[therealbaelatargaryen]

͙͘͡★—Dying in Childbirth

Includes: Duncan the tall, Daeron Targaryen, Aerion Targaryen, and Valarr Targaryen x f!reader

Summary: How they would react if you died in childbirth

Warnings: Death of newborns, descriptions of death and suicide, angst, no comfort. Please skip this one if you’re not in the mental state for it. Happier ones are coming soon.

A/N: I can't believe I wrote this I'm gonna sit in a corner and think about what I did I'm so sorry. I don't usually write angst so this is definitely not my best work, bear with me. Request for @ediwowkayona-1

Dunk has never been the type to cry. He’s done it before, as every human has, but he won’t cry over much. He hasn’t stopped sobbing since you died. Chest-wracking, heaving, deep cries. He can’t look at the infant. He can’t look after it. He can’t force himself to stare into the same eyes you had. The tiny nose that already resembled yours. Everyone tells him he’s lucky that the baby survived. Now he’ll have a piece of you forever. He’d rather have no babe for the rest of his life than lose you. He’s inconsolable to anyone. Even Egg. He leaves the thing he won’t call his child with Raymun and Rowan. “I need only a few weeks. I beg of you.” They take them without question. Rowan takes him aside before he goes. “It’s a girl, you know. Wouldn’t you like to name her?” It’s meant to be comforting, he knows that way deep down, but he feels as though he could vomit up his breakfast. “Name her after her mother.” He’s on his way without another word. He’ll travel with Egg for a small time, then leave him with his family at the Red Keep. Egg will protest and kick and scream, but Dunk won’t reply. He’ll hand him over to the kingsguard, giving Egg his sword and shield. “You’d make a far finer knight than I ever could.” Egg would be struggling against them, formidably so, but Dunk won't turn around. How could he care for anyone else if he can't care for himself? If he couldn't even care for you? He stood on a cliff overlooking Blackwater Bay, sharp rocks and crevices destined to intensify the impact should he jump. No. You would never desire for him to end up to like this. You were looking down from the heavens upon him for considering it, he thought. Dunk can't label himself as religious. He's never been in a sept for longer than a few minutes, yet he spends the next week praying to whatever may be waiting for him after death. "Give me guidance, my love. I cannot fathom continuing. Give me hope. Give me anything." He received no sign, no answer, no relief. He went back to the Fossoways and raised the girl when he was ready, and it took him years to look her at her without feeling his stomach twist into knots. His daughter would learn nothing about her mother from him. "A gruff man, he was. A good father, but distant. Can't say I ever really knew him." She said after his death. "Not his fault, though. It was my mother. She died, and he was...never quite the same, from what I heard. Never quite the same."

Daeron held you until you went cold. He forced himself into the birthing chambers at the start, wanting to be there for you for the whole ordeal. He'd heard tell of how awful it felt, and he couldn't let you go at it alone. The midwives had offered the babes to him. Twins. A boy and girl, red in the face and still crying. "Would you like to hold them, Your Grace? Take them to the nursery? We can attend to the body—" Daeron would cut her off sharply, hugging you tighter to his chest. "My wife is not a fucking body. Get out of my sight." You were going to wake up and scold him for being so harsh. Give him a swat to the back of the head and laugh, telling him he ought to be kind to servants, lest they spit in the food for your dinner. He stared at your closed eyelids. They would open shortly. They would. He would apologize for being a bad husband. He would promise to be around more. He would do anything. Anything at all. "At least let us clean up the blood, Your Grace." An old midwife, tired-looking and weary with age spoke. He nodded once, but refused to release his hold on you. "I'll do it myself." The next few weeks were tormented unrest. Not because he dreamt of you, but because he didn't. He tossed and turned and jolted up from the nightmares, but not one involved you. He often dreamed of people after they died. They had things to say to him, messages sent from beyond the grave, it was all torturous. There was silence from you. You wanted the children to be raised in the castle, and he wasn't able to withstand breathing the same air as them, so he sent himself away. Secluded in the corridors of Summerhall, drinking the days away. A sept had been made specifically to house your remains, and he sat by your coffin more often than not. "The twins have names, now. Aerowyna and Daegon. It's been a year. A whole year, can you imagine? I don't feel the time anymore. There's been a maester assigned to me, so I don't...I'm not sure for what. I'm prone to death. In any case, the people around me are. Oh, my love, I've cursed you. All will be well. All will be well. We shall be together soon." The twins were raised by nursemaids and tutors, knowing naught of their mother and remembering nothing of their father. History books regarded him with only this: "A few years after taking up permanent residence far from the Red Keep, Prince Daeron Targaryen, son of Maekar the Anvil, was seen stumbling about the gallery of Summerhall, eluding the guards and servants meticulously, and was last witnessed near the woods, drink in hand. His body was never found."

Aerion doesn't believe it. When the birth had started, he'd assured you. "You carry the blood of the dragon. You shall not falter. I will see you when it is done." His confidence is you was unwavering. You were the strongest woman he knew, it was why he married you. When the servants informed him there were complications, he sighed. He was going over ledgers and tomes, busy work, but he supposed he could be there if you needed him. "I implore you to prepare yourself, my prince." He waved the servants off. "I do not fear a little blood. Move aside." They bow their heads in respect, sharing uneasy glances with one another. You were curled up in the bed on your side, the babe in your arms. There were no cries, no cooing, no whining. "Wife. Are you well?" You don't respond. You don't tilt your head to meet his eyes, you don't reach for him, you don't groan like you do when you're annoyed with him. "The babe was stillborn, my lord." One of the midwives clarified. "She sleeps?" He asked, hands clasped behind his back, rigid as a board. "...she is dead, my lord. I thought you..." The woman trailed off, eyes widening, then ushered everyone else out of the room. Aerion locked the doors and stayed there for days. Dinners were left outside the doors untouched, and knocks went unanswered. Aerion spoke to you, your body, for hours on end. He'd secured the child's body in the cradle you'd picked several weeks ago, and gathered you into his lap by the fire. "You have failed me. It is a travesty. Deserving of consequences." He murmured, kissing the crown of your head. "I am willing to excuse your...transgressions if you speak to me. Just speak to me. I'll forgive you. I'll forgive everything." He doesn't eat after you're buried. Doesn't sleep. You were positioned in the casket with the babe, cradling the boy peacefully, as if you were slumbering instead of deceased. He'd once been a determined man, proud and pompous, sure that his heirs would be the pride of House Targaryen. He didn't remarry. He didn't use another woman to have the heirs he so desperately wanted. He didn't entertain any ladies. He didn't laugh with the lords. He sat against your gravestone, holding a necklace you used to wear, twirling in between his fingers, and hot, unbidden tears rolled down his pale cheeks. The dragon had lost.

Valarr had watched you suffer through miscarriage after miscarriage, stillborns and sickly babes that died within a week of their short life. This was the healthiest you'd been during a pregnancy, the maesters were positive you would finally give him what the kingdom would need. An heir. He was so proud of you, so sure of himself. If he had known that the cost of a successor would be your life, he would have willingly lived his life childless. In the months after your death, he'd try to bond with the child. A boy named Viseron, strong and gleeful, excited by all toys and gifts given to him. Valarr could only stomach entertaining him for a few hours at a time, too nauseated by the mere memory of you living in the boy to endure. He'll be at your grave more often than he'll be in his council seat, berating himself. "I should've stopped. I should've accepted that we couldn't have children. I would've. You know I would've. I love Viseron. I care for him. If I could trade him for you, however...I believe myself wicked for it. But I'd do it. I'd do it without another thought. I have forsaken you, my darling. The gods know it, they punish me for it. And it is nothing I do not deserve." Every kingdom needs a queen, and his advisors would try to get him to wed again. They presented him with ladies from all over, ladies with beauty and grace, ladies with might and candor, ladies who looked like you. Those were the only ones who caught his eye, albeit momentarily. He sent them all away. "They wish for me to find another wife. It's insulting. No one could ever hold a candle to you." He would say to the dirt. To the ground. To the six feet separating you that appeared more like miles. "No. No one at all." He would try witches. He would try priestesses. He would try healers. He would send men throughout the kingdoms to find anyone who could bring back the dead. He would offer gold and wealth to those who simply heard tell of someone who was capable. All his endeavors left him with only a heavier heart. After nearly a decade, he would take Viseron to your grave. It was a closed-off space, an entire meadow dedicated to your final resting place, surrounded by a fence and more guards than necessary. "This is your mother." He would offer no more. No recounts of your years together, of fond memories, of affectionate recollections. They'd sit there a while, in the silence. "Do you think she would have liked me?" Viseron would take his father's hand, a wise question for a child his age. Valarr would squeeze, eyes tracing the etchings on the stone. "She would have loved you."

© therealbaelatargaryen — i do not consent to my work being translated, plagiarized, or fed into ai. it’s weird and mean guys, don’t do it.

[redwinelewis]

A GENEROUS OFFER | G. HIGHTOWER

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing gwayne hightower x female reader (team black)

summary you were sent by rhaenyra to negotiate the release of a former master of coin who is living in tumbleton. you had expected ormund hightower to come, not his cousin.

content 18+. smut. enemies to lovers hehe. one bed. hate sex. dirty talk. fingering. slight degradation. slight yearning in the end idk. reader is from flea bottom.

a/n english is not my first language

masterlist | read on ao3

king's landing had always been a city of hunger.

you had known that long before you ever sat at rhaenyra targaryen's council table. you had grown up among its narrow streets, where people learned to count every copper before they learned to dream. you knew what starving looked like. you knew the hollow cheeks of children begging near the gates, the mothers pretending they had already eaten, the old men too proud to admit they could no longer afford bread.

but this was different.

this was a city ruled by a queen who had taken the throne only to find that a crown did not come with endless gold, the treasury a gaping wound that refused to heal.

rhaenyra had looked at her council with a desperation that mirrored the people in the streets, her eyes pleading for a solution that didn't involve more taxes on people who had nothing left to give.

the war had swallowed everything.

shipments were delayed. the riches hid their wealth. the treasury that had once seemed impossible to empty now felt frighteningly small. every day brought another report, another number, another desperate request from the people who had nowhere else to turn to.

rhaenyra had listened to every one of them. she was desperate too, her eyes shadowed by the weight of a city that was eating itself alive. but then a thought crossed her mind.

there was a man called ser dyron horden. he had once served rhaenyra's father, viserys the peaceful and knew where the hidden caches of the crown were tucked away in the provinces. and you had been the only one who knew how to track a man who didn't want to be found.

the problem was that the man had fled to tumbleton, and tumbleton was currently under the suffocating grip of the hightower army.

"send a raven to lord ormund." rhaenyra ordered, her voice thin from lack of sleep. "tell him we do not seek the town, but the man. tell him that ser horden is of no use to him as a prisoner, but of immense use to the crown. offer him a trade of terms for the man's release."

"what sort of trade, your grace?" you asked. "we have nothing. not even a handful of grain to offer as a gesture. and what is stopping him from using ser horden as a leverage point to demand our surrender?"

"let him try," rhaenyra replied, a flicker of the old fire returning to her eyes. "we still have the advantage of the dragons. his refusal will be met with fire, but his cooperation will be met with mercy when the war is over."

"your grace... why not simply send someone to smuggle him out of tumbleton?" you had suggested, but the queen's resolve was as hard as the iron throne itself. rhaenyra wanted a formal negotiation, a paper trail of legitimacy. she wanted the world to see that she could command the cooperation of the hightowers without burning their fields to ash.

so, you were the one chosen.

a raven was set out with a letter sealed with a red wax stamp. the journey was a blur of muddy roads and the lingering scent of smoke. by the time you arrived at a salt-stained inn tucked between the marshes and the city walls which was the agreed designated neutral ground, your whole body was vibrating with nerves.

your queen was counting on you. the starving people of king's landing were counting on you to succeed. you took a lungful of deep breath before pushing the door open.

you had expected lord ormund, a cunning man of predictable pomposity. you had expected a battle of wits against a man who viewed you as a mere servant of the crown.

you did not expect gwayne hightower.

he was downing his second cup of ale when you walked through the door. gwayne didn’t stand nor looked at you. he simply leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. he looked exhausted, the kind of weariness that came from spending too many weeks listening to ser criston cole's endless, circling rhetoric. his armor was dusty, his cloak was frayed at the edges, his auburn hair was slightly mussed and his eyes rimmed with a deep fatigue. and yet he still carried himself with the arrogance that came with the hightower name.

"you aren't ormund," you stated, your voice cutting through the silence of the common room.

"disappointed?" he repeated, the word barely a whisper as he downed the rest of his ale.

"where is he?" you demanded. "the letter was addressed to lord ormund. i was promised a meeting with lord hightower, not his cousin."

"busy." he answered simply, his voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken in hours. he didn't move to greet you. gwayne looked like a man who had reached the absolute limit of his patience with the living, and you were merely the latest inconvenience in a long line of them.

"busy? what could he possibly be too busy for?" you snapped, crossing your arms.

gwayne sighed, a heavy, rattling sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest. he was still not looking at you but instead focusing on the way a single drop of condensation slid down the side of his flagon.

"busy counting the ways he can irritate me into an early grave," he murmured. "ormund decided that since this is a matter of diplomacy and nuance, a man of his particular temperament was too precious to risk on a muddy road."

"and he sent you in his stead?" you scoffed, stepping closer to the table. "he sent a man who looks like he’s about to fall over from a nap to negotiate the release of a royal asset? the audacity of your house is truly boundless."

gwayne's eyes snapped up, flickering with irritation. he stood slowly, the chair screeching against the floorboards like a dying animal. he wasn't tall, but he occupied the space with a heavy, oppressive presence.

"my audacity is matched only by my patience, which is currently thinner than the soup they serve at this gods-forsaken hovel," he countered, stepping into your space. "you come here with the smell of flea bottom still clinging to your skin and think you can lecture me on the propriety of my house?"

you didn't flinch. you had been born in the dirt, a nobleman’s sneer was nothing compared to the roar of an empty stomach. you stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his, your voice dropping to a lethal, quiet hiss. "the smell of flea bottom is the smell of the people who actually keep this kingdom running while you lot play at war in your gilded gardens. if you have any shred of honor, you'll stop insulting my origin and start discussing the terms for ser horden."

gwayne’s lip curled, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. an irritation mixed with curiousity. the fire in your stance intrigued him, somehow.

you slammed the scroll of rhaenyra’s terms onto the scarred wooden table, the parchment snapping like a whip. "lord horden's release in exchange for a guaranteed ceasefire of the trade routes leading into tumbleton for one moon's turn. it is a generous offer, considering your cousin's current lack of supplies."

gwayne didn't even blink. he didn't even reach for the scroll; he simply stared at it as if it were a particularly boring species of insect. "generous. how quaint... but no."

