Possibly my spiciest take is that it's actually good to have people you respect and like that have some dogshit takes.
I think part of what is making young people lonelier, in discussing why they're increasingly isolated, is that they're so afraid of meeting someone who doesn't hold their same beliefs, and instead of being just core beliefs it is kinda ancillary shit.
It's actually okay to disagree even on social topics! Even on some political ones! But I mean, online you can start with "i love this mutual but they have a really bad/uninformed opinion about x media"
I know this is IMMEDIATELY going to be taken in bad faith, and yes babygirl, you are so right, I DO want you to go make best friends with both the KKK grand wizard AND your nearest nazi leader.
But seriously, as someone who has spent two decades doing community organization: finding ways to connect with different people is so so so important. There are people i follow here who ate 80% smart and their brain falls out of their head 20% of the time and that is GOOD FOR MY MENTAL ECOSYSTEM AND GOOD FOR LEARNING HOW TO BE A PERSON
Many of the people who need to see OPs post probably have a strong overlap with the folks who unironically believe "if you have a nazi at a table with 9 other people, you have 10 nazis", as if Badthink is a cogniohazard and Nazis aren't the single most hated ideology in the West.
When your father pushes for an advantageous match and wishes you to court an awful lord, you decide to set your sights on Gwayne Hightower, the perfect gentleman and the perfect knight. He would be the perfect husband for you; such a shame you were too shy and awkward to ever gain the intrigue of such a man. (2.7k words) (requested)
Gwayne Hightower x Tarth!reader
Content: shy!reader, fluff, misunderstanding/ miscommunication, slight angst, awkward attempts at courting, and both of them being cuties. kissing. bisexual!gwayne. half proofread.
“Ser Gwayne,” you greeted softly, face flushed with nerves as you approached the handsome knight, your hands toying with the handkerchief you had embroidered for him.
His soft smile greeted you as his squire fitted his armour in preparation for the tourney. “Lady Tarth,” he greeted, not unkindly, “Are you here to watch the tourney?”
You nodded, forcing yourself to swallow your nerves. “Yes, I brought you this,” you handed him the handkerchief, your eyes firm on the floor as you waited for him to take it, fearing he would reject you completely. He was so kind, so perfect. A true knight, as you and so many ladies of the court had said. You knew he would not be cruel in his rejection, he never was, though he never did refuse you. These past few moons, you seemed to endlessly pester the knight in a shy attempt to court him. Your father was eager for you to make a powerful match, had all but forced you to court the pompous Ser Tyland Lannister, before you began your hopeless attempts at courting Ser Gwyane. A match your father relented; his father was Hand after all, and his sister was Princess Rhaenyra's companion, it would be a fine match. If it came to that at all. You were sure one of these days he would stop letting you prattle onto him in nervous rambles, stop accepting your awkward strolls around the garden and shun you entirely, you just hoped that didn't begin today.
“How kind of you, my lady,” he smiled. “'Tis beautiful embroidery.” he took the handkerchief softly, tucking it into his chestplate, as his squire went to fetch his helm. “I shall wear your favour with honour.
You laughed, an awkward, high-pitched squeal-like laugh that had you flushed in embarrassment, at his words, “I wish you luck, Ser Gwayne.” You smiled before turning around and awkwardly running off towards your brothers' pavilion, hoping to ease the embarrassment you had forced Gwayne to suffer.
“Sister,” Bryndemere greeted, his tent full of Stormlanders, who were drunk and feasting as the tourney prepared to begin. He sat relaxed beside Ser Arrion Baratheon, whose eyes cast a judging stare as you entered the tent. “Come from entertaining your knight?” Bryndemere teased, relaxing into the settee.
“Your knight?” Ser Arrion asked, his eyes flicking between you and your brother.
Your brother chuckled, slapping Arrion's shoulder, “Ser Gwayne, my sister fancies herself in love-”
“I do not,” you spluttered.
