
She was watching Oscar the way her mother had once looked at him.
Hopelessly.
Entirely.
There was no changing that now.
Daemon sighed heavily.
"I should throw you into Blackwater Bay."
Oscar nodded.
"I imagine so."
"I should feed you to Caraxes."
"I imagine that as well."
Caraxes lowered his great head until he was eye level with Oscar.
The camp collectively held its breath.
The dragon sniffed him once.
Twice.
Oscar very carefully reached out and scratched beneath one curved horn.
"You are much friendlier than your reputation suggests."
Caraxes made a deep, satisfied rumble.
Reader burst into laughter.
Daemon stared at his own dragon.
"...You've betrayed me."
Another rumble.
Daemon looked back at Oscar.
"I liked you better when I believed you possessed common sense."
"I'm afraid I never have."
"So I've gathered."
A long silence settled over them.
Finally Daemon stepped forward.
He took his daughter's hand.
Then, with obvious reluctance, placed it into Oscar's.
"If she comes home unhappy..."
Oscar squeezed her hand gently.
"She won't."
Daemon searched his face for arrogance.
There was none.
Only quiet certainty.
The sort earned by a man who already loved her enough to challenge dragons.
"Very well."
Oscar blinked.
"...Very well?"
"I've changed my mind."
Reader smiled.
"What changed it?"
Daemon glanced toward Caraxes, who was still watching Oscar with suspicious approval.
"My dragon has dreadful taste in people."
Another rumble answered him.
"But..."
He looked back at Oscar.
"...he has never been wrong."
Oscar grinned.
"Does this mean I have your blessing?"
Daemon sighed as though the words physically pained him.
"It means you're now my problem."
"I can live with that."
"I know."
Daemon began walking back toward camp.
After several steps he called over one shoulder,
"And, Lord Tully?"
"Yes, my prince?"
"If anyone asks..."
"I intimidated you."
Oscar looked down at Reader, whose shoulders were already shaking with laughter.
With Gwayne as your escort, you find yourself in a state of constant yearning after a man you believe has no feelings for you. But one night in an inn with a peculiar dinner menu, you find your feelings are entirely returned. (3.8k words) (requested)
Gwayne Hightower x Targ!reader)
Content: MDI, 18+, smut, mutual pining and yearning, slowburn? kinda, aphrodisiac consumption, delirium, overstimulation from the aphrodisiac, loss of control, desperate sex, dry humping, praise kink, p in v, loss of virginity, masturbation (f), getting caught.dub con kinda but only cos of the aphrodisiac they both very much want this. kinda proofread.
“There surely must be more than one room available?” you heard Gwayne ask, your eyes wandering around the inn where you sought to rest for the night, tightening the cloak around you as Gwayne's eyes met yours, a soft smile on his lips as if to apologise for the inn's lack of availability.
“One room shall be fine,” you insisted, taking the key from the innkeeper as Gwayne passed her the necessary coin.
“I'm sorry,” Gwayne insisted, speaking your name with a sense of reverence as you took his hand and squeezed it, “it is not normally this full.”
“It's all right, Ser,” you assured him, half of you giddy at the idea of sharing a room with your sworn sword. The man had been your sworn sword for nearly two years now. Two years of blushing whenever his eyes met yours, of your normal calm and steady voice wavering whenever his attention was entirely focused on you. “I am sure you can bear my company for one whole night,” you teased, smiling at the blush that rose to his features at your words.
“Please send some food to our rooms,” you asked the innkeeper, handing her an extra gold coin, before fitting your hood over your hair and walking through the endless horde of men in the inn.
“Gwayne,” you called, reaching for his arm as a sense of unease filled you. You kept close to him as he led you to the room, ready to settle in for the night after a long day of travel. With no dragon to your name, travel by horseback was your only means, and though the days were long and hard as you travelled the realm, at your fathers behest for you to find a husband, you were grateful to have Gwayne as company, even if you wished he would enter the contenders to win your hand, for you knew he would win it even if he just made a passing comment on the matter.
“My princess,” he spoke softly, reaching for your hand as he weaved through the men and up the stairs to your room. “I apologise, truly I-“
“You need not apologise again,” you assured, your eyes searching the room, as Gwayne pushed open the door, a blush rising to your cheeks as you saw that only a small dresser table and one singular bed occupied the room. And despite its lack of furniture, the small room seemed only large enough for its objects, leaving both you and Gwayne cramped into the small room, with your bags taking up what little standing space there was.
“Oh,” Gwayne sighed, “I shall take the floor-“
“Don’t be ridiculous, there is no space on the floor,” you breathed, “we shall share the bed.”
“I…it is improper.”
“What would be improper is you refusing to get a good night of rest based on propriety.”