"no?" you spat, the word vibrating with disbelief. "why in the gods' name is it 'no'? your supplies are dwindling, your men, despite occupying the homes of the people of tumbleton, are eating horsemeat and sawdust. a ceasefire on the trade routes would allow you to actually move goods without risking a dragon's breath every ten leagues."

gwayne finally reached for the scroll, not to read it, but to flick it with a dismissive finger, sending it sliding across the table. he stepped around the table to close the distance between you. he smelled of old leather, stale ale, and a sharp, masculine musk that felt intrusive in the small room.

"you assume ormund cares for the stomachs of his men as much as he cares for his own vanity," he explained, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "he doesn't want trade routes, my good lady. he wants a concession. he wants rhaenyra on her knees kissing his feet. and as for me, i find the idea of a 'generous offer' from a flea-bottom rat to be an insult to my intelligence."

"that is to assume you had any in the first place, hightower." you smirked, the words tasting like venom.

but gwayne appeared to be a man who was not easily deterred by venom. he let out a sharp, jagged laugh that didn't reach his eyes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.

"a rat with a tongue like a razor," he mused. "perhaps that's why the queen sent you. she knew a highborn lady would be too terrified of the mud to actually make a demand."

then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "my people are enduring, my lady. your people are starving. do not mistake my exhaustion for weakness, or your desperation for leverage. and your 'generous' offer is a thinly veiled attempt to slip a spy into our lines under the guise of the master of coin. ormund isn't blind, and neither am i. the man stays."

"absolutely not," you spat, the word hitting him like a slap. "the man is a civilian. he—"

"you said he was a master of coin, so he is a tool of the state," gwayne interrupted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the narrow space between you. "civilian is a word for people who don't know where the gold is hidden. he is a map, and ormund doesn't give away his maps."

"the people in king's landing are starving, hightower. there will be no crown to bear, no throne to sit upon, no kingdom to rule if the city burns from the inside out," you snarled, your voice shaking with a fury that felt like it could crack the floorboards. you didn't care about the political chess anymore, you cared about the hollow-eyed children you'd left behind. "you sit here in your dusty armor playing games while people eat rats to survive. give me the man, or so help me, i will walk back to the queen and tell her that the hightowers are too cowardly to negotiate with a woman."

gwayne’s eyes darkened, a flash of irritation finally piercing through the veil of his exhaustion.

"cowardly?" he murmured, the word tasting like a threat. "you come here with a handful of promises and the stench of desperation and have the nerve to call us cowards because we know the value of the asset you're begging for."

"the value of the asset?" you hissed, the words vibrating between your lips. "you speak of a man as if he were a piece of livestock! you hightowers are pathetic."

gwayne’s jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. for the first time, the boredom had vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged energy. "the master of coin stays in tumbleton," he declared. "and you will return to your "queen" and tell her that her 'generosity' is as empty as her treasury."

before you could reply, a thunderous crack split the sky, shaking the inn’s rotting foundations. the rain followed instantly, not as a drizzle, but as a violent deluge that turned the road into a river of sludge within seconds. the elderly couple who ran the establishment hurried forward, their faces pinched with worry as they shuttered the windows against the wind.

"it'll be a night of it," the old woman murmured, her voice a dry rasp. she looked between you and gwayne, her eyes lingering on the way your body was still practically vibrating with rage.

"so be it. this negotiation is over." gwayne said, though he didn't move an inch away from you. you stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact, but the heat where your chests had touched lingered like a brand.

"your horses won't survive the storm, ser, or the treacherous roads back wherever you two came from." the old man grunted, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better decades.

"that won't be a problem for me," you snapped, though the sight of the rain hammering against the shutters, turning the world outside into a grey, drowning blur, suggested otherwise.

"a lady is not fit to travel these roads in a deluge," the old woman said. "and the horses are already spooked. you'll stay."

you glanced at gwayne, who looked as though he’d rather be burned by dragonfire than spend another minute in your presence. the thunder rolled again. the road back to the was already a river of sludge. to attempt it now would be a suicide.

"the good woman is right," he muttered, though his tone remained clipped. "the road is a river. you'll be swept into a ditch before you reach the first milestone."

you glared at him, your fingers curling into fists. "i would rather drown in a ditch than spend another moment breathing the same air as you."

"as if i'm particularly keen on the prospect of your company." gwayne retorted, his voice flat, though his eyes drifted downward to the curve of your hip.

"the room is ready," the old woman announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "only one left. the roof leaked in the west wing, and the east is full of merchants who beat the storm."

"only one? absolutely not." you shot down. you looked at the old woman, then at gwayne who looked as if he had just been told he had to spend the night in a cellar with a swarm of bees.

"it is one bed, or it is the mud," the old woman replied simply, her voice devoid of any inclination to negotiate.

"she'll take the bed. i'll sleep in your barn." gwayne muttered, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt as another crack of thunder shook the inn's foundation. 

you were quite surprised that he even had the heart to let you take the room all for yourself.

"the barn is flooded," the old man called out. "the roof gave way an hour ago. everything in there is swimming in muck."

you looked at gwayne, who looked back at you with a level of misery that almost made you feel pity. he looked like a dog that had been kicked too many times, yet he still possessed that stubborn, ingrained pride that refused to let him admit defeat.

"is there any other inn within here?" you asked, your voice hopeful and desperate.

"the next one is a three-hour ride through a swamp," the old woman replied. "unless you've found a way to walk on water, you're staying here."

"i am not—" you began, but the word died in your throat as a sudden, violent gust of wind slammed against the shutters, rattling the heavy oak frames with a sound like a siege engine.

gwayne let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a snarl. "fine," he snapped, his voice tight. "we share."

"no! i will not share a bed with a man—a hightower at that—who mocks a woman's origin while her people starve!" you snapped, though the thunderous reply from the heavens makes the floorboards beneath your boots shudder.

"believe me, my lady... the prospect of spending the night tangled in the linens with a woman who possesses the temperament of a cornered cat is hardly something i desire. but i prefer my sleep to be dry." he muttered before turning his heels to the narrow stairs.

the room was small, smelling of old lavender and damp stone, with a single candle flickering on a bedside table. the bed itself was a narrow, sagging thing of straw and linen, just wide enough for for two adults.

the silence between you as you stepped inside was deafening, heavy with the remnants of your shouting match. you didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you, both of you preoccupied with the sheer, absurd indignity of the situation.

"take the floor." you told him, your voice clipped. it wasn't a request; it was a command.

gwayne didn’t even look at you as he let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter. "and what makes you think i would ever consent to sleep on a floor of rotting pine while you lounge in the linens?" he asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

you knew the "i'll sleep in the barn" was merely an act in front of the elderly couple. typical hightower.

he didn't move toward the floor. instead, he began to unbuckle the straps of his armor, the metal clinking slow. "you are a guest in this space by the grace of my tolerance, and i have spent the last three days listening to ormund's voice. i will not spend the night with a tick in my spine."

you watched him strip, all the way to his under tunic, and the sight of his shoulders and the lean muscle of his chest under the thin garment made the air in the small room feel suddenly thin. the anger was still there, a hot coal in your gut, but it had morphed into something else that made your skin itch beneath your travel-worn clothes.

before he could catch you staring, you turned first, stripping off your outer layers with what was left of your energy and the journey here and the debate match with gwayne. you didn't care for modesty, not when you were shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and something else that you redused to acknowledge. you climbed into the bed, claiming the far edge, leaving a sliver of space between you that felt like a canyon. the linens were coarse and smelled of old dust, but they were warm at the very least.

"stay on your side and do not attempt to touch me," you warned, your voice a low vibration in the dark. "if you so much as breathe on me, i will find a way to ensure you never sleep comfortably again."

gwayne let out a tired scoff, sharp enough to cut through the room as he climbed in beside you. the bed groaned under his weight, the mattress dipping violently and pulling you toward the center. you instinctively braced yourself against the edge, but the narrowness of the bed made a boundary impossible. every time he shifted, you felt the heat of him radiating through the linen and seemed to fill the entire room.

the silence was not peaceful. every breath you took felt too loud, every shift of the straw mattress sounded like a landslide. you lay rigid, staring at the dark ceiling, while the rain continued to lash the shutters in a relentless rhythm. beside you, gwayne was a mountain of radiating heat, his presence an intrusive weight that made the small bed feel like a coffin.

something happened and it started with a stray movement. a shift of his leg that brushed against yours. you jerked away.

"stop twitching," he muttered with his eyes closed, his voice a low gravelly vibration that seemed to hum against your skin.

"stop moving then. what are you, a fish out of water?" you snapped back, your voice a sharp whisper in the dark. you turned to face him, and in the dim, amber glow of the dying candle, you saw the way he huffed in irritation.

a couple minutes passed where the only sound was the rain and the harsh, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. you couldn't sleep. you couldn't even move. the air felt thick, like honey, pinning you to the mattress. the thunder rolled again, a low, guttural groan that seemed to echo the tension in the room.

when you glanced, gwayne was seemingly already asleep. you sighed, mind running wild over the failed negotiation the look of disappointment on rhaenyra's face. but as you shifted to find a more comfortable position, your leg brushed against his thigh. it was a momentary contact, only a sliver of heat, but it acted like a spark in a dry forest. you felt him stiffen, his breath hitching in a way that wasn't accidental.

"still twitching, are we?" his voice was a low, dangerous rumble right beside your ear.

he hadn't been asleep. he had been lying there, acutely aware of every inch of you pressing against him, this whole time.

feeling brave, you didn't pull away this time. instead, you turned your head, your nose brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw.

"perhaps i'm just trying to find a sliver of space that isn't occupied by your ego." you retorted.

something in him snapped the moment those words left your lips. gwayne moved swiftly, rolling over so he hovered above you, his hands trapping either sides of your head. the movement was so abrupt it knocked the breath from your lungs, pinning you beneath the weight of his body. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, searching your face for a sign of retreat that you were too stubborn to give.

"you are far too bold for a woman in such a precarious position," he said, though it sounded restraint.

"and your patience is far too thin for a man of your standing," you shot back. you didn't flinch as his chest pressed against yours, the thin fabric of his tunic doing nothing to hide the hard plane of his muscles.

"you talk... so much," he murmured, his voice a rough, jagged edge. "always talking, always demanding. i wonder if that tongue of yours is just as sharp when it's not being used for insults."

your throat went dry at his last words. you weren't stupid, nor lack the knowledge of what he was insinuating, being a low born girl who had seen the underbelly of the city where desire was bought and sold in every alley. and yet, having it directed at you by a man who looked at you with such irritation mixed with lust made your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.

you didn't give him the satisfaction of a stutter any further. instead, you reached up, your fingers curling into the collar of his tunic and pulling him down until your lips were a mere breath apart. "why don't you find out, hightower? or are you too exhausted to handle a girl from the gutters?"

gwayne didn’t kiss you so much as he collided with you, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger that felt less like romance and more like a punishment. you groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single molecule of air left between your bodies. he tasted of bitter ale and salt, and most importantly he tasted like the enemy he was, which only made the sudden surge of heat in your belly more violent.

gwayne groaned into your mouth as you fisted into his linen. he pinned your wrist beside your head and swallowed a small gasp of yours, his tongue sweeping against yours with an aggression that mirrored the storm outside and as you arched your back, pushing your hips into his, you felt the heavy, hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the layers of cloth.

he broke the kiss to trail a line of searing heat down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collarbone. his hand left your wrist, sliding down to rip open the front of your bodice. buttons flew, clicking against the floorboards like rain on stone. gwayne didn't wait. he dipped his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast with a hunger. you let out a sharp, ragged moan, your head hitting the pillow as he sucked the peak of your nipple, his teeth grazing the flesh in a way that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

"fuck, you are as loud as you are arrogant," gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a low, distorted growl. he didn't stop, his mouth returning to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple with an intensity that left you breathless.

he pushed your dress to your hips impatiently, his eyes scanning your body with in hunger. there was no softness in the way he looked at you. it was the gaze of a man claiming territory, and you met it with a defiant glare that only seemed to spur him on. his hand travelled to your cunt, his fingers grazing the damp heat of your folds.

"fuck, you're already dripping," gwayne muttered, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. he rubbed your clit with somehow a precise pressure that made you cry out. "all that fire, all that screaming in the common room, and you're just a fucking mess for me, aren't you?"

"shut up and touch me," you gasped, your fingers digging into the lean muscle of his shoulders.

"have you been with a man before?"

you let out a sharp, jagged laugh, the sound half-smothered by a moan as his thumb continued to circle your clit. "i grew up in the gutters, hightower, as you so often mentioned. we don't have the luxury of sheltered innocence that you lot cultivate in oldtown."

he smirked, a dark, predatory expression that made your heart gallop. "good. because i have no intention of being gentle with a woman who thinks she can outwit me."

he didn't waste another second. gwayne slid two fingers deep inside you, the sudden invasion making you gasp and arch your back off the mattress. he was thick and calloused, his movements rhythmic and demanding, driving into you with a relentless pace.

"look at you," he groaned, his thumb pinning your clit down and grinding against it with an intensity that pushed you toward the edge. "begging for it. a little rat from the slums, having her cunt stretched open by a hightower. do you like it? do you like how it feels to have me inside you?"

you couldn't even form a sentence, not only because you were biting down your lip from giving him the satisfaction of hearing you beg, but because the sheer friction of his fingers was turning your insides to liquid.

"nothing to say now, is it?" gwayne mocked, his voice a jagged rasp. he shifted his weight, his thumb pressing harder into your clit, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. "tell me you want it. tell me you want this highborn prick to ruin you."

his words should disgust you. they should feel like an insult to everything you had fought for, a reminder of the gap between a girl who scavenged for scraps and a man born to a spire of gold. not to mention the war. rhaenyra did not send you here to fuck the enemy, she sent you to secure a man who could save a city. but as gwayne’s fingers worked you, the only thing you felt was this aching need to be filled.

"i want it," you gasped, the admission feeling like a surrender. "fuck, gwayne, just... put it in."

the way his name fell from your lips, broken and pleading, already made him addicted. "say my name again."

"gwayne," you whimpered, your voice sounding foreign and fragile in the small, dimly lit room. "please, gwayne."

he let out a sharp exhale, his chest heaving against yours. he didn't waste another moment of hesitation, he yanked his trousers down in one fluid, freeing himself. his cock was thick and pulsing, a heavy weight that seemed to mirror the intensity of the room. he grabbed your thighs, hoisting your hips higher off the sagging mattress to create a steeper angle, and positioned himself against your entrance.

he entered you slowly, much to your surprised, his eyes locked on yours as he sank into your heat. you let out a sharp, strangled cry, your head snapping back against the linens as he filled you completely. it was a heavy, stretching sensation that drowned out the sound of the storm, replacing the chaos of the rain with a singular, thrumming focus on where your bodies joined. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

"you're so tight," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "fuck, you're trying to squeeze the life out of me."

he let you adjust to him for a second, his gaze searing into yours. then he began to move slowly, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. it wasn't the frantic pace you had expected. he wanted you to feel every single ridge of him, every millimeter of the friction as he stretched you open. you let out a whimper, your hips instinctively trying to chase him, to close the gap, but he held you firm, his grip on your thighs like iron bands.