Arrion snorted, “gwayne? You are hardly his type.”
Your brother slapped him again. “Not everyone can be you, Arrion,” he laughed, downing his goblet of wine. Your face flushed as the knights around you laughed.
“What do you mean?”
“As comely as you are, my lady, Gwayne prefers,” Arrion paused, finding the word, “his comrades as companions, not soft little ladies.”
“Oh,” you flushed, “of course.” You were far too silly to think you could find a match in a man like him, perfect, beautiful. You doubted you had been his type before, but now you knew you definitely were not. He was just too polite to turn you down.
You left the tent shortly after, flushed entirely, your steps rushed as you tried to place distance between your brother's pavilion and find someplace from prying eyes to watch the tourney.
You had first set your sights on courting Gwayne three moons ago. When your father had made it apparent he wished you to marry to enhance the station of House Tarth.
And hating the man chosen for you, Tyland Lannister, and all the pomp and entitlement that followed him, the exact opposite of you and everything you hated, you decided to find another man to court, and Gwayne had seemed so perfect. If you hadn’t been so shy, perhaps you would have found your match in him sooner or been deterred easily by what your brother and Ser Arrion had said was true.
The first day of the courtship, or atleast he day you first began to act on your fanciful crush, you had seen him strolling the gardens, a book under his arm as he seemed to search for a seat to read. You had decided to approach him after watching him and building the nerve for what felt like hours. Your hand touched his arm, causing him to turn suddenly, and you to stale back, “my apologises, my lady,” he said his arm reaching to steady you as you nearly fell, “your touch surprised me,” he gave you a small smile as you straightened your hands wiping invisible dirt from your dress as you forced yourself to say the lines you had spent the whole morning rehearsing, “I’m sorry, ser, I just wondered if you wished to- if you would stroll the gardens with me?”
“Oh,” Gwayne gave you a small smile, his hand moving to secure the book under his arm as he seemed to consider your words. “Why not, my lady? I could do with the company.”
You let out a relieved sigh, moving to stand beside him as he continued to route around the garden. “You know my brother, Ser,” you began, nervously trying to remember what your brother had told you of him, “you and he were warded in Storm's End for a few years.”
“Oh yes, Bryne’s your brother?” he smiled, “he mentioned you a few times; you are much less scragly than he described.”
“Scragly?” You attempted a laugh, though it came out more like a cough.
Gwyane chuckled, stopping to sit on a bench nearby. “You are nothing of the sort, my lady, I assure you.” You sighed, giving him a small smile as you sat beside him, your eyes darting to the book in his hands. “The knights of the age of heroes," you read. “I haven't read that book before; is it of any interest?”
“It's one of my favourites, I've read it a few times,” he smiled, pulling the book to his lap. “I could read it to you if you’d like?”
“Please, Ser”, you nodded, blushing furiously.
After that day, you had deemed him the perfect man to be your husband and had pestered him with your presence ever since. You often caught him in the gardens, he would sometimes bring his book and happily spend an hour reading to you both. And you would bring him little things, sweets, or cookies, all made by yourself, of course. You spent hours trying to learn how to bake these treats, just for the smile he would give you as he ate them. You would gift him other things too, not a meeting or a stroll went by without you gifting him some trinket or an embroidered handkerchief.
He expected every one of them, and as the moons went by, the awkward, shy conversation you had with him, you fell in love with the handsome knight. But now, you worried that he had only relented to time with you out of pity. That he was merley to polite and kind to outright reject you, that he had accepted your company and your gifts. No doubt discarding them the moment you were out of sight.
Whether you were his type or not, you believed yourself entirely too silly to believe you had a chance to begin with.
You had watched the tourney, hidden at the back of the stands, away from prying eyes. You had watched gwayne with three tilts before losing to Daemon Targaryen. He had fought valiantly, you thought, and the sight of him now being cared for by the maester proved it. Bar a slight gash to his shoulder and a bruise on his left eye, Gwayne was surprisingly uninjured.