Gawyane sighed, sending you a glance with an emotion so fleeting that you could hardly make out what it meant before it was gone. “Very well, princess,” he said, a small frown on his lips that had your stomach dropping. You gave him a small smile, half flushed from embarrassment, you had hoped he truly would not mind being in such close quarters with you. You certainly did not mind it, you relished his company, loved how easily the conversation flowed and how there were no moments of awkwardness, at least until this moment. A part of you had hoped he would feel the same giddy feeling you did. You had dreamed of him, of sharing a bed beside him, of what it would feel like for his hands to fully grip yours and not only touch you in passing moments where your hands graved one another, and he retracted with uncanny speed. Of what it would feel like to kiss him, to be able to caress his cheek and play with his hair. Each day your hands itched to brush the strawberry blonde strands of his hair, to place kisses across every inch of his face and body. Of what it would feel like for him to kiss you from your mouth all the way down to you-
“Princess, are you alright?” Gwayne asked, interrupting your thoughts. His voice dripping with concern, he sat on the bed, his hands working to unstrap his armour. “You seem lost in thought.”
“Oh, I-...I am fine,” you insisted, deciding to focus your attention on removing your riding clothes.
Gwyane couldn’t take his eyes off you. He never could, in truth. He followed your every move, more so than a sworn sword should. But now, watching as you removed your riding clothes and soon only stood in your underdress, he found it impossible to look away. He had been nothing but chivalrous; he knew he should not focus his gaze upon you, that he had no doubt was unwanted; he knew he should keep his distance, defend you when needed and honour you as he should with any woman. But you, the second daughter of King Viserys, a girl he had grown up alongside in court, wishing each and every day you would pay him any attention, and when you did, even if it was the smallest glance or choosing to sit beside him over his sister and yours. It made him giddy and feel like a love-struck green boy.
Growing up, he had been besotted, had wished to court and marry you, but who would want the son of a second son? He had no land or titles, would not inherit any. And you were a princess, daughter to the king and sister to the future queen. You deserved a prince or a lord paramount, not him, a simple knight.
But despite this, he could not keep away from you, and when you needed a sworn sword, he had gladly volunteered. Any chance to spend time with you, even if it meant following you around the world on the hunt for a husband.
Watching you be courted by lords and knights had him full of jealousy, watching them make you laugh, shower you in gifts and affection. And you giving them the attention he so thoroughly craved.
He hated every second and yet loved hope after each dance, or feast, or long afternoons spent hearing lords sell themselves to you; you came straight to him. Would laugh and talk and tell him every thought. He loved those moments more than anything.
And though he was irrevocably in love with you, he would do anything for this inn to have another room.
The idea of sharing a room, a bed, with you and not being able to touch you, to hold you and kiss you. Gods, it killed him. And now watching you undress with a flushed tint to your cheek that had him wondering how far the flush went down.
Gods, he felt sinful. The utter embodiment of lust and all for the love and want, no need, he felt for you.
A knock pulled him from his thoughts. Standing quickly, his armour off and left in his own shirt and breeches, his shirt untied enough to show you the top of his chest. Opening the door, he came face to face with the innkeeper and a tray full of food. “Here, milord,” she spoke, her eyes gleaming and a smirk on her lips as he took the tray, Ii added something special to it for ya bot.”
“My thanks,” Gwayne thanked, taking the tray and choosing to ignore her gaze as she assessed him and then you as you platted your hair into a braid in nothing but your small clothes. His face turned red, flushing entrily as he looked at you, then back to the innkeeper. “Good night,” he spoke, shutting the door and choosing to ignore the woman's wink. Shaking his head and ensuring his gaze did not stray from the food in his hands to you, as he sat down on the bed.
“Is that dinner?” your sweet voice spoke, wandering over to the bed and sitting beside him, your leg touching his as you reached for the food in his lap.
“Tis nothing special…just some bread and soup,”
“After the feast the Dondarrions hoste, I am grateful for just soup,” you hummed, pulling a chunk of bread off the roll and dipping it in the soup, Gwayne’s eyes watching as you ate, watching each bit you took, each drop of soup and how your tongue reached out to lick it.
“Is it good?” he asked, his voice hoarse, watching as you brought your fingers to your lips, licking what little soup was left.
You hummed, reaching for some more. “It's so good,” you spoke, reaching for some bread and holding it to Gwayne’s lips. “Have some,” you spoke, swallowing roughly as Gwayne reached forward and took the food from your hand with his mouth. He smiled, embarrassed by his actions, though not regretting them, especially when he saw the heat rise to your cheeks.
You both continued to eat in silence, every last drop of soup and bread crumb eaten, whatever the cooks put in had you both raving for more.