"gwayne..." you whimpered, the sound breaking as you tried to pull him deeper. your legs were locked around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back, trying to force a momentum that he was stubbornly denying. he continued that agonizingly slow pace, his hips grinding into yours with a heavy, deliberate pressure that made your nerves scream. every time he retreated, you felt the sudden, cold void of the air, only for him to plunge back in with a slow, rhythmic thud that resonated in the very marrow of your bones.

he was watching you, his eyes dark and focused, savoring the way your face crumpled with desperation. "not so loud now, are you? where is all that fire, little rat? where is the woman who called me a coward?"

he shifted his angle, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your vision spark white. you let out a strangled cry, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, begging for a speed that would end this torture.

"gwayne, please," you sobbed, the word barely a whisper against the roar of the rain. you were shaking, your body a taut string vibrating at a frequency that threatened to snap. his pace was a cruelty of its own. he was savoring the friction, the way your walls clamped around him in a desperate, pulsing rhythm. he stayed in that slow, agonizing orbit, his hips rotating with a heavy precision that kept you perched on the very edge of a climax you couldn't reach.

you arched your spine, your chest heaving, as he pulled back until he was barely grazing your entrance before sinking back in with a slow, thudding weight. the sensation was too much and yet not enough. you were starving for the release, your clit screaming under the pressure of his pelvis grinding against you. you didn't care about pride anymore. you didn't care about the political divide. you just needed the friction to turn into a fire.

"faster," you gasped, your voice cracking. "fuck, gwayne, go faster. please."

"beg again," gwayne commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your collarbone.

"please," you whimpered, your voice breaking into a sob of pure frustration. "please, please."

when he finally decided to grant your request, it wasn't with a sudden rush. he began to hammer into you with a rhythmic, punishing force that stole the very air from your lungs. gwayne’s composure broke with the pace, his breath coming in jagged, guttural snarls as he drove himself deep into your heat, his hips colliding with yours.

"that's it," he groaned, his voice raw and stripped of all nobility. "take it all. take every fucking inch of it."

you were drowning in the sensation, your eyes rolled back as you clung to him, your nails leaving red crescents in his shoulders. the friction had become a blinding white light, a heat that started in your core and radiated outward until every nerve in your body was screaming.

“is this what you came for?” he growled. “rhaenyra’s little rat spreading her legs for a hightower cock?”

"you arrogant prick." you managed to gasp the words out, but they were stripped of any real venom. you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him so deep that there was no space left for air or pride.

gwayne let out a sound that was half laugh and half groan. "so loud in the common room, so fierce with your demands... and here you are, shaking under me, taking every inch of my cock like you're starving for it."

the words should have sting, should have felt like an insult to your dignity, but in the heat of the moment, they only served to fuel the fire.

"you’re so fucking wet. do you have any idea how much i’ve wanted to shut you up since the moment you opened your mouth? to see you break like this?" he groaned, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrated against the shell of your ear.

he didn't wait for an answer, his pace becoming a frantic, bruising rhythm that left you breathless. "tell me, does it feel good to be ruined by the man you hate? does it feel better when i'm deep inside you, stretching you out?"

you couldn't find the words to argue, only a series of broken, high-pitched sounds that spurred him on. you gripped his biceps, feeling the lean muscle twitch under your palms as he hammered into you. "yes," you sobbed, the word lost in a gasp. "yes, fuck, gwayne."

you were nearing the edges of the world, your breath coming in shallow hitches as gwayne’s pace became frantic. he didn’t let up, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising force that threatened to push you right off the sagging mattress. he shifted his weight, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pinning you firmly against the sheets while the other hand found the small of your back, arching you up to meet every deep thrust.

you felt the internal pressure build, a coil of tension tightening in your gut until it was almost unbearable. gwayne sensed it. he felt the way your walls began to spasm around him in. he let out a guttural sound, his pace becoming sloppy, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder as he drove himself into you.

"come for me," he commanded, his voice a raw, distorted growl. "come for me, you stubborn little thing."

the command was the final spark. you shattered, your entire body arching violently as a wave of pleasure crashed through you, pulling you under. you screamed his name into the crook of his neck, your internal muscles clamping around him in desperate, rhythmic contractions that felt like they were trying to pull him into your very soul. the world dissolved into a blur of amber candlelight and the suffocating heat of his skin, leaving you gasping and blind as the orgasm ripped through your frame in jagged, electric pulses.

gwayne didn't stop. he let out a low, animalistic sound, his movements becoming uncoordinated as he chased his own release. he hammered into you with a final, bruising intensity, his chest heaving against yours, his eyes locked on your flushed face with a hunger that seemed bottomless. with one last, deep plunge that felt like it hit the very base of your spine, he stiffened. a guttural groan ripped from his throat, his head falling into the hollow of your shoulder as he spilled himself inside you.

the silence that followed was heavier than the storm with the ragged gasps of the two of you being the only sounds that filled the room. gwayne remained slumped against you for a long minute, his weight an oppressive yet grounding presence. the heat of him was still radiating, his sweat acting like a glue that bound your skin together. slowly, the adrenaline began to dissipate, leaving behind a hollow, dizzying exhaustion and the sudden, sharp return of reality.

he withdrew from you with a slow, wet slide that made you shiver, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and exposed. gwayne didn't immediately move away. he rolled to the side, his chest still heaving, his eyes staring at the ceiling with a look of profound disorientation. the arrogance was gone, replaced by a stillness. he looked less like a lord of a great house and more like a man who had been blindsided by a blow he hadn't seen coming.

you laid there for a long time, the damp sheets clinging to your skin like a second, colder layer of clothing. the rain continued to lash against the shutters, a rhythmic drumming that felt far too loud in the sudden vacuum of the room. your muscles were trembling, a lingering aftershock of the climax that had nearly stripped the breath from your lungs. you could feel the sticky heat of his seed beginning to cool inside you, a visceral reminder of the transgression you had just committed.

"gwayne—"

"do not," he interrupted, his voice still a jagged rasp, though the cruelty had vanished. he didn't look at you. he remained staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, as if he were trying to reconstruct the walls of his pride around him.

"just... sleep. we shall discuss this in the morning." he added, his tone returning to a resemblance of nobility, though the cracks were still visible. he didn't move to leave the bed, and neither did you. instead, you shifted, your skin sticking to the linens, and felt the sudden, sharp prickle of shame and triumph.

you had not secured the master of coin, but you had dismantled the composure of gwayne hightower.

you knew that the discussion won't happen because when morning came, both of you were eager to be the first to leave. the dawn didn't break with a golden glow, but with a stale grey light that filtered through the grime of the inn's windows. 

gwayne was fastening his belt, his movements sharp and jerky. he didn't look at you, and you didn't look at him, though you could feel the weight of his gaze whenever he thought you weren't watching. the shared bed, which had felt like a battlefield of lust only hours ago, now felt like a crime scene. the sheets were twisted and damp. you dressed quickly, your fingers trembling as you fought with the buttons of your bodice, feeling the lingering ache in your thighs and the sticky evidence of his conquest still clinging to your skin.

he approached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the heavy iron latch. for a heartbeat, you thought he might turn back, might say something that acknowledged the way his voice had sounded when he begged you to call his name. but gwayne hightower was a man built of stone and tradition, and the stone was already sliding back into place.

"i accept rhaenyra's terms."

your hands that were busy fixing your bodice froze. you looked up at him, the grey dawn light casting a sharp silhouette of his frame against the door. 

"what?" you breathed, your voice still raspy from the screaming of the night.

"under one condition." he breathed. "lord horden is to be escorted by a hightower soldier while in king's landing and is to be returned back to tumbleton the moment the funds are secured," gwayne said, his voice regaining its polished edge, though he still wouldn't meet your eyes. "i would not have him simply handed over to a woman who thinks a few trade routes are a fair exchange for a man's loyalty. but... i find myself suddenly inclined to be merciful."

you stared at him, your mind racing. this was a victory. a massive one. rhaenyra would be pleased, and the people of the capital would finally see bread and gold.

but still, the victory felt jagged. you looked at gwayne and saw the slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the door handle. the distance between you was only a few feet, yet it felt like a chasm.

"mercy," you repeated, your voice regaining its sharp edge, though it lacked the venom of the previous evening. "or perhaps you simply couldn't bear the thought of me leaving this inn without knowing you'd finally given in."

"just accept it, will you?" he said in an exhaustion that sounded almost like a plea. he finally turned his head, his gaze flickering across your face, lingering for a fraction of a second on your swollen lips before he looked away. "i cannot stand the thought of another hour in your company. the air in this room has become... intolerable."

you wanted to snap back and remind him that he spent the night with you just fine but decided against it.

"is this a plan to have the hightower escort spying on rhaenyra and report back to ormund?" you asked, stepping forward, your voice regaining its professional weight.

"no, it is not. i can assure you." he answered confidently.

"how can i trust you?"

"because the escort will be myself."

oh.

you blinked, your brain momentarily failing to process the implications. gwayne hightower, a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours treating you with a mixture of disdain and hunger, was offering to personally escort the master of coin into the heart of the enemy’s capital.

he will be in king's landing. where lord horden goes, he will follow. which includes the red keep, and most likely, the very rooms where you spent your days strategizing for rhaenyra.

you and gwayne hightower will be in same room again.

is he implying what you think he is implying? the thought flickered through your mind, a spark of curiosity. the escort of a high-value prisoner was certainly not a task for a man of his rank. yet, gwayne stood there, his posture rigid, his eyes finally meeting yours with a look that was no longer mocking, but something far more complicated. it was a gaze that held the memory of the mattress, the sound of your voice breaking, and the way your nails had carved paths into his skin.

"you are remarkably quiet," gwayne noted, his voice regaining that irritating timbre from last night. "has the gutter-girl finally run out of things to say, or are you simply calculating how much of my dignity you can strip away once we are within the walls of the keep?"

"you planned this." you said instead, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "the noble lord of oldtown, suddenly burdened by a sense of duty to personally escort a master of coin. it's almost as if you've realized that the walls of this inn are too thin to contain whatever this is."

gwayne stiffened. but the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, though he fought to keep it hidden behind a mask of indifference. "do not flatter yourself, my lady. it is a strategic move. i trust no one else to ensure lord horden isn't bribed or spirited away by your queen’s agents before the gold is accounted for."

"and yet you did not offer this yesterday," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest. the movement made you acutely aware of the soreness in your muscles. "you were quite content to let him rot in tumbleton."

gwayne finally let out a short, dry huff of laughter. it was not the mocking sound of the common room, but something almost fond, though he quickly masked it. he stepped toward you, his presence filling the small space of the room once more. "yesterday i thought i was negotiating with an enemy."

"and today?" you asked, not moving he closed the gap.

gwayne stopped just inches from you, the heat of his body radiating through his armour. he didn't touch you, but the air between you crackled, thick with the residue of the night's wreckage.

"today," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your throat where a faint, reddish mark lingered from his teeth, "i find myself wondering if the red keep has enough corridors for us to avoid each other. or if it has enough locked doors to ensure we do not."

the tension broke not with a kiss but with gwayne stepping back, his hand reaching for the knob once again.

"and for what it's worth..." he paused, his voice trailing off as he looked at you one last time, "i'm glad it was you."

[geektrooper25]

Unlike Game of Thrones and A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, House of the Dragon is one where I don't know who to root for because they're all messed up. 😂

At this point, I would think Daeron Targaryen as the King and Gwayne Hightower as the Hand of the King would be better for the Seven Kingdoms. 🤔

[lovebugism]

A FAIR EXCHANGE ─── gwayne hightower

summary: gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband. (4k)

characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader, daemon targaryen, ser roderick, mentions of daeron targaryen and ormund hightower

contents: enemies to lovers, arranged marraige, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for canon typical violence, coercion, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and spoilers for hotd s3 finale!! (gif creds)

The morning hangs heavy with the promise of death. It sits thick in Gwayne’s throat and lungs the whole walk to the Black Army’s encampment. He carries with him nothing but a small hunting knife pressed to Lord Corlys’s back and a fear he cannot quite keep out of his gaze, darting wildly every which way as Daemon’s army cages him on all sides — a Winter Wolf on his left, a small Tully boy on his right, and a stranger looming on horseback; with armor fitted close to fit a woman’s frame, and with a face much too pretty for the throes of war.

“Prince Daemon,” Gwayne greets with a curt nod, still winded from the walk over as his chest heaves beneath his armor. “I’m Ser Gwayne Hightower… Well met.”

“Fuck me,” Ser Roderick laughs; a rough, ugly bark as he looks the small, auburn-haired man up and down. “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife.”

“Daemon, I must say—” Your voice follows, soft and musical and carrying easily over the distant murmur of armed men. It’s the kind of voice that might’ve belonged to a septa or a singer, if it weren’t for the ice running beneath it. “—When you said we were meeting with a Hightower, I expected someone taller than the sigil at least.”

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hand with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

[sconniebelle]

To You, I Return

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.

[wintrynightz]

Gwayne Hightower trough the 5 language of love .✦ ݁˖

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Words of affirmation: oh this man will shower his partner in compliments. He loves to end and start the day with complimenting you between kisses, “such beauty” he mutters as he gives you another kiss. Gwayne also never forgets to remind you how much you mean to him, and he isn’t shy when it comes to saying “I love you”. When he tells you how much he loves you often, it’s not because the word is meaningless to him, and easy to throw around but rather because he wants you to always know and remember that he does.

Quality time: As a knight it means he’ll often be away, no matter how much it pains him every time he has to leave. But the days when he’s back by your side, he’ll never leave your side. Follow you from room to room, wanting to do everything together with you. Even when you’re just quietly reading, hidden away in your book, Gwayne will be bedside you, your back against his chest as he does his own thing.

Gift giving: Gwayne will always surprise you with gifts. If he has been fool and made you angry at him, he’ll show up to your chambers with your favourite cookies accompanied with tea, as an apology. He loves to gift you the finest diamonds in Westeros, just to see the way your eyes gleam at the sight of them. All you have to say is how you think something looks beautiful and Gwayne will be buy it for you right there and then.

Acts of service: He’s the definition of a gentleman. He’ll open the doors for you, and wait for you to go through first. When you walk into a room he’ll stand up, he helps you and off your horse. When the two of you walk through the city, he’ll offer his hand for you. He does all of these things not because he has to but because he wants to.

Physical touch: this man will have his hands on you every chance he gets. When walking through the halls of the tower his hand is rested on your lower back, guiding you. When pulling you in for a kiss he’ll have his hand on your waist, holding tightly as if you’d disappear if he’d let go. His kisses always linger. He likes to kiss you with devotion and slowly, rather than with hurry. When the evening comes around Gwayne helps you out of your gown, his fingertips trailing over your skin. And lastly ending the day with you in his arms.

Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in my future posts!}

[lagout-loud]

Gwayne Hightower Headcanons

Synopsis: Just general (some explicit!) headcanons for this little brave knight. This is set in his day-to-day, what he'd treat you like, how he is in a relationship, etc, as if the war never started or as nothing bad happened to him.

