what fandom do you write for? jujutsu kaisen (gojo, megumi, nanami), love & deepspace (sylus, zayne, caleb), a knight of the seven kingdoms (ser duncan, valarr, aerion), house of the dragon (ser gwayne and ormund)
you’re posting! but why don’t you answer my asks/messages? despite seemingly online all the time, i’m actually only online barely 30 minutes or so everyday to queue asks and posts to avoid clogging the dash, so i most definitely will miss a lot of notifs and asks. i’ll answer you soon!
chu, there’s this discourse about xxx ! sorry, but i’m a private person. don’t ask about or drag me into any sort of discourse, it’s plain dumb. i have a life outside this hobby app
i’ve sent you a request! why won't you write it!? has your suggestion fit my rules? regardless, i have all the rights not to pick up a request, so please don’t take it to heart and send another one befitting the criteria... you might have a better chance
the reader in your fics is NOT me! she doesn’t look or act like me! oh, is that so? that’s a shame. remember, if you don’t like it, you can always block or see yourself out without spewing hate like a cultured person
please write me a story about [character] and a reader who is like this, wears this and uses this as her weapon! sorry, but no. i write most comfortably with creative liberty
chu, can i write a story based on your headcanons? no, you can’t. everything under headcanon tag is going to be a part of my fics and overall mine, so that constitutes as plagiarism
can i translate your works and post it in wattpad/quotev/tiktok/etc? no, you can’t. i won’t ever permit it, and if you still do then you’re straight desperate for attention and a plagiarist, and should i catch you then i’ll call you out as well
what’s the schedule of fic posting? for longtime readers, you might remember that i used to post weekly, but since i have a lot going on in my personal and professional life, this blog will now have slower updates. i usually post around 00.00 ~ 03.00 CST, so keep an eye out!
why am i blocked? most commonly? spam-liking and posting porn links. for others, please refer to the rules, thank you
i believe i sent you an ask about [topic] and you’re avoiding to answer it on purpose. it must be the vibe your asks brought into my askbox, questions that make me uncomfortable, or i simply just don’t want answer it. therefore, please mind your words in the future
why do you stop writing for jjk and lads? will you write for it again? at this point, i believe everyone knows the toxic state of those two fandoms. maybe one day i will come back. i kindly ask for you to refrain from asking me when though, because it feels like a pressure and that is the last thing i want here
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...”
He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.
His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.
Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
oh my god chu, you got a boyfriend?? congratulations!!!! what’s he likeee 👀
awhawhaha thank you nonnie 🤍 it’s the nepo baby/mahjong guy if you followed my rambling post from may 🥹 so yeah basically we hit it off, he seems kind and genuine, his mom and sisters are fun and he hasn’t exuded any red flags for me yet— he also said this is his first relationship and tbh i think i’m more inclined to pure guys like that :’)
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...”
He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.”
He nodded in sombreness as his eyes kept drifting from your form, forcing the words out.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort... but in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I just went through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, feeling incredibly silly and weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“I have told you so many times already, how is it that you always forget it?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.
Instead, catching the warm candlelight, were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to make him drop to his knees right at the edge of your mattress.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
I LOVE YOUR ACCOUNTTTT omg im sorry for spamming the reposts i am OBSESSED with your writing you’re a genius!! No need to respond to this just wanted to send my love
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...”
He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.”
He nodded in sombreness as his eyes kept drifting from your form, forcing the words out.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort... but in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I just went through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, feeling incredibly silly and weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“I have told you so many times already, how is it that you always forget it?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.
Instead, catching the warm candlelight, were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to make him drop to his knees right at the edge of your mattress.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...”
He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown—also, your estranged half-brother, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. The title slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to how he used to call you years ago. Even when you were his half-sister by blood, Daeron much preferred to think of you as the wife of his uncle.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.
His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.
Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
Zamn babes I'm not the one to have my constant attention for the longer fics but i just read your "once upon a broken heart" and I'm so delighted and well fed cause that was way too greatly written and the emotions fell right into the places, the bittersweetness of it was what held my attention and i continued reading it without wanting to skip any word😭😭 aahhh that was really really amazing praises and bows to you 🙂↕️🙂↕️
Ps- now imma just read your other recent works cause your writing style isn't just very delicious but also such a good story plot and whole heartedly well executed 🩷✨
thank you for reading nonnie 🥹 i watched james norton as sean rafferty and that’s basically what his personality is based from :’)
in the crucible of war, tying the two strongest houses in a holy matrimony is a scheme easier than any other. you’ve known ormund hightower your entire life, but he is also the man who has broken your heart... in a play of power and game of love, how will you protect your heart from him?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, marriage of convenience, unrequited love, slight enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, age gap, mentions of pregnancy, kidnapping, fluff, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/alysmond. wc. 5.5k ! so ormund hightower makes an appearance, james norton is hot and i just watched house of guinness... so here's some brainrot concocted in my brain <3
They said... the best fairytale is the one that begins with a wedding.