“I feel hot,” you breathed, lying back on the bed, fully flushed. Gwayne nodded, feeling the same, a fire burned underneath his skin, that had him tugging at his clothes. A fire that he felt in his abdomen and was beginning to stretch to his cock, a desire was building in him unlike anything he had felt before.
He swallowed roughly, watching as your hands reached for the sleeves of your small clothes, tugging at them with annoyance. “As do I, princess,” he breathed, his eyes tracing your body as you riggled in discomfort. He snapped his gaze away, busying himself with opening the small window, hoping the storm breeze of the stormlands might cool him of whatever desire was building in his body. He had been so good at hiding his desire, had been so good at finding ways to relieve himself before it got too much, or finding ways to distract himself from thoughts of you. But the sight of you now on a bed he would have to share with you tonight, watching you flushed and hot from what he did not know, nor did he wish to.
“That should help.” he cleared his throat, his eyes set on the floor as he made his way to the bed, turning his whole body away from you as he tried to will the desire in him away.
“Goodnight, Gwayne,” you whispered, your voice sounding distant as if you were fighting the same effects as him.
Heat coursed through your veins with the might of a thousand suns. Your skin was on fire, your hands reached for your slip, begging to tear the clothes from your body and lie bare, bare so that your hands may wander to your core. You had never felt hotter, nor more aroused. The need to touch yourself controlled your every thought and every movement. You were desperate for it, to feel the movements of hands across your skin, to close your eyes and imagine Gwayne, imagining kissing you, of his fingers touching, tracing your skin, all the way down to your core. For him to gather the slick of your cunt across his fingers before thrusting them into you and filling you with pleasure. It was that dream that you thought of every night, and a dream tonight you especially wished was real.
You stared over at him, his back turned to you as he slept, as straight and rigid as a board; his shirt had ridden up, showing the span of his muscled back. You bit your tongue, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. The urge to flip him to his back and mount him and take him.
A whimper left your mouth. The need for pleasure getting worse by the second, the heat in you becoming scorching.
An hour passed before you were no longer able to fight the urge, your gaze flicking to Gwayne, ensuring he still slept, your hands tore at your smallclothes, tearing it from your body and leaving yourself bare, your hands tracing your breasts before sliding down to your core. You were so wet, ridiculously so; your fingers started at your clit, rubbing small circles around your clit as your other fingers moved down to your cunt. You bite your lip to stop the moans that begged to fall through you, fucking yourself with your fingers; you were desperate for release, hoping it would ease the pleasure within you, but even as you chased your peak, your fingers fucking into you desperately, your hips bucking the air chasing the need for more fiction.
“Princess,” you heard Gwayne's voice say; a whimper broke from you at the sound of his voice. “Princess, what are you-?” Your eyes flew open, meeting Gwayne's panicked gaze as he took you and your naked body in, before diverting his eyes quickly. “Princess, I- will leave you i-” he spoke, rushing to get up.
Your hand reached for him, tugging on his shirt,” no Gwayne, I am sorry- I just felt so…i needed to. I am sorry”
“Needed to?” he repeated, turning back to you; his eyes darkened.
“I am sorry, I- I could not sleep; the heat, the need to touch myself, it got too much… I apologise, I have made you uncomfortable, I'm sorry.”
“No, no…you haven’t, you never could”, he whispered, his eyes drawn to where your hand gripped his arm. “i understand the agony and need for pleasure, the heat that can core through you,” his breath heavy as he spoke, “but-” he cut himself off, his hands reaching to tugat his clothes, the same heat that you were feeling taking over.
“Gwayne,” you whimpered, watching as he tore off his own shirt. Your hand trailed from his arm to his shoulder, crawling across the bed.
“What was in that soup?” you heard him mumble, throwing the shirt to the floor.
“What?”
“The soup, he muttered, standing up from the bed quickly, as if distance would quench the desire in you both of you and cool the hat that had you both in agony. “She put something in it, something special.”
“Gwayne?” you asked, chasing after him, needing to feel him, even if it was just your hand on his arm.
“No…we can’t, you do not want this nor me,” he shook his head, averting his gaze.
“I need you, please,” you insisted, nodding your head desperately as your hands slid back down to your core; the need to touch something, to feel pleasure, caused your hand to move of its own accord. “Gawyne,” you moaned, watching his eyes darken as you sat back down on the bed, your fingers disappearing into your cunt. You watched him closely, taking in his toned chest, and the tent his hardened cock had left in his breeches.
He whimpered your name, watching you fuck yourself on your fingers, hearing you moan, his own hands untying the strings of his breeches. “I want you, Gwyane, I always have,” you moaned, feeling the coil in your stomach snap as you came.