WC: 1.1k.

AN: Woah, two posts in one week?? When I tell you I could not get this godsdamned dude out of my HEAD after the season finale. I MEAN IT WITH MY CHEST. wow I need him real bad. Thirsting aside, sorry if there are spelling mistakes, I wrote this on mobile.

Gender Neutral Reader.

If you're out conquests with other knights together, you will find him near constantly around you— silently checking, soothing the worries in his head, making sure you're not too harmed from the ragged terrain or battles.

He won't be overbearing, though; that's not the the type of partner he is. No, he's quiet about his care, his concern. He's gentle. If you're somewhere private or you catch a moment alone together, he's stepping up to your side, gaze as soft as always, his eyebrows furrowed as he, asks are you well? Or, is something the matter?

He's not very big on PDA, I can imagine. He likes to keep those softer moments between the two of you— not out of secrecy, but because he cherishes those moments together so much he doesn't want anything to stain them.

Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't touch you at all outside of your bedchambers. He's an emotional lover; he cares for you with his hands as much as his heart. He'll ghost his fingers over the back of your palm, curling them to tangle with yours, or offer a small soothing gesture to the low of your spine.

Loves temple kisses, and those short, sweet, corner-of-the-mouth kisses.

On the topic of kissing, he's slow with how he does it with you; again, gentle. He holds any moment with you dear to his chest, and he never wishes to rush— if something happened to him — or God's forbid, you — he'd loathe something rushed being your final moments together.

I think his love languages would be acts of service, quality time, and physical touch. Any time with you is sent from the will of the Gods, easing both his anxieties and his stress with one ghost of your presence alone.

Adores bathing with you— the quietness of it, the vulnerability, the sweetness of cleansing each other from the horridness of the days. He'll lay back against your chest (or you on his), your fingers intertwined over his heart, your arm curled around him, and he'll just… talk. Lowly, earnestly, about anything, whilst running a soothing pattern to the back of your hand.

Cannot hold a secret in his LIFE with you, unless it's to protect your feelings— and even then, he believes you deserve to know anything that might influence your heart.

Writes you letters when he (or you) is away; what he saw that day that you would've liked, what the breeze felt like, what the view was, how the sun laid to rest in a pretty concoction of orange hues and light pinks (that reminded him of the flush along your cheeks, when he'd get you flustered).

Big dancer. Sorry not sorry. Even in silence or draped within birdsong, he'll take you by your hands and lead you into a sway beneath the firelight.

Loves pressing his forehead into yours; the closeness, the eye-contact, how barrier-less it feels; how honest. You cannot lie through the eyes— they'll spill every ounce of feeling you have within the cage of your ribs, and he'll take you all in your worth and understand all of you.

Big cuddler, especially under the tongue of winter. He's not a large man. He gets chilly, so let him steal some of your heat and enjoy the drum of your heart beneath his ear, yeah?

On that note, one of his favorite things in life is listening to your heart beat, and, if he feels so daring, trying to sync your rhythms of breathing into one tune.

LOVES your hands. He'll play with them when he's bored or when you're laying together, talking quietly or trying to fall asleep. He'll even twist any rings or the bracelet daeron made for you as a child.

On the talk of daeron, that boy is practically his son— yours, too, with how he comes to the both of your for solace. Gwayne absolutely adores how much daeron loves you; it makes him happy and glad to know that Daeron has someone else to trust and look to if he's not around.

Twists his mother's ring (the one that hangs from a strip of leather from his neck) when he's lost in thought or nervous. He'll run his thumb on the indents of her name carved into the silver, as it is the only thing that lets him be close to her no matter where he is.

Big sigher. Clothing uncomfortable? Slightly annoyed sighs. Scabbard belt too tight? Sighs. Too cold? Sighs. You get the jist.

EXPLICIT:

Again, closeness. He physically cannot feel good or cum if you're not touching everywhere you can— he wants you draped over him like a snake coiled to prey, he wants to feel your breath, your life, your pleasure.

Kissing. All the way. He wants to kiss when you're inside of him (or he's inside of you), to swallow your moans, to take you in all your honor and your glory. He wants to leave nothing behind, nothing he could miss, nothing at all left unobserved and unattended to.

Mild moaner, I'd say. If you hit one of his sweet spots, his mouth will curl up and he'll moan or whine, but in general, he's more of a panter/heavy breathing clipped with whimpers.

He likes to bury his nose into your throat when he cums— he'll cradle your head, keep you in place gently, and just… breathe you in, let you muffle his noises.

Biting/marking. Suck a bruise into the side of his neck — but not high enough to be truly risky — he'll have to cover later, leave little cuts of the points of your teeth into his hip, nip at the underside of his jaw. He's yours. He likes to feel your touch, the remnants of you, even while you're separated.

He likes to give and receive. Your pleasure is his pleasure, but if he can't make the both of you feel good at the same time (and, thus, orgasm at the same time too), he'll do whatever he can to make sure he can change that. It doesn't feel nearly as pleasurable if he knows you don't feel as good as he does.

Hand holding; hold his hand. PLEASE. The warmth your hands offer — both emotionally and physically — is something that is so sacred and unique to you, it can never be replicated; he needs the reminder that, yes, he (and/or yourself) is a knight that kills people for the crown, but he's also just a man. One that can be gentle. One whose hands that don't just kill, but can cradle, too.

Aftercare is something he cannot live without— the idea that two people connect in such a celestial, vulnerable way, and then just proceed to roll over and go to sleep is blasphemy to him. To him, it's such a level of intense affection and love, that it has to lower slowly. Through the damp swipe of a cloth or the warmth of a bath as you talk about your days, not through something as blunt as sleep.

In truth, he loves you with all he has, and strives to do it with all he can ever offer for as long as he lives.

[morriganstark]

“I want to see the child.”

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

tags ‎ꫂ᭪݁ @valarrsilverstreak @erotiicism @witch-of-letters @itachisank @silkaurum @emma-idk327 @yatta-exe @vlarrtrgryn @icebearcucumber @baelors-widow

[restinslices]

Gwayne thirst below the cut. Mdni!

Imma write Disgust pt 2 sometime today hopefully but I gotta get this out my head. This is softer than my usual thirst posts.

Am I up to date on season 3? No. But if we ignore that-

Thinking about Gwayne coming to you after he leaves Cole.

You, his greatest love. One of the few people that could both match his cockiness and appreciate the softness of his character. You, who seemed to be fashioned by the gods just for him.

Thinking about seeing him so low and defeated. Feeling him relax under your touch when you hug him.

"Your clothes are filthy now" he'd say. As if you cared for such small things as clothes when he was alive and as well as he could be.

Thinking about hearing him wince as you help him remove his clothes. You're as gentle as you can be, taking a mental note of every scar and bruise on his skin. You'll make sure to pay extra attention there when you bathe him.

"Not as pretty as I used to be" he would joke as you run a rag over his skin.

"Never say such a thing again" you chastise. Instead of some witty remark, he just looks at you with this soft look. For the longest time he admires your features as you clean him.

His wet hand touches your face, "you're here...". It was as if he worried it was all a dream. "You haven't been burnt by dragonfame. You're really...".

"I'm here, Gwayne".

Thinking about you taking care of him for the rest of the day. You change his bath water as many times as necessary despite having maids who could do this for you. You wash his body, his hair, before drying and clothing him. You make sure he's fed, given refreshments, you massage every ache in his joints, then laid beside him in bed.

Thinking about having to soothe him after he wakes from a nightmare. Having to remind him that you're still there. You're real and never leaving his side.

Thinking about him kissing you while mumbling that you're real. Every touch proves it. His mind could never play such a good trick on him. His mind could never perfectly replicate how your lips feel on his, before going down his neck.

You both take your time undressing the other, merely enjoying being so close together. "I've been useless all day. Let me-" but you stop him when he makes a pained noise when he tries to climb on top of you.

"You've been resting" you reassure him as you push him onto his back. "I have you".

Noises of content leaves his lips at the feel of you kissing down his neck, his collar, his chest. He lets out whines when you kiss every bruise on his body that has turned colors varying from red to purple.

Gwayne, a highborn man, a warrior, a leader of men, sobs when your lips wrap around the tip of his penis.

You're in no rush, and that's what makes it feel so heavenly. It's a silent acknowledgment that you two have more time together.

He sees no point in keeping quiet. You hear him pant everytime your head bobs up and down. "You're so good to me" he'd say when you swallow around his thickness. He'd thrust in your mouth slowly, relishing in how warm your mouth is around him.

And when he cums, it's with a shuddering cry of your name. You have to actually hold him in your arms and soothe him afterwards.

"I want to make you feel good" he admits, fighting to keep his eyes open. "But I'm just so tired. I've never been this tired before. I'm so sorry".

"Don't apologize for being tired".

Gwayne practically begs to be allowed to cockwarm you, so he can fuck you properly when his strength has returned.

And that's how the two of you fall asleep;

Together. Bodies intertwined. Souls joint at the heart. Listening to the other's soft breaths and knowing this is all real.

I'm feeling lovey dovey ig. Idk

[vhagars-dementia]

I just realized Gwayne Hightower is now lord of Hightower, beacon of the south, defender of the citadel, and voice of Oldtown

[imnotcryingyouare1]

Moments with them

Just cute moments throughout the years with your family as I’m terrified for the season final

Part of the children universe so references to the haram with Rhaenyra and Harwin. Daemons daughter!reader. Not proofread

“Stop kicking me.” You mumble sleepily, just wanting to sleep. Daeron having been waking a lot in the night since moving in with you and the baby in your stomach isn’t helping.

“I’m not.” Gwanye mumbles back, hiding his face in your shoulder as he cuddles you. Your husband having been the one to get up with Daeron most nights as the boy won’t settle for the nursemaids.

“I know you’re not.” You say back, thinking the sleep deprivation was getting to him as his hand is where the babe is kicking.

“Oh, is there anything I can do?”

“No.” You say, just having to accept it as you try and get some sleep. Daeron then letting out a cry as if he knew you were just about to sleep. “Not it.”

“Why not?” Gwanye whines while untangling himself from you.

“I’m with child.” You sass, moving your pillow so you can get more comfortable.

“Fair enough.” He says stumbling out of bed to reach the boy. “What’s all this noise for little prince?”

-

“Dove!” Little Daeron shouts while sat on the floor playing with his wooden toys.

“What?” Gwanye asks the boy, swearing the boy just said his first word.

“Dove!” Daeron shouts again giggling hitting his toy on the floor.

“Love! Daeron has just said his first word!” Gwanye shouts for you, happy you’re just in the next room. You immediately wading through as fast at you can. “Look.”

“Dove!”

“Oh my gods.” You say covering your mouth in shock, eyes welling up with tears as you sit on the chair behind the boy who clambers into your lap. “Aren’t you such a smart boy.”

“Why do you think he’s saying dove?” Gwanye asks smiling, so happy he was able to witness the boys first word.

“I’m not sure love.” You respond kissing the side of your boys face making him giggle, his ginger hair a mess.

“Dove!”

“Oh.” You both say in unison, him trying to stifle him laughter while you giggle. Now knowing he’s trying to say love.

-

“Baby.” Daeron demands laying on your bed with his toys while you place Aerion in his crib. Daeron being absolutely fascinated by his little brother.

“He’s sleeping Daeron.” You say loving how much he loves the boy but also finding it a bit inconvenient as he always wants to hold him.

“Baby.” He whines dramatically flopping back into Gwayne who was leaning up against the headboard reading.

“You’re still a baby.” Gwayne tells the boy, placing his book beside him so he can pull the boy closer and tickle him.

“Nooo.” Daeron giggles loving when Gwanye plays with him like this.

“Yeees.” Gwayne teases, the boy still giggling in his arms.

“I no baby.” Daeron says back shaking his head.

“Are you sure about that?”

-

“Gwanye what are you doing?” You laugh, finding your husband reading a children’s book on his own. Him even doing the voices for different characters.

“Daeron said I don’t do voices as well as you do so I’m practicing.” He responds clearly embarrassed as his cheeks flush red. Not noticing you look at him with complete adoration in your eyes, him being so perfect you almost don’t think he’s real.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He smiles, holding an arm out for you to join him. “Now come help me.”

-

“Are you alright?” You ask Gwanye seeing his pull an exaggerated look of confusion. You all having a picnic as the weather is nice and sunny.

“My strawberries keep disappearing.” He responds grin on his face as he doesn’t even like strawberries that much. Your son’s loving them, Daeron especially.

“How odd.” You say pretending not to hear the giggles coming from your sons. Both boys clearly having been eating strawberries as their chins are red and sticky. “We must have a thief on our hands.”

“We must.”

-

“Nyra has asked if she can visit.” You tell Gwanye as you get into the bath with him. Your husband having snuck off when you were putting the boys to bed, wanting a bath.

“That sounds good.” He says kissing your shoulder when you lean into him, his hands picking up the soap to clean you. Despite the fact you already bathed earlier. “When are they coming?”

“Next moon.” You answer moving your head so he can keep kissing your neck. “Laenor, Jace, Luke and Harwin will be coming as well obviously.”

“That’s good, Daeron and Aerion will be happy to have others to play with.” He answers, knowing the boys will be happy to see Jace again. You not having seen each other in over a year, her having given birth to Luke a few moons after you left. “What chambers will they be staying in?”

“Jace and Luke will be in the nursery, I was thinking we could put Rhaenyra in the chambers next door.” You say turning to give him a look, the man just smirking him response.

“That’s a brilliant idea my love.”

-

“How’s our girl?” Gwayne asks a few moons later, Rhaenyra and her family having stayed with you for five moons before the king called them back.

“We don’t know it’s a girl.” You say resting your hand on your stomach as the babe moves. You having been knitting Aerion a new dragon snug, the boy wants to match his dragon.

“It’s a girl, I can tell.” He says giving you a soft kiss, loving the look of you carrying your child.

“She’s doing well, she’s not as active as Aerion but I don’t think it would be possible to be more active than him anyway.” You answer, letting out a small laugh at how much Aerion moved. The boy still unable to keep still even now.

“That’s true.” He responds sitting next to you and stealing some of your food. “What did the maester say?”

“Normal movement, she’s growing brilliantly.” You reassure, both of you slightly worried given the girls lack of movement compared to her brother.

“That’s good.”

“What about our boys?” You ask, going back to your knitting, knowing that Daeron will want one to match Tessarion when he sees it.

“Both finally napping.” He says, having been the one on nap duty while you saw the maester. “They demanded three stories.”

“Both of them or Aerion?” You ask raising an eyebrow knowing it’s not Daeron who’s the bossy one out of the two.

“Aerion, he’s a very bossy boy.”

“He gets it from my father.” You muse, knowing that the boy is very much like his grandfather in attitude. “Whereas Daeron gets his sweetness from you.”

“I wonder what our girl will get from you.”

-

“Daeron what are you doing?” You ask when you hear the door open and a little voice telling his toy dragon to be quiet.