“My lady,” he greeted, gifting you a kind smile, his hands toying with something in his hands as the maester finished tending to him, “leave us, please,” he bid the maester, as kind as ever. “Did you enjoy the joust?”
You nodded. “You rode very well.”
“And yet I lost,” Gwayne teased, a smile on his lips, though it wavered at your lack of smile. “I have a feeling you are not here to talk about my tourney skills.”
You took a nervous step towards him, your mind reeling with what to say. You had tried to think of it, to think of how to apologise for your pestering. But nothing you had thought of, had rehearsed in your mind, left your lips. Instead, you merely looked at the knight before you, too nervous to say anything, you merely stepped closer to him, wrapping your arms around him in an awkward, quick hug, leaving him no time to react, as you drew away, before placing two quick kisses to his neck, and before Gwayne could even blink, you had run away.
Gwayne wasn’t quite sure what to make of your sudden disappearance. Of how you left him in his tent, the feeling of your lips on his neck lingering even days later. He hadn’t seen you since, not heard a whisper of you, or where you could be. Hadn’t smelt the sweet scent of your baking. Hadn’t seen you among the ladies of the court embroidery circle.
He was desperate to see you. He had sought you out for three moons, eager to spend time with you. He enjoyed your quietness, how shy and nervous you were. How easy it was to make you smile and blush. He thought you were quiet and pretty. And so kind. You let him ramble on about his books, reading to you for hours, on topics he knew others found dreadfully dull. He enjoyed your gifts, how you seemed to bring him every little trinket that reminded you of him, all those handkerchiefs you had embroidered for him. All things he kept. The last handkerchief you had given him, the favour from the tourney, had scarcely left his hand since you had run out on him.
He treasured each gift you had gifted him and had enjoyed every moment. Even when you caught him at a bad time, your quiet, nervous voice asking if he wished to walk the gardens, and every time he tried to say no, the way your smile wavered, your eyes downcast, it would leave him saying yes. And he was grateful for it. He loved each day spent with you, believed that you did too, enjoy whatever form of a courtship you were both having. And the tourney, the silly little tourney, was where he planned on making the courtship official.
And now you seemed to avoid him entirely, and whatever hopes he had to court you seemed to have vanished. All he had was your treasured gifts and the feeling of your lips on his neck, his hand constantly reaching to trace where you had kissed.
He was searching for you today, tracing the steps of everywhere he usually met you. But you were no where insight; the closest thing to you seemed to be your brother.
“Bryne,” Gwayne called, walking up to him as he sprawled across a garden bench, his hand over his eyes as he no doubt tried to recover from his drinking from the night before.
“Gwayne,” he croaked, moving his hand to look at him slightly, “what are you doing sulking in the gardens?”
“I'm looking for your sister,” Gwayne said, eager to find you.
The tarth knight choked a laugh as he sat up, looking at Gwayne as if he had grown a second head, “What for?”
“I have not seen her for a few days. I have wondered where she is.”
“Look, Gwayne, I know not what game you are playing with my sister, but I beg you to stop. She is a sweet girl and does not deserve your faux courtship,”
“Faux? What are you talking about?”
Bryne scoffed, “I remember our time in Storm's End well, and your closeness with Arrion.” Gwyane blinked, looking at Bryne and trying to understand what he meant. He had been warded in storms end in his teen years, with Bryne and, of course, Arrion. All three of you were close. But he and Arrion had been closer, romantically. But all of that had ended when Gwayne's father had bid him to come to King's Landing. A friendship had stuck between the three. But Gwayne saw little reason for what Arrion had to do with you. “I am struggling to understand what you mean.”
Your brother scoffed again, “You-” he looked around, speaking just above a whisper as he spoke, “do not favour women-”
“I do,” Gwayne scoffed, his own eyes looking around for any listening ears, “I find my tastes to be more diverse; I do not limit myself to one palette, so to speak.”