You could hear the sound of your breath, heavy and still full of need. “Gaywne,” you moaned, “I need more, please… I need you, “
“Fuck,” he sighed, walking toward the bed, “we can’t… I will not take you,” he breathed, his hand grasping your cheek, caressing you softly as he fought the need to kiss you and take you, as you begged for him and his own mind and body begged for you.
“Gwyane, please, I need to feel you somehow,” you begged, nuzzling into his hand.
Gwyane swallowed, sitting on the bed, his hands reaching for your hips. A moan left him as he touched your bare skin, pulling you to his lap. You collapsed against him, your breast against his bare chest, your head in his shoulder, pressing kisses to his skin.
He whimpered your name, his hand on your hips. “I want you,” you breathed, working kisses from his neck to his jaw. “Please, Gwayne, touch me, help us both cure the fire within,” Gwayne swallowed, his hands steady on your hips as he began to move your hips back and forth, rocking you against him.
Moans left you both as you began to rut against his clothed cock, chasing friction and another orgasm. Your name was like a prayer on his lips as he began to thrust his hips in time with yours, giving in to the desire that burned in you both. “Fuck”, he groaned, holding you tightly to him, his hand reaching to bring your face up to meet his. “Can I kiss you, please?” he begged, “i need to, please.” You nodded, desperately and clumsy reahcing for his lips; you had wanted this for so long. Had dreamed of his lips against yours and special soup or not, you were happy it was happening. Happy to have his moans swell yours and to have your second peak wash over you as he came in his breeches, your bodies pressed impossibly against each other as the desire for more only built with each orgasm as you rutted against each other for what felt both like hours and mere seconds, your lips only breaking apart for air.
A strangled moan escaped Gwayne as he broke away from you. “It's too much he breathed,” “But not enough. gods” he lifted you off of him, standing from the bed, his body tired from pleasure but the need for more, for him to touch you, to take you and fill you with his cock as he whsipered sweet nothign sin your ear, only grew stronger with each second he was not buried inside of you. “Tell me you want this, want me,” he begged, his eyes locked on you.
You got off the bed, walking to him, your hand on his chest. “I have wanted you since you named me the queen of love and beauty on my ten and six name day,” you breathed, “Please, Gwayne, I need you, I want you so badly it hurts, touch me, take me please.”
Gaywane thought everything in him that it took to not take to not throw you on the bed and take you then and now. “I do not wish to take advantage of you-”
“You aren't, please, Gwyane, please,” you begged, reaching for him and grabbing your hand, placing it on your breast. He groaned, squeezing your breast, before reaching forward and kissing you, his hands moving to grab you by the waist, lifting you up and carrying you to the bed, his mouth never once leaving yours, your hand on his breeches, throwing them across the room, your hand reaching for his cock and lining it up with your cunt.
“I will take your properly next time, i swear it,” he vowed as he began to push into your cunt. His head fell to the nape of your neck, a whimper falling from his lips as your cunt wrapped around his cock, a small gasp falling from your lips as you felt a small pinch of pain as his cock filled you. “Gods,” he moaned, “so tight,” he moaned intoy our skin, “can i move,” he begged, the need for him to take you taking over every sense of priority he had drilled into him.
“Yes, fuck, Gwayne, please,” you begged, needing him as desperately as he needed you. He tried to control his thrusts, to have some rhythm, some sense of care. But the need for you, the pleasure, the pure desperate animalistic urge to be fucked so thoroughly by Gwayne took over every sense in you.
His hips began to pound into you, your core filled with so much pleasure as he fucked you. His pace was unrelenting as you both chased the endless pleasure you needed. Gwayne moaned your name as he fucked you, pressing kisses to every part of you that he could reach, the need for you controlling him, the need to fuck you and love taking over all of his senses.
Before you knew it, your peak was washing over you once more, the walls of your cunt tightening around his cock. His own peak soon followed.
He collapsed on top of you, the heat and endless desire washing away as you held Gwayne to you, your bodies tired and content.
“I love you,” you whispered into his hair.
“Hmm?” he hummed, moving off you and to the side, his arms reaching to hold you to him. “Say that again,” he pleaded.
“I meant what I said, Gwayne. I have wanted you, needed you and loved you for years. I love you,” you breathed again, turning so that you were facing him.
“His hard caressed your face, reaching forward to place as soft a kiss on your lips. “I have loved you since the day I met you.”
“You have?” you breathed. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“Why didn't you?” he asked in turn, smiling softly as you blushed. “It has been torture not telling you, believing that you did not return my affections… torture watching you be courted and search for a husband that was not me,”
“It has been torture for me too; I have only ever wanted to be courted by and marry you.”
“You wish to marry me?” he asked, a giddy smile on his lips.