“I can’t sleep.” He says, cuddling his toy close. Having just woken up from a nightmare. “Can I sleep with you?”

“Come here then just don’t tell your brother.” Gwayne says lifting the sheet so the boy can slip in. Him knowing it was wishful thinking that he’d get a night with you all to himself.

“Don’t tell me what?” Aerion asks having followed his big brother when he heard him get up. The boy not wanting to miss anything.

“Nothing, I take it you’re also sleeping in here tonight then?” Gwanye sighs knowing that the boys will sleep in the middle of the bed and that Aerion kicks in his sleep.

-

“She’s boring.” Aerion announces looking at his sleeping sister. The ginger girl only a fortnight old and swaddled in a pink blanket.

“She is a newborn sweetheart.” You say, smiling down at the sleeping girl in your arms. You all sat in the family solar.

“When can I see Jace again? He’s not boring.” Aerion asks going back to his toys. The horses having declared war on the dragons.

“Don’t be mean.” Daeron tells his little brother, the boy sat next to Gwayne practicing his reading. While you rest, Aerion making that rather difficult. “You used to be boring too.”

-

“My father is coming to visit.” You warn your husband, having just received word from Laena. Her being the only one to give notice, your father preferring to just show up.

“Does he have too?” Gwanye whines, looking forward to seeing Laena as he’s become friends with the woman but finding your father annoying. Especially when Ormund is also there, the men constantly bickering.

“I’d like to see Laena and the girls also Laena would like to meet Lynesse.” You say knowing what he was going to ask. You having already planned a nice trip for Ormund to take to highgarden so he’s not here to argue with your father.

“Then can’t they just come and leave him at home?” Gwanye tries, knowing he’ll be polite as he always is with your father.

“We can only hope.”

-

“Hello Baela.” Aerion says to the girl having missed her almost as much as he misses Jace. Them both being his best friends. “Do you want to play tag?”

“I’d love too.” She says smiling before running away from the boy knowing he was just about to tag her. Neither child caring that they haven’t greeted the other’s family’s yet.

“Father.” You say smiling at him, despite all his many faults you still loving the man.

“Daughter.” He greets giving to a gentle hug before nodding to your husband. “Hightower.”

“Prince Daemon.” Gwayne replies before looking at Rhaena who clearly doesn’t know what to do. “Daeron why don’t you go show Rhaena where she’ll be staying with her sister.”

“Yes kepa.” The boy says with a smile at the girl, not wanting her to feel left out as he knows how much Aerion is obsessed with Baela. “Come on Rhaena.”

“Congratulations.” Laena says smiling at you, pulling you into a hug. Happy for you having a daughter. “You look incredible.”

“So do you.” You respond smiling having missed your friend. “How’s your mother doing?”

-

“Ormund would like the dragons in the gardens.” Gwayne tells you almost a year later when you’re packing for a trip to kingslanding, Rhaenyra wanting to see you.

“Why?” You ask in confusion, checking you’ve packed the boy’s favourite blankets.

“He wants their kennels cleaned.” Gwayne responds with an eye roll, thinking his cousin crazy.

“Please stop calling them kennels.” You say giving him a look. “And he does know we’re going to kingslanding again soon doesn’t he?”

“He knows, he’s looking forward to all the cleaning that can get done.” He replies with a smile. “And what else am I supposed to call them?”

“Point taken.” You say letting your husband pull you into his arms. Both of you needing a break. “So shall we have a picnic this afternoon then?”

“That sounds like a good idea.” He says softly, pulling you into a kiss.

[alysmond]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | Season 3, Episode 8

[alysmond]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON | Season 3, Episode 8, "The Treasons at Tumbleton"

[wwwinters]

GWAYNE NEEDS HIS WIFE

gwayne hightower x wife!reader

warning ; smut, unprotected sex. english isn't my first language.

You weren’t quite sure how long the two of you had been apart, but it had been long enough for longing to become a powerful feeling in your chest. But now Gwayne was back with you.

He had abandoned Criston Cole and his soldiers, who were marching toward certain death, seeking to be remembered for something no one would ever sing about.

Gwayne hadn’t expected to find you in Tumbleton, but it was a pleasant surprise—perhaps not entirely so—to have you here. He couldn’t help but be angry with his uncle for dragging you into the heart of a war, but he also couldn’t deny that he was, in fact, happy to have his wife in his arms once again.

And—perhaps—it was better this way, wasn’t it? Keeping you close meant that he could protect you...

Or that he could make you moan his name once again.

You ride Gwayne as he works to remove your dress; his patience wears thin with the fabric barring him from unfettered access to your body, and for a brief moment, he considers tearing it—though he ultimately decides against behaving like a man lacking self-control.

The wet sounds of his cock sliding into you with every movement of your hips echoes within the closed doors and windows of the chambers.

When his hands finally manage to pull the dress over your head, Gwayne wastes no time stripping off the rest of your clothes; once you are naked, he shifts your positions, pressing you against the mattress as he hovers over your body.

Your husband’s large, calloused hands grip your thighs, pulling you closer to him—your bare back dragging against the soft bed linens in the process—all to position his cock to penetrate you once more.

Your back arches at the way Gwayne suddenly thrusts into you, filling you completely in a single movement of his hips. "I missed you, wife." He murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss there before lifting his face to meet yours, closing the small gap remaining between your lips.

The kiss begins slowly but soon deepens into one born of desperate need.

Soon his lips move away; first, Gwayne presses a kiss to your cheek, then your chin, and then again to your throat and collarbone, making his way toward what he craves most.

Pressing a kiss to the soft skin of his wife's breast, he takes his time—licking, gently biting, and sucking on the sensitive flesh—all while continuing to thrust into you so slowly and tormentingly that you cannot help but beg.

"Gwayne… please." Your voice is hoarse, barely a whisper close to his ear, your fingers tangling in your husband's auburn hair. "I need more… missed you so much." Whatever his wife asks for, Gwayne gives. He would never deny her anything she desires.

Lifting her just enough to shift her position on the bed, he places her with her stomach and face pressed against the sheets.

His hands grip her hair, pressing her face deeper into the pillows as he penetrates her once more—this time moving his hips against hers with more intensity than before.

Gwayne’s free hand slides between her thighs to stimulate her clit; you cannot hold back the moans that follow.

Your hands clutch the sheets beneath you—you can't help it. You feel so close, and you are certain Gwayne knows it too.

You climax with a muffled moan against the pillow, while Gwayne continues to circle your clit until the sensation has passed.

Positioning himself just the way he likes, Gwayne resumes thrusting to reach his own release.

He is close now; his forearms brace against the mattress on either side of your head for support as he buries his nose in your hair to breathe in your scent.

His hips don't slow down—not until Gwayne is spilling himself deep inside you, groaning against your hair. Before withdrawing and pulling away from your body, he presses a kiss to the top of your head. You are both a mess of sweat and heavy breathing now, but he pulls you close just to whisper in your ear: "I won't leave you again."

[sergwaynez]

here's my paper heart, won't you hold it?

ormund is awaiting important news and with each raven sent to tumbleton, he finally thinks this is it. however, it's just you. always you, sending your husband even the most simplest of things about your day and how often you think of him. ormund has given up, he knows you won't stop but luckily, daeron decides to hatch a secret plan. he claims that you are ailed with a great sickness to reunite you and gwayne together back in oldtown. inspired by the most goated vamps song ever!

husband! gwayne x wife! reader, pure fluff! slight angst, reunion, sunrises at the oldtown beacon, classic "where is my wife?" moment, gwayne goes a little beserky werky in panic, mentions of ormund (eeyuck!) and baby boy daeron (aww!), that weird ormund-daeron scary dynamic. loml gwayne and you being a sap <3

the first time a raven was sent to tumbleton, ormund hightower had clenched the paper between his fist. he almost crumples it in anticipation and his heart lurches. this could be it. this could be their salvation; aemond targaryen is coming home.

his fingers fuss with it as he rips open the scroll, eyes zooming across the words and then he stops. its silent, eerily silent, like the calm before the storm and the worst is yet to come. daeron can see the cogs spinning in his mind, somersaulting in troubleshoot and then he screams out. his hand rests on his sword and for a moment, daeron is afraid he'll rip it from its holster and attack the wooden table all over. the existing indents already serve as a reminder of his uncle's madness. then he scoffs, outrageously and infuriated and it settles into pure disbelief.

he doesn't crumple the paper, the contents of it he knows will be valuable to his cousin no matter how hot the blood boils in his veins at the alternative potential outcomes. instead he thrusts it in daerons direction and looks away abruptly, taking his seat at the table and continuing with his tea. "see to it that this is put somewhere safe," he rolls his eyes with a groan and daeron, like the maids before him had moments ago, scurries away in confusion.

he knows he shouldn't be prying, but he can't help it to see what news had come that has irked his uncle in such little time.

he recognises the sway of your handwriting as it firmly prints on the paper. the ink is smudged slightly, likely sent in haste before it had dried and he sees the name and smiles. you know what you're doing and you're clever about it to make the address vague. only you and gwayne are rhe exception to riling ormund up and getting away with it and daeron chalks it up to the three of you having grown up so closely with each other. he's thankful for it, often hiding behind the two of you when he bares the brunt of ormund's intensity for so long.

his eyes skim over your words and he melts, he knows it'll be of great importance to gwayne. possibly the greatest gift gwayne will ever receive and now the raven is no longer the messenger but daeron is, and he will guard this with his life.

he summons a small wicker basket, weaved from the market stalls in tumbleton and knows that despite ormund's irritation there will be more to come and daerons decides that it will be his upmost priority to see these messages to your husband. he giggles at the contents, knowing that he won't be reading the following to come out of respect and makes a note to write you back. to let you know it has been received and it will be treasured. he just needs to find a way to do it without ormund's knowledge for the elder is bound to be angered by the future monarch's correspondence.

he folds the parchment as carefully as you had and lets it rest before walking away and returning with his day. he doesn't blame you in the slightest, you're miles away back home, governing oldtown whilst the rest of the hightowers are bidding for kingslanding and daeron miss you endlessly, he cannot begin to fathom how his uncle must feel with you missing.

lord hightower,

i love you

(this is a test, please confirm if this has been received!)

your darling wife

three days have not yet passed before the next raven arrives at the gates. there's still hope building in ormund, he's yet to hear from his cousin about news of aemond and vhagar to join their conquest. he knows his nephew to be ambitious and eager, but as the days pass ormund can't help but feel like adjustments will need to be made in his absence.

he snaps at the servants too often, schemes too late in the night and the fatigue is catching up to him slowly. so when the dark raven squeaks and a letter is landed in his palms, he whispers a small prayer with closed eyes and a restless heart.

he shoots an encouraging smile at daeron, who sits at the table waiting for the news but it never comes. ormund stares at the scroll with disgust, the recipients name in lopsided cursive and faint hearts drawn around the letters. it is you, again. his loyal cousin-in law and the bane of his existence. he should be glad that you're holding down the fort in oldtown, that his cousin has such a loving and incredible wife that some part of him is bitten in jealousy. he doesn't want to open the contents, to have the colours of his house green as day across his face. he throws it to the table with a snarl, and motions for daeron to pass him a free parchment and holds the quill with a steel grip of death.

"women," he mutters under his breath, "so emotional. it has been what? i can't even count the distance," his handwriting is tenacious, annoyance etched in each syllable and he hardly wastes any time on the response.

"perhaps it has truly been that long that the true amount no longer matters, distance is distance," daeron tries to argue politely in your defence, "a matter or minutes or moons, what is a number to the distance when the love is stretched nonetheless?"

ormund drops the feathered quill and inhales slowly, his frame stalks over to his nephew and lands a hand to his shoulder. it presses down firmly, a small danger as his gaze darkens. daeron knows not to move a muscle, not to give in to the taunt, to not appear weak but also disobedient and he meets ormund's eyes, "you are becoming tender-hearted," ormund warns, "and where will this softness take you when you cannot protect the ones you "love"?" he whispers lethally and daeron swallows his breath. "do you understand?"

"yes, sire," he fights the stutter and surrenders. he knows it not to be true deep down, gwayne hightower is proof that you could be gentle and brave, nurturing and noble. to fight with honour and live with love, it's all he's ever taught daeron. but he knows against ormund his words are futile so he bites them down miserably.

ormund nods in response, safisfied with the submission and turns to a servant, "perhaps she has run out of embroidery, send a stock of coloured threads and see to it that her mind is kept elsewhere, enough of this nonsense. it ends now."

they scurry away immediately and ormund takes a seat opposite daeron, setting up for a new game where daeron knows in the end, ormund will always win.

my noble, strong-hearted gwayne,

it has been just short of a month and i am to live in this loneliness for many more to come?? i shall die. i miss you more than life please return to me.

cousin,

do not send word unless you are in danger. do not put yourself in danger, unless you would rather your husband kill me also and then we both shall roam the seven hells in punishment together.

ormund.

the nonsense does not end then.

you truly do have horrific and cursed timing. it continues with a furrow in his brow at the letter addressed to him. it taunts him as its tied so prettily in a green bow and the house sigil messily embroidered in the top left corner, the colour green bleeding in its snagged threads. its poorly executed but the point remains, you did not care enough to put true effort in for its recipient. he rips it open with brute force and eyes scan it immediately. when he finishes, the paper is crumpled, ripped into a million shreds and then he changes his mind and burns the damn thing instead.

smoke and flames engulf him but nothing can erase it from his mind. how dare you? he would have your head if he could, if only his cousin hadn't stolen your heart and wore it upon his sleeve. in this moment, you've enraged him more than the possibility of aemond abandoning him that he forgets about the large dragon his men are out hunting for a single second.

the memory returns however when he reads the second letter addressed to him, your husband's handwriting sprawled. its shorter than yours and more direct, a stark contrast between the two but he feels the shift in the air. gwayne has provided an update to his and criston cole's journey from harrenhall to the riverlands next.

ormund knew aemond would be a longshot but your taunt along the confirmed print of betrayal stings. this time, his sword is ripped open from its sheath and straight into the oak of the table, batted against the solidness does his fury try to set it alight. "cunt," he screams out, four strikes to the table each with a new curse that could be heard across the seven kingdoms.

he breaks his stream of violence for a second as his eyes find the stack of needles accompanied by your note, each one threaded with a different string of colour he had sent for you. it infuriates him like a sick joke and he throws the metal to the fire also with a snarl, "seven fucking hells," he roars. "this fucking household of ours, two are chained in kingslanding, one burnt alive, our only hope is nowhere to be seen and then these two idiots," he spits but there's an odd fondness lingering at the edges where you and gwayne are mentioned, "are lovesick," it rolls off his tongue horrified, "i need to be alone. i am clearly the last hightower with wits and sanity, i need to be preserved and alone or we shall all just burn like alicent's foolish firstborn."

it echoes and bounces off the walls of the house and with each thud, ormund envisions your words and your husband's and sighs in resignation.

evil cousin or rather the devil himself,

i can feel your jealousy poured into the ink that dries and your idiocy that my soul would be sent to hell, you possess far more evil than i and you are cruel enough to not think that the greatest danger a wife could hold is missing her husband. it is you who has subjected us to this separation and torture. put an end to this and send my love back to me. also, tell him i love him. tell the same to daeron. that is an order. also, the next time you send me needles you will find them threaded through your eyeballs in the thick of the night, i suggest start sleeping with them open. that may help combat the surprise. or better yet, do not assume i am bored and dawdling with feminine pursuits.

lady hightower.

ormund,

aemond is not coming. we have searched in harrenhal and cannot find even his ghost. vhagar is yet to be spotted and under the leadership of ser cole we will march forwards towards the tully camp and the riverlands to try and gain the advantage. it seems ridiculous but it is our last hope. i pray to the seven that daeron is well and you are intelligent enough to bring forth a new plan as we fight on the battlefield. please send word to my lady wife, let her know of my safety and my desire to come home. and most importantly, of my unwavering love. i shall keep you updated.

the next letter arrives for daeron two days later. he had been training in the yard all morning, sweat beading down his neck and sticking to his skin that when the scroll is passed to him, he feels a swirl of pride brew in his blood.

my loving boy,

my sweet summer child, i hope the air of tumbleton and lonesome company of your uncle ormund is not dampening your spirits. i hope you are well, i hope you are happy. i know nothing of what ormund may have in store for you but just now my darling love, you are always welcome back here no matter the circumstance. i am waiting for you, i miss seeing your smile and heavens forbid, your sulking. come home soon, my little prince. and give that dragon of yours a loving snuggle from me too.

he tries to send a letter of his own, but is stopped at the very second by ormund. the corner of his lips curl in frustration and he snatches the paper from the poor boy's hand, ripping it to shreds.