Bryndemere grew entrily serious as Gwayne spoke, as if realising a mistake he had made, “truthfully?” Gwayne nodded, entrily serious, “shit, then I must apologise, for I believed you were leading my sister on.” Byrne stood up, his hand going to Gwayne's shoulder, I may or may not have made Arrion tell my sister of your tastes.”
Gwayne scoffed, “So you are the reason she ran away from me and avoids me?”
Your brother shrugged, “i aplogise, i wished to save my sister from harm.”
Gwyane whipped a frustrated hand down his face. “You idiot,” he scoffed, “where is she?”
“The library, or her rooms? I don’t know; she is sulking. I can tell that much,”
Gwyane shook his head, pushing your brother's shoulder and back down to the bench, before storming off in search of you.
He found you in your rooms, curled on your bed, a book in your hand.
“My lady,” he greeted, pulling you out of the pages of your novel with a soft gasp, as you scrambled to sit up.
“What are you doing here?” you spoke nervously.
“I wished to see you,” Gywane said simply. “May I sit?” he motioned to your bed. You nodded, allowing Gywane to settle comfortably upon your silk sheets. “You have been avoiding me,” he said after a moment.
“No, I haven’t,” you dismissed.
“You have, and your brother has told me why.”
You straightened your back, growing guarded. “I am sorry. I would never have bothered you had I known.” You shook your head, your eyes filled with guilt that wasn’t needed.
“My lady, you are wrong,” Gwyanes hand reached for your arm in comfort, “I have greatly enjoyed your company, and wished to court you properly, what every your brother told you is not entirely true.”
“You enjoyed my company?” You flushed, voice filled with shock.
“Very much so. In fact, I approached your father before the tourney to vie for your hand. He has agreed, and I wished to begin properly courting you. Only you avoided me these past few days,” Gwayne smiled softly, his spare hand reaching into his pocket and grabbing your embroidered handkerchief.
“Really?” you asked, your eyes darting at the handkerchief in his hand. “You kept it?”
“Of course, I have kept everything you have given me.”
“Oh, Gwayne,” you sighed, moving across the bed to sit closer to him. “I thought myself a fool.”
“We have both been a fool, i should have asked your father sooner, made my intentions clearer.”
You laughed softly, “I thought you were too polite to turn me down.”
“Not at all, I could never turn you down.” Gwyane smiled, his hand moving to caress your cheek. “In fact, my lady, I have found myself half in love with you over these past few moons.”
“Love?” Your eyes widened at the words, and Gwyane, growing nervous, went to correct himself, only for you to reach forward and kiss him on the lips.
Gwyane's hands flew to your face, holding you to him as he reacted to your kiss, his lips moulding around yours, taking in the pleasure sigh you let out as he kissed you back. “I love you too,” you whispered against his lips.
“So I take it you are happy for me to court you, properly?”
“Most happy,” you sighed, and Gwayne reached forward, pulling you back in for a kiss.
also cant stop thinking about how extremely devout man of the faith as in the institution of faith of the seven ormund hightower telling daeron that his targaryen blood is a corruption and his dragons is an ungodly abomination is nearly 1:1 the conversation the high septon has with rhaenyra when he refuses to anoint her last episode. and then if that wasnt already enough daeron being forced to execute a prisoner to prove himself worthy of being king in front of a consequential audience is deadass 1:1 of rhaenyra executing otto. you send your youngest son away to make him a hightower and he becomes ginger rhaenyra targaryen instead
On another note, the gambeson Daeron wears in the finale has the same embroidery as the one Fake Daeron wears!
Though Fake Daeron's embroidery stops at the belt, and the quilting is also different. I enjoy the implications that Ormund maybe had extra fabric left over when he had Real Daeron's clothes made, so he used it for Fake Daeron (who is much shorter than Real Daeron, hence requiring new clothes).
Also symbolic possibilities for Daeron wearing this for the finale...hmm.
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