“Yes…Gwyane, I- will you? Will you marry me?”
“It is I who should ask you that,” he hummed, reaching down to place another soft kiss to your lips.
“Then ask it.”
“Will you marry me?” Gwayne asked softly, holding you close to him.
“Yes,” you breathed, reaching forward and pulling him back in for a heated kiss.
“Did ya enjoy the special ingredient in ya soup last night, milord?” the innkeeper asked, smirking as you both turned to each other, blushing.
Gwayne cleared his throat, handing the key back to the innkeeper, his hand on the small of your back. “Yes, we did. What was it exactly?” he asked.
“Oh, only a fancy flower,” she laughed, “tears of a poppy the poets call it,” she chuckled, watching as your heads snapped to one another, understanding on your face. An aphrodisiac.
“Oh well, we thank you.”
“Ay, I'm sure you do,” she smirked, eyes following you as you both waved your goodbyes as you walked towards the door, blushing all the way to the stables.
Helping you top your horse, Gwayne pressed a kiss to your hand, smiling as he moved to mount his own steed.
“Where to next, princess?” he asked, heading towards the King's Road.
“I believe home, to Kingslanding,” you hummed, turning to him and smiling. “There is only one man I ever planned to be my husband”, you smiled, your hand reaching to grab his as your horses rode side by side.
“And who may that be?” he asked, smiling softly, already knowing the answer, but wishing to hear it from your lips once more.
“Why, you of course,” you laughed, “it has only ever been you.”
The words came quietly, slipping through your lips before you could truly give thought into the statement. Though your voice was soft, it broke through the silence in the marital chamber that had only been filled by the crackle of fire eating at the wood in the hearth, the faint cries of the infant himself down the halls, and a scratch of a quill against parchment that stilled for a beat.
Daeron had wept every night since he arrived from the Red Keep.
Ormund sighed through his nose, pinching at the bridge of it for a brief moment to deliberately show his displeasure. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and his gaze lifted from the letter on the desk in front of him. You lay on the bed, hair done up for sleep, curled beneath thick furs and silks without him. It was difficult to be too mad at you, but for all your beauty, you were still a woman. Prone to letting your emotions drive you when they shouldn't.
“The young prince is fine. His nursemaids tend to him. Your time is better spent on your own sons.” It was a soft dismissal, one Ormund hoped you would accept. But he should have known better.
With a sigh, you pushed yourself up on the bed, green silks pooling about your waist. “Martyn is near two and Lyonel is four. Our boys do not require my constant care, husband. They do not cry for me in the night, do not need me to hold them every second as they once did,” you said quietly, watching as Ormund continued to write on his parchment. He seemed to ignore your soft words, but you continued. “Yet the child down the hall is the one who wails through the night, who cannot seem to find comfort. His nursemaids tend to him, yes, but he needs more than mere servants.”
You shifted the blankets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Your toes met the cold stone floor first, and you straightened out the soft linen of your nightgown before slipping out of bed entirely. Ormund still ignored you, but you padded across the bedchamber to reach his desk. “Ormund,” his name was called sweetly, your hand reaching to curl around his shoulder. The fabric of his tunic was soft, the scent of lavender clinging faintly to his skin. Another wail was carried down the hall. “Do his cries not tug upon your heartstrings as they do mine?”
Ormund sighed through his nose, setting down his quill again. “You will find I lack the… delicate and emotional sensibilities of a woman, wife.”
You frowned at his words, and the way he continued to brush you off, but his hand found yours on his shoulder, warm and soft for a man like him. “You are a sweet woman,” Ormund said, lifting his head from his work to meet your gaze. “But sweetness can be a weakness. Daeron is only my ward, nothing more. He was not sent to Oldtown so that you may coddle him.”
“I won't coddle him.”
“You will.”
“Ormund-” your breath caught as Daeron continued to cry from his nursery. “If the nursemaids tend to his needs as they say you do, then they must be terrible. He has wept through every night since he arrived here off the ship. He's probably confused. And lonely. Would it be so treacherous of me to simply hold him, to see if I may bring him some semblance of comfort that a mother might bring?”
Ormund stiffened at that word. Mother. “You are not his mother.”
“I did not say that I was. I mean only to soothe him like one might.”
Ormund's jaw clenched visibly, his fingers curling tighter around your own. The thought of you consoling Daeron — though an infant he might be — was unsettling. The thought of his wife, soft and horribly naive, cradling a babe born of such tainted blood was sickening. But you were stubborn and clearly set on seeing to the infant yourself despite his efforts to distance you from him. He exhaled a slow breath, and conceded.
“Tomorrow you may go to him.”