"how do you think this looks, daeron?" his eyes darken, "correspondence from the future king? any information you give could get into the wrong hands and endanger all we are building for, do not be so stupid." ormund catches sight at the letter daeron holds close to his heart and laughs cruelly.

"i only wanted to update her, send her my regards," he tries justify, his voice timid. living with ormund has him reverting ten years younger and he hates it. a king should speak with confidence, lead and command in assurance. "i want her to know i am well."

ormund rolls his eyes, "she knows you are well because i am your ward. gwayne and her have left you to me, do you not feel well, daeron?"

"i do but-"

"but nothing," ormund decides, "i will write and she will no longer send any more ravens. this business is finished."

cousin,

gwayne is en route to the riverlands. his return date cannot be predicted. do not send another raven, i am warning you. you raise suspicion with each correspondence and if something should happen, it will be of your consequences. you have our regards. daeron sends his love. enough.

ormund.

five separate ravens arrive during that day, one every three hours and this time, ormund laughs. you are stubborn and too good at your game. it is clear that this will never be enough regardless of what he says and does. with you in charge of oldtown, his command may not be followed very well from the far distance from tumble and thus, his fight must be directed elsewhere, you will not give up any time soon and he had been foolish to think otherwise.

gwayne,

i

gwayne,

love

gwayne,

you

daeron,

i love you also.

ormund,

do not play the fool and threaten me with your useless words. i would murder you if i was allowed nearer. be careful of the foods you consume. i can always provide alternative means for an end.

dearest cousin,

if i cannot stop you, then all i ask is for you to be discreet. give the poor birds a break, send fewer ravens.

ormund.

the next ravens that arrive no longer hold a thin scroll of paper, tied in a perfect green bow. no, they also do not send one letter. they send three at a time. each one is folded into an intricate shaped heart, bows and hearts drawn prettily around your husband's name at the centre. and somehow you have managed to get your hands on different coloured papers, pink, red, oranges. on some you've drawn little figures of your family. you truly have poured your heart out into these sheets and thrown them to the wind in hopes it'll end up with your lover. its signed with love and a lipstick mark of your lips, sprayed with your perfume and any stranger in the whole of westeros would know without a doubt that these notes are meant entirely for gwayne hightower.

it is not discreet in the slightest, it is more pointed and direct and a strength of your marriage that holds you in pride. ormund can't even be mad at this, he tried warning you of the dangers of correspondence between the hightowers, what their enemies may assume could be war plans and details but this? these paper hearts, notes of love and longing are not between king and conspirer, house to house, they're nothing more than the sweetest of oaths between husband and wife.

my husband,

ormund asked for discreetness with these letters but the nine kingdoms and galaxies above will hear how much i think of you. i love you loudly in hopes that you'll hear me across the cities. i know you will. the sun hears it with every rise and set, its whispers carry in the mind. i know you will.

my life,

dinner always tastes better with you. interpret that as you will, i mean it in every way etched into existence.

gwayney love,

i think we are in desperate need of new curtains, preferably something darker. something to hide the extra space in our bed so that when i wake, i am not met with the vastness of your absence. i sleep on your side of the bed and imagine you there. rest does not come as easy as loving you does.

my love,

i have discovered that nectarine tea is marvelous, now i only wonder how it will taste from your lips.

my everything,

how is the road? your comrades? i know i will not get a response but i will imagine one nonetheless. i know there's no clementines or roses or a featherbed but i hope there is laughter and kindness in the wilderness. i hope you are in good spirits, healthy, but not whole. a piece of you is missing and i am right here. i pray to the seven that you return back to me and complete me.

gwayne,

i think i am gaining weight and you are to blame, husband. i never used to like lemon cake, but they're your favourite and i have the cooks prepare at least every morning in hopes of your return. every night, i eat it alone.

my knight in shining armour,

i have found one of your old helmets, its an awfully shiny thing. small, however. i wonder how anyone would get to see your beauty in this junk of metal. though maybe its a good thing, your gorgeous face gets protected from harm and only i am allowed to see it. what a blessing. i shall hang this as a trophy and print your face on the house banners. i am proud to be yours. always.

wayney,

the servant girl with the hair as black as the night is with child. the stable boy's child! :O i hope the raven echoes the importance of this note and shares in its scandal, i wish i could see your face right now.

my dearest gwayne,

i think of you every day. tell me you are thinking of me too. or at the very least, tell me you are safe. that is all i ask for.

lord husband,

i am angry. i hate your cousin ormund. i miss my nephew and i miss my husband. this is tormentoud and disastrous and i have reached my ends. a lady does have her limits and the idiotic men of the realm would be wise to remember this.

"dear god, i can feel the heat of her anger from this parchment, move quick daeron lest you'd like to be burned," ormund thrusts the paper heart at his nephew with a snided chuckle and daeron's heart aches for you. he longs to send you a note of his own, but he's so afraid of ormund's wrath that he misses you in the silence. in the beating moments when ormund's voice raises, bounces off his ears and echoes like a migraine in his mind. or when the rage radiates from him and he's trapped in a deathly grip, and worst of all in the moments when he's just daeron the child, daeron who's knows to little and is expected to be far too much. daeron who craves his mother's touch in a fierce hug, the one he knows would never leave him willingly. (you). he keeps the letters you've sent him previously tucked under the silks of his pillow as they whisper to him goodnight, a sweet lullaby as he tries to picture you there. he longs for oldtown, for supper with you and gwayne, midnight rides with tessarion and the absence of a crown he has no wish to care for.

"you are lurking," ormund mutters with disapproval at the shadowing figure blocking his game. "out with what you have to say now, boy."

boy.

it settles like acid. it's different to "my boy" that falls from your lips and carresses his heart tenderly. the endearment given with a gracious smile and warmth that could light a thousand fires.

"is there anything for me, uncle?" he asks, praying that his voice doesn't break with the desperation that tugs at his heart.

"not today," ormund says absent-mindedly, hardly sparing him a glance. the desperation tugs a little harder till he's unravelled and he holds in the disappointed sigh like he's about to combust. with a clear of his throat and a tight nod, he holds his head high as he walks away. the paper heart is fragile in his hands as he adds it to the growing pile, a small mountain of love that daeron hopes he'll find himself one day.

it's only when he places it so delicately in the basket he realises that there's another heart of pink parchment tucked in so tightly in fear it may have fallen in flight.

he sees the endearment and softens immediately. he knows its not for gwayne, there's something lighter about this note and he almost hallucinates, imagining your voice calling out to him. a sweet song that hums in the halls of his heart and welcomes him home.

my beautiful boy,

i hear they call you daeron the daring, and to that i say how dare they? the perfect title if you ask me, what you'll always be to me is daeron the dearest. how do you like that, little dove? my heart aches to think of you alone with your uncle. i know its foolishly early to hope that gwayne is with you, baring the weight of ormund hightower's devillish plans but it makes me feel better to think of you safe, to know that you are cared for over there.

i have your chambers made and cleaned every morning in case you are ready to return here, though i must admit i have missed you on one too many days that i've taken a nap in that rocking chair near your bed and goodness is it stiff on the spine. though no ache is greater than your absence and i feel it every day, my son.

i wait eagerly for you to respond, i hope the last letters received you well? i could not care less about whatever tutoring ormund has you hooked to, little dragon. i care what you have eaten, when you have slept and how you have been feeling. how are you, truly? please, spare no details, i want to know everything. i hope you striving in good health and despite the difficult circumstances that distance us, i hope you are happy, my boy.

i hope you are always happy and that you feel the warmth of my love in a hug and hold i wish i could give you now.

be brave and be strong, daeron the dearest. you are my boy and i am back home waiting for you with open arms and a stretched heart and more than anything, i love you.

i am proud of you. and i will remind you enough that you'll never have the slightest possibility of remembering it.

he feels the tears well long before he can even stop them and presses the letter to his heart, recording the last sentences into a perfect recitation of his memory. he misses you, even more so now and wants nothing more than gwayne to come to tumbleton to save the both of you.

its silent as he shuffles his feet to his chamber, this letter won't join the other two under his pillow, no this one he folds back into the paper heart and tucks it under his sleeve. its an invisble trophy but his greatest pride and weapon, and it will always stay close to him at all times. he'll wear your love into battle and make you proud.

he thinks, and thinks and decides that action needs to be taken. he hatches a plan and with a slow smile that graces his face, he knows just what it is he has to do. he just needs gwayne to come to tumbleton first.

my soul,

a spell must be cast upon me, a wicked curse even. i cannot eat, the food speaks of you. i cannot sleep, the moon spotlights your side of the bed, i cannot breathe. my lungs cannot be filled with air when they're full of thoughts of you. i cannot speak, not when my tongue only knows the call of your name.

my last letter was rash, unfair and it is deeply selfish, i know, truly. i am not angry, least not at you, no, never at you. you are out there fighting in our good name for the safety of our home and son and i sit here with my heart in my hands, ripped open waiting for you. your nights are not promised, and though i lie here in the comfort of our home it is nothing more than a house without you. i am defenseless, laid bare for you, weakened by the loneliness and a broken heart. you are out in the cold, with whatever scrounges of food and i am ridiculously sulking like a child. i am foolish, though i assume love makes us that case i'm trying to be brave, to hold strong. i tend to the council, our people, the gardens and our home and pray for your return. the flowers sing songs of praise and your bravery and i water them with love. they shall never die.

please do not die. please do not go somewhere where i cannot follow you further, you are the map to my soul, you have become a larger part of my life that i cannot see past you. i do not wish to see past you. please do not make me. it is a cruel endeavour for grief and love to be so initimately intertwined together; the cost of loving is losing but it is so dreadfully disproportionate and out of control. i lose all of myself when a part of you is lost. someday, i dread when the raven will arrive and the details of your death would be found stuck between its claws. the raven can keep it, i cannot bear of shoulder that pain, i would rather miss you for an eternity and live with your memory than your ghost. i cannot imagine you out there alone, hurting, blood spilling as easily as my tears fall.

no, i will not believe this. our love is as strong as the both of us are and we will persevere. i'd implore you to come back home, but i know if it were your choice you would've never left so i ask you, again, my love, please. please just come back to me. whether its minutes, moons or lifetimes, i'll be waiting gwayne. i won't stop waiting because i won't stop loving you.

wars could not even separate us truly, the distance is cruel but i think of a fate far crueller. though i hope even in decomposition and death, my soul would still find yours.

i miss you more than you could fathom,

forever yours.

when gwayne hightower finally returns to tumbleton, it's as if he had been knocking on death's door for so long, it would have been more merciful to have just been taken than turned away.

he stands in front of his cousin and nephew, rugged, torn and bleeding. the mud stretched across his face in battle attire, his clothes reeking of sweat, shit, the riverlands and cries of the dead. despite being almost unrecognisable, he still manages to look pretty whilst the exhaustion seeps from his skin like an open wound.

ormund's nostrils clench on instinct, his palm raised to warn his cousin to not draw nearer.

"my wife?" is the first thing gwayne asks ormund, shattering the silence between them. "is she well?" the rasp in his voice stretches in longing as he thinks of you across the lands that seperate you. "how is she? any word from her?"

"plenty," ormund rolls his eyes and motions to the basket in from of him, "if that isn't already obvious."

a smile laces on his features and his heart sings at the pile of parchment, each individually folded into a paper heart, coloured in hues of pink and reds, a bleeding oldtown sunset and your writing looped so prettily.

the surge of love is overpowering and takes control over him completely. he ignores ormund's stutters of protest and takes a step closer to the desk, fingers carressing the edges of the hearts so fondly and he almost breaks. he's weakened, melting at all the love you have poured over him that he cannot wait to read each one and treasure them for an eternity.

a laugh bubbles in his throat, its messy and hoarse and all for you. he's come damn near close to hell these last months and now to be at the gates of heaven with even just a sliver of your love, the dynamic has him swaying on his feet. he just stares at each note, there's easily tens of them and part of him doesn't even want to open them, to ruin the pretty intricate craftsmanship by your hands. to know you spent your time doing this for him whilst he's been away, trying desperately to make it back home to you.

"your dornish friend?" ormund interrupts him, "what news of ser criston?"

gwayne pauses thinking of his greatest friend, sincerity weighs over his heart like a shadow, "he is marching towards a certain death, for every one of us there are a hundred of them."

"and you what?" ormund questions, the furrow in his brow etched deeper by the second, "left your honour there with him?"

"do not speak to me of honour, ormund," he grits out, "i am exhausted, i haven't had the pleasure of a feather bed in lord knows how long yet you hide in these walls and play costume party with our nephew. do you even have a plan?" he bites back in a hiss, "honour," his scoff is outrageous, "you have not lived a day with it compared to my lifetime."

"yet it is clear you have not lived with clean water and perfumed oils, daeron escort him to the chambers and see to it he takes a bath," ormund stands, its a weak insult and the only one he can manage against his cousin but the three of them know it to be true. the hightowers sans gwayne have been sheltered, polished and privileged enough to have been engaging in a war from a thin walled room, whilst their own has been fighting for his life near enough every night.

its a good thing gwayne hightower is back, ormund thinks. he will be useful at his side, he knows what allies rhaenyra is surrounding herself with and who may help turn the tide. but today he wont engage in the pleasure of complimenting his cousin, not when gwayne has stung him in front of their nephew and guards, undermined him infront of those he leads.

he watches as gwayne and daeron disappear through the hallways and out of his sight before he relaxes. today, gwayne can rest and refuel but tomorrow, tomorrow will be a new day where the house of hightower will be one step closer to victory.

tomorrow does not come the way ormund expects.

he stares at the empty chair with his fist already clenched. his lips are blood-red, bitten with the heat of his anger and the metallic smell is so protruding he can inhale it.