The lady of the roses and the lord of the high tower. There was no union more perfect in the eyes of the Reach as the drums of war began to echo across Westeros. You were the vision of genteel grace and elegance while Ormund stood beside you as a stalwart protector.
Men mourned the loss, for the fairest maiden of Highgarden was no longer theirs to dream of, while women looked on with envy, wishing for a husband with the strength and stature of the Lord of Oldtown.
If only they have known…
Had it been ten years past, you would have been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And if fairytales begin with a wedding, then yours was doomed from the start— because long before the day you wed him, your story had taken root in heartbreak of your own making.
You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.
“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.
You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.
And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—
“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”
The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.
However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.
“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”
It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.
“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”
Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.
But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.
“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”
Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.
However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.
. . .
“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”
That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.
“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”
Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”
“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”
Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”
You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”
How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?
“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”
For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”
“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”
“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”
Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.
“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”
He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:
“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”
This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.
But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.
He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.
Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.
He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.
And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—
—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.
One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.
And now—
“Haah...”
The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.
Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.
This was him entirely at your mercy—
You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.
“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”
Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”
“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”
Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.
With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.
The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.
. . .
When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.
Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.
His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.
How is a man well-known for his faith luring you into thinking of sins?
You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.
Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”
“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.
You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.
However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.
You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.
His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.
“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.
“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”
You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.
But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.
“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.
“Must you hate me that much?”
You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.
“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.
Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.
Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?
It was so fucking unfair.
“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”
Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”
To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.
He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”
Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.
You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.
That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest
You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.
Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.
You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.
Until the turn of the moon, at least.
“My lady... this is strange.”
The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.
“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.
Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”
“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”
“I am pulling, my lady, but...”
Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”
You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.
“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:
“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”
. . .
“We will march for Tumbleton.”
You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.
“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”
His words passed by at first.
“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”
“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”
“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”
It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.
But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.
Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.
“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”
The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.
There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.
“May the Seven guide your path.”
The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.
However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.
“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”
Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.
With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.
And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.
Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.
It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—
“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.
The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.
From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.
“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”
“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.
Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.
Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”
“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”
You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.
For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.
You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.
“But my lady—!”
“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”
He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”
A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.
Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.
There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.
You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.
The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.
He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the pure and innocent Lady Tyrell.
His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you were too naive, and therefore, unsuitable to be with him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.
The Gods are cruel and just, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.
However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.
You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.
That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.
But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”
Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs, as much as he hated to admit it.
. . .
“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”
Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.
However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.
“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”
“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”
Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—
“My lord!”
Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.
She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.
“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”
A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply. “Calm yourself, girl, and speak clearly.”
And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.
“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”
They had taken you to Tumbleton.
The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.
Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.
And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.
“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”
“Then what of us? What of the woman?”
“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”
Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.
“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.
But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.
Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.
I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.
You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.
As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.
He is devilishly handsome and cunning. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.
The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.
Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.
You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.
Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?
But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:
“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.
“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”
The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.
The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.
He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.
“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”
His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.
“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.
Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.
Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.
He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.
When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.
His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.
“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.
“I... I was—”
“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”
You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.
“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”
“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.
His vivid blue eyes, so warm and tender, crinkled faintly as he brushed a fallen tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“So even if roses bear thorns, I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on… so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”
That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.
Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—
For the lord had reclaimed his lady, and their story might lead to a fairytale after all.
- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
tagging @luvweezer @j3ons4 @heavenlypuggs @salinaiacono6 @thelastemzy @meowingtotheoldies @violetrainbow412-blog @reading-it-all as per request <3
Ok but like Ormund is giving Lord Frollo vibes and all I can think about is Ormund in front of a fireplace with a Targ sash wrapped around his cock, yanking that shit as he angry cries and begs the gods to make her his ..just saying
I genuinely need summer to end already. My parents are stressed about the World Cup and my sister is inconsolable about Valko, and I'm like this 👁️👄👁️ I'm just a chronically online girl, I'm not the best person to teach others how to manage their emotions, but here we are.
HAHAH aren’t we all :’) it’s so hot and humid where i am i’m melted like an ice cream everyday <3