The nursery was shrouded in soft sunlight that filtered in through the window. It was quiet save for the quiet murmurs of Lyonel and Martyn as the two brothers played with toy knights and wooden horses, a siege set out across the fur rug. It was peaceful, as your days often were when they were occupied by your sons, and the small weight swaddled in Hightower green in your arms felt like a great relief.
Since you first went to Daeron that morning, he had cried very little; only whimpering when he needed to be nursed or changed. He, too, found a quiet peace now — for the first time since arriving from King's Landing. He was small, almost pitiful, sent away at such a young age, but the babe seemed to find solace in your arms.
“You're quite sleepy now, hm, little dragon?” You hummed, gently rocking Daeron as he lay in your arms. Your fingers gently traced his rounded cheeks and button nose, gliding across his features still softened with baby-fat. He blinked slowly, wide eyes looking up at you. His hair lay in dark wisps against his head. His small lips were still parted, his skin smelling milk-sweet from his last feeding.
“You're coddling him.”
You had not noticed the door open, but Ormund stood frowning in the doorway. He glanced only briefly at Lyonel and Martyn, who seemed too preoccupied to care about their father's appearance, before his gaze settled on Daeron. The displeasure on his features was clear. The man had never been fond of Targaryens.
“I am not coddling him, I am holding him. And mayhaps coddling would not be such a bad thing. Children are meant to be spoiled.” A beat passed, filled with thought, and a soft smile graced your lips. "He looks like Alicent, doesn't he?"
Ormund stepped through the threshhold, coming to a stop by your side as you stood at the window. He leaned down to quickly kiss your temple. He did not comment on the looks of the babe. “You should not waste so much time on him or people will begin to believe you favor him over your own children.”
“I favor no one, Ormund. You speak as though my love is a finite thing,” you said softly, finally tearing your gaze away from Daeron once his eyes fluttered closed. You met Ormund's gaze, leaning subtly into his touch where he had kissed you. “It isn't. My love does not need to be split and shared, it is ever growing and changing. I have more than enough love in my heart for our boys and Daeron.”
Ormund's expression darkened slightly. He did not like the way you so freely spoke about the love you had for the boy who wasn't yours — such a thought was nearly unfathomable — but you had always been an emotional woman. Perhaps the gods had been too generous when bestowing such motherly instincts upon you. It was almost cruel how soft and ethereal you looked in the noon light, draped in fine silks with a child in your arms. But that child was not yours, and that made his stomach churn. “You are not his mother,” he said slowly, lifting a hand to cradle your cheek, “and you should do well to remember that. I have done you a great generosity by allowing you to get so close to him, but you shan't forget who you are to him.”
“I know.”
Despite what you may have said, and the acceptance you gave solely to appease your husband, it grew easy to forget that you were not Daeron's mother. He may not have grown within your womb, but blood did not define the bond between a mother and her child. The days turned into months, into weeks, into years. As Ormund's cruelty grew stronger, your love grew fiercer.
In the ways that mattered, Daeron was your son.
this is just a prelude to the longer daeron fic i'm working on (and will complete after the finale tonight). 1.2k+ words
𓏲 ✶ summary : you prefer scaling the high stone walls of Oldtown over riding dragons. Despite constant, gentle warnings from your devoted protector, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a rescue of a wounded bird leads to a tragic fall.
𓏲 pairing : Gwayne Hightower × f!reader
𓏲 word count : 2,2k
𓏲 warning: Accidental injury ✶ mild angst ✶ heavy fluff ✶ romance in the aftermath
𓏲 Author's note : Guys, I will be opening a request page when I reach 100 followers !! stay tuned!
The smell of damp stone and ancient moss always followed you back into the castle, no matter how many times Gwayne Hightower gently chided you about it. As the twin sister of Daeron Targaryen, one might think you’d inherit a love for the skies on dragonback, but instead, you preferred conquering the heights with your own two hands. Scaling the high walls, balconies, and towers of Oldtown was your ultimate escape.
"It’s a dangerous habit, princess," Gwayne would often say, his voice a soft, steady rumble as he carefully pulled a stray piece of green moss from your hair. "The stones are deceptive, especially when the coastal fog rolls in. One wrong footing, and..." He would shake his head, a fond but worried smile tugging at his lips. "Please, for my peace of mind, keep your feet on the ground."
You’d usually just offer him a reassuring smile, melting a little at how deeply he cared. But today, the universe decided to test your luck.
You were trapped in a stifling embroidery lesson, the repetitive poke of the needle driving you insane. Suddenly, a frantic, pained chirping cut through the quiet room. Looking out the arched window, you spotted a nest high up on the weathered stone ledge of the adjacent tower. A small bird was thrashing around, its wing bent at an unnatural angle, trapped between the ancient masonry.