"where is he?" he grits out, the bark already having the room flinch. "please tell me he has fallen asleep in the tub," and he closes his eyes, trying to gather his patience.

daeron shifts uncomfortably. the thick of his collar scratching at his neck and he's suddenly aware of all the strands of hair weighing his head down. he tries to feign uninterest, to not draw attention to himself but ormund hightower's eagle eyes find him and pin him there, frozen to the chair.

"daeron."

"yes, ser?"

"you were the last to speak with gwayne. where is he?"

daeron thinks it could be wise to lie in the moment, claim he doesn't know his whereabouts, that some information is beyond him. but he knows the walls will whisper. they will echo the distraught of gwayne's face when daeron had told him you had been ailed with an illness, a sudden fever that burned like a thousand suns for days with no relief.

he felt terribly lying through his teeth, to see his uncle gwayne pull at his hair in distraught and clutch the wall in agony.

"i must ride to her, i must leave now," his declaration came in broken breaths.

"you cannot go to her in this state," daeron had advised, panic rising in his throat, fearful of his other uncle who had sat metres away.

"how long has she been like this? when was her last letter sent?" and daeron stuttered for a moment, brain cells doing pure gymnastics to think of a believable timeline, shit, he really needs to get better at this.

"a week, a week and four days i think? maybe? but that is not the point, uncle, you must leave as soon as you are ready," he gripped his uncle in a bone crushing hug. he just got him back, but for a few days he's ready to let him go if it meant there would be someone at your side again.

"a week," he gasped, his jaw almost dislocating in shock, "alone in sickness," he pulled back and the pure desperation swirling in his eyes cracks through daeron's soul, "i will take leave at once and i will return daeron, i will let ormund know."

"no!" he shouted, clearing his throat and tried again softer, "no." his breath was steadier as he inhaled, "forget about ormund, i will pass the message, you need to ride to oldtown and when you reach there, please. please tell her i miss her, please send my love."

gwayne placed a hand on his nephew's cheek lovingly, patting it gently and then put a kiss to his hair, a mirror of how you like to do it to daeron tenderly, "she knows it," he promised the younger, "i will tell her but believe me son, she knows it and she loves you with every breath she takes."

daeron smiled, hope fizzing in his bloodstream and he's sure his little white lies will be easily forgiven in later moments. within the next hour, gwayne had set back on his horse, alone with no men to draw attention to his quest, and set in the direction of home. nothing but some food and water packed in haste in a bag with each and every love note you had written for him; that would keep him fuelled for forever really.

"daeron, you are hiding something, you know i do not like secrets," ormund narrows his gaze at him now, hoping the younger will squirm under the pressure.

daeron reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scrap piece of paper, gwayne's signature scribbled at the bottom and carefully places it in front of ormund. he motions for the servants to leave, clear the room just in case but ormund opens it tentatively, as if the very ink is infectious. he's grown tired, plain exhausted every time a letter is delivered to him that his time he closes it, folds it poorly without thought and throws it to the distant end of the table. he breathes in two breaths and exhales six, stretching the last till his lungs squeeze dry and then heaves out.

cousin,

i have set foot to oldtown to ensure my wife is nursed back to health. i will return as soon as i can.

gwayne.

"these fucking idiot cousins of mine, i will kill them both, the cunts!"

gwayne rides and rides, till he can no longer feel his legs and the hazy moon and nightfall blurrs his vision. he rests little, his mind racing at the thought of you, the uncertainty of your state and the panic of daeron as he relayed the news.

he travels easily 40 miles a day, for what feels like an eternity but if he could count its 10 days and he does not feel that he's fast enough.

he camps under the stars and in the biting cold, he imagines your arms, your warmth, your love as he draws near. he hears your voice as it hums him to whatever sleep may he be blessed with and for a second he hallucinates. you're lying in the field next to him, your eyes boring into his soul and they shine back at him, brighter than the sea of stars above him.

you reach out and he tries to also, to meet you halfway and just inches before his hand can find yours, you vanish. he stumbles, looking around rapidly in search of your ghost, your lingering frame but he's met with the empty stretch of loneliness that he's been left in exile for the last months. tries to call for your name, the lines in his forehead wrinkling with confusion and his own voice haunts him back in a devastating echo.

when his screams for you finally die down and are stolen by the chill of the midnights, he settles back on the grass, whispering your name softer now in broken hope to his lap and he closes his eyes. his fingers reach into his pocket and finds your love notes. they spread across the weeds and the flowers and he is so spoilt for choice when he blindly reaches for one. he reads it again and again, recites it from memory and whispers it like the holiest of prayers.

the moon listens and pities him as he lies down, back meeting the earth as his heartbeat vibrates into the ground. he doesn't fall asleep again, how can he when you are miles away alone and could even be dying. he finally knows how you feel, how every night you spend not knowing if it'll be your last before you are declared to be a widow. to know that if the raven came would it bear news of his death? would you be able to see his body before hes laid to rest? what would your last words have been? what if he had never been in receipt of your letters? would you have them buried with him?

the thoughts plague him like a disease and he can feel himself spiralling, the cord pulling tighter and tigher and as the circulation almost cuts him off, he sees you again standing at the centre, this time however, it is you who calls out for him. the soft tremor of "gwayne" that breaks him free and he gasps for air like its his first time breathing.

he will reach oldtown soon, he will find your solace even if he has to almost die getting there.

its a strange blend or navy to a faded sea of blue when the night decides its time to take leave. gwayne can hardly call it sunrise without the bleeding hues of orange and pinks that stain the sky but he knows its early in the morning, too early for you to have risen and started your day.

he almost lunges off his horse the way he steps down from it. one smooth swinging motion where he feels as though he could become airborne and take flight. his horse, bless her, is glad to take some rest and a steward escorts her to the stable for some much needed care.

gwayne would love the same treatment to, but he's more concerned about your health, and your whereabouts. he enters the house quiet, his footsteps tiptoeing as he ushers the guards on watch to his shared silence. he roams the hallways with an intensity in his step, a battle march to victory. he draws nearer to the dining hall, empty, save for a few servant girls starting to set the table. he pauses for a moment, his heart swelling at the way his seat at the table is still being prepared despite the girls not knowing that their lord would be in company this morning.

the smell of lemon wafts through the halls and he thinks of your words once more. your love is all around him, everywhere, consuming every ounce of him that he has to offer and like lightning he quickens his pace in anticipation to find you.

he all but runs to your shared chambers and is confused to find the door unlocked. the knob rattles under his shaking hands as he rips the door from its hinges, "m'lord," the guard tries but gwayne pays him no attention. he stalks through the room, then through the bathing chamber, he tries behind the dressing screen and turns the entire room upside down.

you should be here. sleeping. resting. recovering from whatever illness daeron said had troubled you.

he cries out in frustration, his lips curling in a snarl as he leaves the room in haste. he knows it to be unfair to be cruel before the sun has properly risen but his long legs stretch to the maestar's chambers next.

his fists pound on the door in unsettling knocks before an older man opens it weakly, "lord hightower," he gasps, "you are here?" the door is open a sliver but gwayne's large palm fights against it and opens it wider, his frame leaning into the maestar's personal space in warning.

"why was word not sent immediately of my wife's sickness?" he breathes, nostrils flaring in defence. the maestar blinks slowly, perhaps this is a dream he thinks. the haze of sleep still swallows his features that it takes him longer than a second.

"answer me," gwayne grits out, drawing closer, "answer your lord why his lady's ailments were hidden from him!"

"my lord," the man gets out, "what sickness?"

gwayne scoffs in pure outrage, the chuckle that leaves his lips is dark that the maestar doesn't recognise the knight in front of him, he is something else entirely.

"my wife?" gwayne rolls his eyes, sarcasm in his tone, "she is not your lady of house hightower, that you are sworn to protect and serve? that lady? my wife?" each word is stretched in annoyance as the maestar stands in confusion, "are no bells ringing, healer? surely the old age is not weakening your abilities?"

"ser gwayne, if you will. i haven't the slightest what you are saying. my lady is well, the last i saw her was yesterday morning in the gardens where her greatest enemy was the pollen," he speaks softly and gwayne straightens.

a strange concotion of doubt and embarrassment begin to rise in his stomach. it just doesn't make any sense. "maybe you should do well to eliminate the pollen next time, even the smallest of enemies are still enemies," he gets out before launching himself off the door and into the walkway once more. perhaps it is the lack of food, sleep, the nightmares and the stress clouding his judgement that he's finally going insane.

he tries to think. youre not in the main living hall, you're not in the lounges, the dining hall, he's scoured the hallways twice, the maestars haven't seen you, your chambers are empty and as he roams the gardens in pure exhaustion he groans out into the morning air. the poor guard standing watch by the pillars halts at the sight of their lord, tugging his copper strands by the root in despair. his eyes widen when he looks away in shame, fear of being caught before they rise again. and this time, he's inches away from said lord. so close he can feel the fuming breath of gwayne hightower landing at his neck.

"where is my wife?" he seethes, "where in the seven hells is she?"

the guard scrambles, the pinks of the roses creeping up his neck in intimidation as he squirms, "her ladyship likes to start her mornings at the beacon tower," he squeaks, "her personal guard escorts her and she gave strict instructions that no one is to follow," he breathes. "ser," he adds when gwayne finally takes a step back, nodding in acknowledgement.

"very well, boy," gwayne clears his throat, "back to your post, good work."

"yes, m'lord," he rushes back to the pillar inmediately, his sword clattering at his waist. "the house welcomes you home, lord hightower."

gwayne doesn't bother to hear the long-awaited welcome, his feet are already racing to the tower. he remembers when he and ormund were boys, eager to beat each other every morning as they would race to watch the sunrise. gwayne would always let ormund win, save for the days he knew you were to be there. and somehow, no matter how early he rose, no matter how quick he timed his steps, you always beat him to the first sight with a smile that could rival the very sun he loved to watch.

you became the sun, you became the greatest view he would spend every morning looking forwards to.

and now as his legs and heart race till he can no longer feels the air in his lungs because the sight of you, his morning sun and reason to live, has stolen it right from it. you sit peacefully in a chair, different coloured papers and inks lie at the table beside you but your hands have yet to wield sweet words into them and gwayne's heart. your focus is on the sky, the watercolour hues that blend so beautifully that youre enamoured with it. it reminds you of gwayne and you're so lost in the memory of him and the longing that you don't realise he's made it to the top and is standing a few feet from you.

your personal guard tries to make a move to alert you but gwayne shakes his head, his palm raised as an order to halt and the guard does. you blink at the sky, the feeling of numbness hitting you as you've been staring so intently at it for far too long. when you draw your tired eyes away from them, you stretch your neck, the kinks of a sleepless night holding you hostage and then you look up.

you really do look up.

your mouth opens and closes trying to find the words and you stand, so abruptly that the chair scrapes back in a deafening screech though its practically a murmur under the shattering of your heartbeat. your pulse roars in your ears and you shake your head in disbelief. he stands politely, his hands behind his back in restraint as he waits for you to call him.

"lord husband, oh-" you begin, you don't get to finish however because he's crossing the distance and he lifts you in his arms. your hands try to find his shoulders to steady yourself but he carries your weight effortlessly. he spins you and holds you close in sweet relief. and when you laugh, breathless and unguarded he swallows it with his lips till you melt back against him.

"i thought you were dead," he whispers into your kiss, he tries to lean in again and chase your lips but your hands on his chest stop him.

"you what?"

"i received news you were sick, a fever that could not be tamed and i rode here immediately, perhaps i am too late and it has passed-"

"gwayne, my light," you shake your head in confusion, "there is no fever? i have been well, i am unsure as to what news you received, who told you of this?" you hand comes to cup his jaw tenderly, the warmth of your palm radiating to his skin and he leans in into your touch, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your hand, just above where your pulse beats gently.

"you are well?" he searches your face and then your body for any injuries, any illness or fatigue or just anything for proof of the claims. but he finds nothing more than your softened heart and teasing eyes, glinting at him in amusement.

"my husband, i have been well. my greatest sickness has been homesickness," you muse, both of your hands come to cup his face now as his stay planted firmly at your waist, fingers kneading into the soft fabric of your gown as though you might disappear again. "i have been sick, missing you," and you press your lips against his. its not a kiss yet, you're patient, waiting, the heat of his breath landing on the corners of your mouth as he stands inches away.

he bites back the smile growing on his face and then decides to let it break free instead. he dips his head, leaning down closer to you and then also decides to wait. he plays into your teasing game, seeing who will break first as his lips press against yours. they dont move in tandem like they did before, they just settle like a feather weight. then he feels you whine against him and like a moth drawn to the flame, he swallows the smirk to bites down gently on your lower lip instead. its a soft nip that has your lips parting for him before he kisses you deeper. more intentionally, filled with all the words and letters he never got to send you but wishes he could. he feels the weight of yours in his pocket and pulls you closer to him, his hands wrapping around your back now as yours travel down from his face to the back of his neck, interlocking in a sacred promise to never be apart again.

"i cannot believe it," you laugh like light itself and galaxies must explode at the very sound, gwayne's own world is at a standstill, its orbit slowed as the air around you bends and creates a new axis where he will rotate outside that sweet melody for the rest of his existence. "you truly came,"

"you called?" he whispers between you, "daeron said you had sent word that you had never been so unwell and you had called for me," and as the words leave his mouth, recognition hits him like thunder, a loud smack to his breath and he closes his eyes.

you're laughing louder now, in pure delight that you knock your head against his chest and bury yourself in the nook of his neck. the giggles are ticklish but he doesn't squirm, he welcomes your happiness like the air he breathes, its part of his survival. "our smart, loving, scheming boy," you breathe and gwayne murmurs in agreement.

"i wonder where he gets that from," he shoots you a knowing look and you hit his chest playfully.

"i do not know what you are accusing me of, lord husband," and he rests his head on top of yours. your skull slotting beneath his chin like the missing jigsaw piece and he inhales you in.

"well, our son has returned the role of messenger vack to me now and i have one for you," he sways the two of you in his hold before letting go for a moment. he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls open the note he was instructed to give to you on his return.

aunt,

please do not be mad. i know you always taught me that lying is a cunning and deceitful trait, not to be toyed with. but i could not go myself to you the way i continously wish so i have sent the next best thing that would ensure your happineds. (please do not tell gwayne i said that, he is the best to exist) i wish i could be there with you, i miss you more and i am well here, thank you for asking. when this is all over, i cannot wait to sit by your side again. i know i am here as targaryen, as the next king, but i am your son, your hightower and by your gracious name, your daeron the dearest. i shall count down the hours till i can see you again.

your daeron.