Without a second thought, you ditched your needlework and slipped out into the courtyard.
The stones were still dark and glistening from the morning downpour, but you didn't care. Tucking your skirts, you found your familiar handholds and began to climb.
Down below in the training yard, the heavy clangs of steel on steel suddenly halted. A squire looked up, squinting against the gray sky, before his eyes went wide. He frantically tapped Gwayne on the shoulder.
"Ser! She's doing it again!"
Gwayne’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto your figure, already halfway up the treacherous, damp wall. The color instantly drained from his face. He lowered his practice sword, his composure cracking into pure panic as he rushed to the base of the tower.
"Princess, please!" Gwayne called up, his voice hushed but strained with desperate urgency. "Get down from there. The walls are soaking wet, it's far too dangerous!"
"I can't, Gwayne!" you yelled back, not daring to look down as your fingers searched for a dry grip. "There’s a bird up here! Its wing is broken, it’s going to die if I don't help it!"
"Let me get a ladder, or let one of the guards fetch it," he pleaded, his hands reaching up fruitlessly, as if he could stretch high enough to pull you to safety. "Just hold still. Don't move, princess, please..."
"Just a second! I almost have it!" You stretched your arm out, your fingertips just barely brushing the edge of the nest. You managed to gently scoop the fragile, shivering creature into your palm, securing it against your bodice. "See? I got—"
Sliiiiiip.
Your boot lost its grip on a patch of wet, hidden moss. The sudden lack of friction sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through your veins. You lunged with your other hand, but the wet stone offered no purchase.
The world turned upside down.
You heard Gwayne cry out your name, a sound of raw, unadulterated terror before the wind was completely knocked out of you. You hit a lower stone awning first, which painfully broke your momentum, before crashing hard onto the muddy ground of the courtyard.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bright afternoon light hurt. Your entire body felt like it had been run over by a carriage of heavy stones. You panicked for a split second, trying to wiggle your toes, fearing the worst but relief washed over you as a sharp, stinging pain shot up your legs. Broken, bruised, but thank the Gods, you could still feel them.
"Don't move... please, just rest."
The voice was incredibly soft, but it trembled violently. You turned your head slowly to see Gwayne sitting in a chair right beside your bed.
He looked a complete mess. His hair was disheveled, his armor was gone, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavily rimmed with red. The fierce, confident knight looked entirely undone.
"Gwayne..." you croaked, your throat dry.
Hearing your voice, a quiet, broken sob tore through his chest. He immediately leaned forward, burying his face in the edge of your mattress, his broad shoulders shaking as he wept silently. He didn't care about looking strong right now; the sheer terror of almost losing you had completely shattered him.
"You terrified me," he whispered into the sheets, his voice thick with tears. He slowly lifted his head, his hands reaching out to tightly, yet with absolute gentleness, cradle yours. "I was standing right there at the bottom... and I couldn't catch you."
"It's not your fault..."
"It feels like it," Gwayne murmured, a tear slipping down his cheek as he looked at you with an overwhelming warmth and sorrow. His thumb gently stroked the back of your hand. "When I saw you slip... I swear my heart stopped. I thought I had lost you. I can't bear the thought of a world without you, princess. I truly can't."
He squeezed your hand, pressing his forehead against your knuckles, his hot tears soaking into your skin as his voice dropped to a soft, fiercely protective whisper.
"Please... promise me. No more climbing. I don't think my heart could take it a second time."
You offered him a weak, apologetic smile, though even that small movement made your bruised ribs ache. "I promise, Gwayne. No more towers. At least... not when it rains."
He let out a watery, breathy laugh at your attempt to lighten the mood, though he didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he carefully brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing them with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat.
"Not even when the sun is rising, princess," he corrected softly, his thumb continuing its soothing strokes against your skin. "From now on, if anything is out of your reach, you tell me. I will climb the highest wall in Westeros if it means keeping your feet safely on the ground."
The bedroom door creaked open slightly, and a young maid peeked in, looking incredibly relieved to see you awake. In her hands, she held a small, hastily put-together wooden crate lined with soft cloth. Inside, a familiar bundle of feathers was resting quietly.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness, Ser Gwayne," the maid murmured softly. "But the Grand Maester tended to the little bird. Its wing is bound, and he says it will recover nicely thanks to you."
Gwayne looked from the crate back to you, a tender, albeit slightly exasperated, expression softening his features. He gestured for the maid to place the box on the table near the window before she quietly bowed and left the room.
"You see?" Gwayne whispered, turning his attention back to you, his eyes shining with a warmth that completely enveloped you. "Your little friend is safe. But the price was far too high. You gave your twin a fright, too, Daeron practically had to be held back from storming the Sept to pray for you."
"Is he angry?" you asked softly, imagining your brother's frantic face.
"He's worried, just as I am," Gwayne murmured. He leaned in a little closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto your eyes. The usual distance required between a knight and a princess seemed to completely vanish in the quiet safety of your chambers. "But right now, you only need to focus on healing."
He reached up with his free hand, his fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead with absolute gentleness.
"I'll stay right here," he promised, his voice dropping to a low, soothing hum. "For as long as you need me. Just rest, princess."
The weeks of bedrest finally came to an end. Thanks to the Grand Maester’s soothing poultices, your bruised ribs and battered legs had completely healed. Though Gwayne still watched your every move like a protective hawk, you were finally allowed to roam the castle grounds once more.
It was a breathtakingly clear morning in Oldtown. The coastal breeze carried the scent of salt and blooming sea-mallows through the open corridors. Perched happily on your shoulder was Pip, the little bird you had risked your life to save, now fully recovered and chirping softly against your neck.
As you stepped into the quiet, sun-drenched sanctuary of the high gardens, you spotted Gwayne. He wasn’t wearing his heavy steel armor today, only a fine, dark green doublet stitched with the golden tower of his house. The moment the soft thud of your slippers reached his ears, he turned around. The stern, guarded expression he usually wore for the rest of the world instantly vanished, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved only for you.
"Good morning, princess," he murmured, his deep voice carrying a wave of relief. His eyes did a quick, instinctive sweep from your head to your toes, ensuring there wasn't even a ghost of a limp left in your stride. "How do you fare today? No lingering aches?"
"I am perfectly well, Gwayne. Truly," you laughed softly, closing the distance between you.
Gwayne extended his hand, and without a second thought, you slid yours into his warm palm. He brought your knuckles to his lips for a gentle, customary kiss, before his gaze drifted up to the little bird on your shoulder.
"And it seems our little friend is quite eager for the skies as well," Gwayne noted, using a single, careful finger to stroke Pip’s feathers with absolute gentleness.
You nodded, knowing today was the day. Together, you walked over to the edge of the stone balcony that overlooked the whispering sea. You gently scooped Pip into both of your hands, raising him toward the open air. With a joyful, sharp chirp and a powerful beat of his mended wings, the little bird launched into the sky. He circled once above your heads, as if saying a final thank you before soaring high into the clouds.
A bright, triumphant smile lit up your face. But when you turned to share the moment with Gwayne, you realized he hadn't been watching the bird at all.
He was staring intently at you. His eyes were dark with an overwhelming, breathless affection.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked softly, a sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks.
Gwayne stepped closer, completely erasing the space between you until you could smell the faint, comforting scent of cedarwood and leather that always clung to him. He raised a hand, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, caressing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.
"I was only thinking... how terribly empty this courtyard would be if I had lost you," Gwayne whispered, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "Seeing you like this radiant, healthy, and whole... it is all I could ever ask for, princess."
You leaned your cheek into his palm, your hand coming up to rest over his wrist. "I told you, Gwayne. I'm not going anywhere."
"You promise?" he murmured, his eyes dropping down to your lips, his gaze growing heavy and intense.
"I promise."
Gwayne let out a low, shaky breath. The rigid boundaries between a knight of the realm and a royal princess, the fears of the court, the looming shadows of tomorrow—all of it seemed to melt away under the bright Oldtown sun. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned down.
When his lips finally met yours, it wasn't the kiss of a dutiful protector, but of a man who had stared into his worst nightmare and survived. The kiss was incredibly soft at first, a gentle, trembling question, before it deepened into something desperate and fiercely passionate. His other hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest, holding you as if he were anchoring you to the very earth.
Your hands tangled into his hair, pulling him closer as the world spun around you—not from a dangerous fall, but from the sheer, intoxicating warmth of his mouth against yours. He tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. Both of your breaths came in short, ragged puffs. Gwayne’s eyes slowly opened, shining with a profound, quiet reverence. He gave you one more lingering, gentle peck on the lips before resting his hands on your waist.
"Well," Gwayne whispered, a breathless, genuinely happy chuckle escaping him as he looked down at your flushed face. "I suppose that settles it. I am entirely at your mercy, princess."
You smiled, wrapping your arms securely around his neck. "And where exactly are you taking your captive today, Ser Gwayne?"
"Nowhere near the walls," he teased softly, his thumbs sweeping soothing circles against your waist. "Just a quiet afternoon in the gardens. A blanket under the weirwood tree, some lemon cakes, and you, safely within my arms. How does that sound?"
"Perfect," you murmured, leaning your head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. "Then let us go, my princess. Your earthbound knight is ready."
geto defence lawyer @berrikun - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