"oh," you look up, hoping the fresh brew of tears will pour themselves back inside of you and not fall hopelessly. its futile, gwayne has his fingers hooked under your chin to bring your gaze back to him, to settle and soothe you and they fall so freely. he catches them with his thumb, brushing them off as strays and cradles your head against his chest. "i miss him," you muffle against his doublet. "i wish for him to come home."

"soon," he promises, "i shall bring him back safe to you, you have my word," he swears a new oath and you know with every cell in your body that gwayne will uphold it with his life.

"he hadn't sent word, i had been so worried, for the both of you" you wipe away the tears and sniffle. gwayne presses small fleeting kisses to the streams of the tears and the paths they have taken down your face, the salt settling on his tongue.

"most likely ormund," he scoffs, "i will send the damn ravens myself,"

"that means you have to leave once more."

"and i will return, my heart, always. your safety is paramount to me, worth more than anything anyone could put a price on and i would love for you to follow me to the ends of the world, but i cannot have you in harms way, have someone end my entire world," he nuzzles his head into yours, his forehead lightly butting against yours as the skin electrifies.

"perhaps i will send word that i am sick, and then you can return to me more often," and gwayne laughs, so loud and boyishly, the last ten years of his life lifted from his shoulders with such ease that you buzz with pride. its his laughter thats only reserved for you, that you could bottle and quench the most dying thirsts from endlessly.

"i cannot believe him," he shakes his head and you shrug.

"i for one am thankful for his sweet lies, who knows how long it would have been before i would have the privilege to see you again? to hold you like this? laugh like this?"

"i am too, but i tell you dearest, i have never stopped loving you like this, not for a single milisecond or more," he brushes his nose against yours, as his index finger trails down your jaw and the length of your neck. it taps against your pulse tenderly before resting on the edge of your collarbone. "i got your letters," he murmurs and you blush vividly, the reds of the roses could rival your embarrassment. you try and curl inwards, shy away from him but he protests immediately with a grin and holds you in place.

"did you?" you curse him for rendering you speechless at the sight of the way they practically pour out of his pockets as he holds them in his hands like theyre made from pure gold.

gwayne hightower is truly, the richest and proudest of men.

he nods, lips biting his grin as he puts the paper hearts to the side and undoes the top buttons of his doublet.

you gasp, your fingers already reaching out in awe. there, pinned across his shirt just above his heart sits your last letter.

" i wear it close to my heart. its yours, really. i wear it closest to you, and when i'm out there, in whatever uncertainty that has been bestowed upon us, i wear it like armour and it defends me with such unwavering strength that it brings me back home to you each time," he confesses, your fingers trace the edges of the paper and this time you let the tears fall easily, you don't fight it.

"gwayne," you whisper and he rolls his head back, ears perking up at his name, like a dog with a treat.

"say it again," he softly commands, his head dipping into your embrace, he buries his face in your neck till your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and you tug lightly.

"gwayne," you repeat, his name clouds every corner of your mind, in the designated drawers he calls home and every space after. you feel each syllable pulse in your bloodstream till hes all you can live and breathe.

"yes?" he mumbles into your skin, peppering your neck with kisses. he cuts you off however, his eyes lighting with mischief as the sun bears a bright fluorescent above the two of you, the oldtown air welcoming him home back to his heart, "wait," he starts and you do, you've waited this long, what is a minute more.

"i have yet to taste this nectarine tea you speak so fondly of, let us have a cup prepared," he tells you and you smile. he interlocks the two of your hands as you begin the walk back to the house, ready to break fast and spend the day in his hold.

"i will get a pot ready," you tell him, the breeze kissing your hair and he sends you a cheeky grin, flashing the pearly whites of his teeth.

"oh no wife, do not trouble yourself. one cup will be fine enough."

"but gwayne? honey, i do not intend on sharing," you frown, a slight pause in your steps, "i have missed you surely but do not be silly now." and the look of pure seriousness on your face has him weak in the knees.

"oh darling," he exhales dramatically, he takes your joined hands and stretches them out, walking backwards a few paces to face you directly. he then stops, tugging on the interlocked with a gentle grip till you almost trip and fall into him, "i will taste it from your lips," and with that sentiment, he kisses you. this time its not slow and filled with the longing of the distance, its quick and feverish, and he's all over you, as your laughter comes in the ragged breaths in between.

"you are a nuisance, teasing me with my own words, how cruel," and the sarcasm wraps around him fondly.

"do not worry my love, what is it you also said? dinner tastes better with me? and in which way did you mean? would you like to clarify? please-" and he raises his eyebrows in a way that takes you back to when you were both ten and two, and he had stolen your heart for the very first time. you shove him in defiance and try to storm away. your stomps only make it short of a few inches before he's plucked you from the ground and in his arms once more as he carries you to the hall, your protests overcome with bright laughter that rings gloriously in his ears.

gwayne hightower may be in oldtown for only a few days, but with you by his side and your love etched on his heart, he is home forever.

alt i think gwayne would get your love notes tattooed on his skin, bonus points for being all the places you love to kiss. like just above his heart, under his ear, between his shoulder blades, the inside of his wrist. etc. etc. would be so perf and on brand for this lover guy. anyways hope you enjoy!! wish i did more with this but i think i kinda nerfed and evil eyed myself by posting a snippet bc after that i didnt touch ts for dayssss, it just collected dust. anyhoo, love you! as always, thank you! sending my love!

[imnotcryingyouare1]

This is so cute!!!! Also love the vamps

[pinkdoeweirdo]

akotsk men x oblivious!reader

featuring: baelor, maekar, valarr, daeron, aerion, dunk

in an arranged marriage the reader doesn’t expect much, being painfully oblivious to the strong feelings their husband to be has for them

cw: yearning arranged marriage suggestive content not proof read

a/n: based on this lovely request<3

baelor targaryen

even though he decided long ago you are the woman he wants, you never see any certain emotions behind his mismatched eyes, mistaking his propriety and restraint for lack of personal investment. baelor doesn’t want to frighten or pressure you, knowing how earthshattering it must be to be married to a man you barely know, so he gives you space, lets you breathe and explore everything at your own pace, which for you looks like a mere formality. the dutiful prince fulfilling his duty without any personal interest. baelor personally makes sure you are comfortable, protected, and feel safe in your new home, though you are sure that is a standard royal provision. even during his free time, his attention keeps returning to you, as he finds any reason to see you, speak with you, or ask your opinion on something 'important', never daring to cross a line or take advantage of your vulnerable position, not even by letting himself say a flirty comment, sure that not pushing his affection onto you is for the best. baelor invites you for walks, trying to get to know you better in a way that won't feel crowding, though barely showing any emotions. he even asks whether you are truly content with this arrangement or if it's something you plan to endure, and he asks it so seriously that you start thinking he himself wants out of it. this makes you want to reassure him that you will be a loyal and undemanding wife and understand that even though it will be a loveless marriage, you won't cause him trouble. baelor is so taken aback by your words and the casualness of your tone that he stops walking altogether, staring at you with stunned "i have no concerns regarding... that, my lady"

maekar targaryen

he is also oblivious to the fact that he has feelings for you, yet the truth of it bleeds into every moment of his day, even when he brushes it off internally as mere 'concern'. maekar becomes more stern with servants, inspects his future wife's chambers himself, personally assigns guards, barking orders about how everything is not 'suitable' for a noble lady, ensuring every part of your new life, even the flowers that maids have to bring in every morning, is of the best quality. you view him as controlling and impossible to please, not realising he is just desperate to please you. maekar wants to create a comfortable life for you, expressing his feelings through acts of service, yet acts so sternly while doing all that, no one suspects a thing. he questions you relentlessly. where do you want to live, what do you need, and which members of your household do you want to keep, though his tone makes it feel like an interrogation rather than care. maekar fights his demons daily, not allowing himself such weakness as getting smitten by his bride, even though he knows he was the one to insist on this particular match, lying to himself, claiming it's just politics. he becomes visibly irritated whenever you speak, as though you two will lead largely separate lives, because you are convinced the prince practically can't stand you. with time, maekar learns how to express his feelings properly because the possibility of you looking at him with disgust, distrust, or worse, detachment is much scarier. it reaches a point where he is forced to confess how completely infatuated he is by you right to your face to finally break free from the gnawing doubts and torturing uncertainty of his own mind. he says it so spontaneously, you don't believe your ears at first, carefully studying his hesitant expression and violet eyes full of longing

valarr targaryen

will try to properly but softly prove to you his feelings. naturally, you brush it off as mere politeness. valarr gives you every conventional sign of romance, but because he is so charming, courteous, and princely, you assume none of it is unique to you. at first, he doesn't even realize you are convinced that his affection is a generic set of good manners and natural charm. you tell everyone that valarr "could make any woman happy" because you truly believe that all he does is fulfill his duty by playing the role of a good husband to be, completely unaware of the pure love that fills his chest with every glance at your smile. your coldness at his romantic gestures he interprets as rejections, trying to bear the thought of you not feeling the same towards him, suspecting that maybe someone more lucky already owns your heart, determined to ease your pain as your husband as much as he can, knowing how tiresome and torturing it may feel to love one sidedly. valarr doesn't want to burden you with his feelings, creating polite distance when he doesn't see the same look in your eyes, and he is ready to carry all this in his heart in secret forever, but when you say that "he might eventually love somebody else" and that you understand them, all the strength leave shis body and he kneels in front of you, hands hovering near yours, not even daring to touch saying that what you imply is completely impossible since his heart belongs to you solely for longer than it is proper. watching your surprised expression, valarr apologises immediately for forcing you into such an uncomfortable situation of dealing with the matters of his heart that you clearly have no interest in and how selfish of him it was to corner you with all that, but you shush him with a soft, trembling smile and a quiet "i never knew, my prince"

daeron targaryen

he believes it’s for the best for you to think there is nothing more than politics involved. daeron makes jokes about your marriage, discussing with you the absurdity of it, the dread of duty, taking the role of a companion in misfortune rather than a suitor. every sarcastic comment from him, for you, is a confirmation that neither of you takes this marriage seriously. he drops off words of postponing the wedding, inventing different reasons to keep it as it is now, innocent, and you think that’s because he thinks your marriage will rob him off the frivolous lifestyle he has now, but in reality he just tries to avoid the inevitable wedding night, knowing that after that hiding his feelings would become absolutely unbearable. you don’t even suspect a think, sure that there is nothing more than casual friendship between you too and daeron does big work for you to keep believing that, even inventing some lady he is supposedly in love with, just to distract you from noticing the way his gaze seem to be always glued to you. he is a mess, a wreck, an awful, undutiful, lazy husband and he knows that, also knowing that you deserve someone hundred times better than him. daeron hates and loves the fact that you don’t know how much you mean to him, doing scandalous things in order to cancel the betrothal all together, not letting himself “taint” you with his reputation and lifestyle but the greed… the yearning and the fear of losing you from his sight all forever forces him to constantly be close, accompanying you to walks in the gardens, sitting near you at feasts and gossiping with you in the halls secretly hoping for you to understand everything from his eyes. his hungry desperate eyes

aerion targaryen

there is just no way you don’t know. aerion makes sure his every gesture, every words, every glance radiates ownership, possessiveness and ungodly desire for you. constantly tells you how precious, beautiful and uniquely his you are, not letting even a single thought of doubt to trouble your pretty head. aerion will tell you how good you make him feel and how lucky you are he chose you, referring to you as his dragon mate, his jewel, and in rare tender moments of weakness - his love. since day one of the courtship you are suffocated by the amount of theatrical affection he pours onto you, barely letting you leave his sight. even though it is still a moon before your wedding, aerion’s touch is far from innocent, cornering you in the gardens, in the dark halls and hidden passages to cover your sweet neck with hickeys and murmur all the things he plans to do with you once you are officially his before the gods. he asks you to let him into your chambers every night, savouring the secrecy and pure lust of the moment, making out with you until your lips bruise. aerion is openly affectionate with you and even gentle, though every sweet word, tender kiss and expensive gift is laced with a perverse, monstrous obsession that borders on madness. aerion is always by your side, practically convinced you are already married, only teasing you and himself with the knowledge he will take you in properly soon enough. since the first moment you saw him, you knew, solely from his terrible gaze on your skin - you are his till the end of times

ser duncan the tall

he practically loses the ability to talk alltogether, when you are near, turning into a big red mute mess, which leads you to conclude the match makes him very uncomfortable. dunk won’t touch you even if it costs him his life, because he knows he just wouldn’t be able to stop if he once lets himself loose, avoiding any physical contact with you very thoroughly, while dreaming about the very same thing night and day. you think he isn’t attracted to you, especially convinced in that because of the way he speaks to you, in harsh and short sentences, barely looking you in the eyes. dunk is sure you see how absolutely smitten he is and what a pathetic mess he becomes because if your gaze and gets even more embarrassed when you carefully probe whether he is disgusted by you, thinking you mock him cruelly with such questions, because to him it’s so painfully obvious he is in love with you. when you see him laughing and relaxed with other people, it only strengthens your belief that he prefers any other company except yours, treating the practical, sweet and deeply tender things he silently does for you as a part of how kind he is towards everyone. when you assure him you won’t demand of him more than duty requires and that you can be only friends, he becomes so miserable, he can’t even force out a word which you interpret as relief. egg is driven crazy by how stupid you both are, ready to run to you and tell what ser duncan truly feels if only he didn’t swear to dunk he would keep his secret silent. so all he can do is drop hints that go completely unnoticed. eventually, you offer dunk a way out of this arrangement “without blame” and he is so horrified by the possibility of losing you, fear makes him very articulate for a few minutes in which he pours all the love and affection he has been feeling for you all this time. dunk rambles so much you have to shut him up with a kiss

a/n: i realised that to write it out properly, i need many more words, so maybe i will expand some characters and do a separate work for some if you would like that, but idk!! please lmk if you have any thoughts <33

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[cosmictheo]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 | gwayne hightower

| gif credits: @/barbieaemond |

— summary: when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros. — pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen princess!reader — word count: ~5.6k (wow) — content: political/arranged marriage, slow burn, probably ooc!gwayne, lots of yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love (mostly gwayne), touch starvation, gwayne wants the reader so bad he is down pathetic for her, hurt/comfort, jealousy, mild verbal harassment/flirting from a third party, gwayne being the best husband ever, tooth-totting fluff. not proofread!

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Life in King's Landing after the wedding was a silent, armed dance. Officially, peace reigned—of course, that had been the entire purpose of it all from the very start, despite your—and especially Daemon’s—persistent objections, your mother had been adamant.

However, unofficially, the black and green servants still avoided one another in the castle's endless hallways, the black guards would grit their teeth whenever they crossed paths with the green ones, whilst you and Gwayne Hightower shared chambers that felt more like a wintry battleground than a bridal retreat.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

He closes his eyes and presses his face up against the palm of your hand, seeking desperately to feel the warmth of your affection and melt into the gentle embrace of your love.