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𝙍𝙀𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙆𝙎: lunchbox | livin' on a prayer | off the race | instinctive | do i wanna know? | one summer night [most recent]
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Ormund Hightower x Targ!reader, Daeron x sister!reader (maternal relationship)
summary: And what is the eldest sibling, but a shield for the younger?
words: 2k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest (Ormund is technically her cousin and I guess that does not count in GOT terms, but I am warning it anyways), allusions to sex, toxic relationship themes, co-dependent dynamics, manipulation, slightly OOC Ormund?, religious themes, talks of blood “impurity”, reader rides Silverwing, reader is Aegon’s twin, but no physical description is used, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
Most forget that you came out first. It was something that nobody truly talked as it would send a few of Otto's plan out of motion. It would make Aegon seem like he deserved it less. So, it was something that was pushed under the rug and never truly talked about.
But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.
To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.
You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.
You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.
He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.
Yours and Ormund's son.
Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.
A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.
You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.
"Ormund. "
He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.
"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.
He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.
The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"
You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.
Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.
The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.
Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.
His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.
"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.
He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.
"We must alter our scheme," he told you.
You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."
For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.
He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.
"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.
"You will never have to find," you assured him.
Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.
"I want what is best for him," you whispered.
"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.
Not yet.
You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.
"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.
It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.
"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.
"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"
"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.
"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.
You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.
You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.
Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.
You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"
You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.
"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.
"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.
"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.
"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.
"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.
"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."
You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”
"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.
It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.
Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"
You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.
Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.
"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.
He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.
"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.
You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."
He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.
You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."
"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.
He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.
"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.
"I know."
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."
many otto and alicent parallels with ormund and daeron this episode. so incredibly tragic that the son who is most like their mother is the one who she hoped would be raised away from the toxicity of the red keep and instead winds up a pawn on the board for ormund to move about, pawn ormund seeks to make king in the same way otto sought to make alicent queen. the poison always drips through. no matter if you try to stop it. it always, always drips through
hii lovely!! <33 hmm touch tank is a duncan the tall x seamstress!reader fic! its going to take place in dorne via after akotsks1, where dunk meets reader who makes clothes/dresses for a living! its a simple strangers to lovers kind of vibe, where they're both opposites of one of another lol dunk is the gentle giant who believes the good in the everyone, while reader believes everyone has a selfish motive. tbh.. im writing as i go so more progress is still to be made! <3 (wip game)
here is what i recently wrote!
“I reckon…” Dunk hesitated, scratching absentmindedly at the nape of his neck. “You regret that it wasn’t your choice.”
The words settled between the two of you, much like the stillness of the riverbanks. Like the calm scenery that lay upon the Dornish balcony. Where the wind hits just right, and faintly grazes your forearms with comfort.
It was simple and honest.
You stared ahead, watching the first stars emerge from the darkening sky. Perhaps he was right.
You had spent years convincing yourself that it was the opportunity you mourned. The dresses you never stitched. The castles you never saw. The lords and ladies who would never wear your work.
Yet, when you looked back, what lingered was not the offer itself.
It was your mother’s answer.
“I think…” You swallowed, your fingers curling around the cool rim of the untouched glass. “I wanted her to tell me to go.”
Dunk looked at you then.
Not with pity.
But with quiet understanding of a man who spent most of his life following roads someone else had provided for him.
“I reckon she was afraid.”
You smiled faintly.
“I know.”
“Doesn’t make it hurt less.”
Your gaze shifts to his, faint with hope and sincerity. The wind swept between the two of you, carrying with it the scent of warm stone and salt. For a while, neither of you spoke, content with the silence. There was nothing left to be said. For the first time in years, someone had understood your grief, not as regret for a life of luxury but for a life you had never been allowed to choose.
Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.
a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.
The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists they’re running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. He’d kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. —D
That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. You’d used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.
Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemon’s voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his father’s talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.
The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemon’s brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to “reconnect,” Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.
You’d tried to get out of it. You’d tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. He’d listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said you’re adorable when you’re worked up, and then he’d informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and he’d already told Viserys you’d be there.
“I’m not discussing this with you,” you’d said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. “I’m telling you. I’m filing for divorce.”
“You’re not.”
“Daemon...”
“You’re not filing for anything.” He’d crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace he’d never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been dealing with my brother’s wife and her...” He’d paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t quite cross the line into outright insult. “Her ambitions. Let me handle it.”
“You can’t handle this, Daemon. You can’t throw money at me until I forget I’m unhappy.”
Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. “Unhappy,” he’d repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “I’ve given you everything.”
“You’ve given me things. There’s a difference.”
He hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didn’t want to explore: he’d withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.”
And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and you’d found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.
The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.
“Storm’s getting closer.”
You didn’t turn. You’d felt him before you’d heard him, that particular awareness you’d never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.
“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”
“Of course he did.”
Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.
You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”
“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”
“Daemon.”
“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”
You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.
Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.
It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...
“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.
“I’m thinking about divorce.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”
“Daemon.”
“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”
“Daemon, I want a divorce.”
This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”
“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”
He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.
Dinner was excruciating.
The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.
Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.
“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”
“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.
“Did he.”
“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”
Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.
“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”
“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”
You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”
Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.
It made you nervous.
“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”
Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”
“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”
Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”
“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.
But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”
“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”
“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”
“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”
“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”
“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”
Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.
“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”
“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”
Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”
“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”
“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”
“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”
The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.
You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.
“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”
Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.
“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”
Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”
“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.
The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.
You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.
But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.
The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.
And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.
You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.
After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.
You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.
They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.
But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.
Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.
“They’re asleep,” you said.
“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”
You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.
“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”
“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”
“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”
“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”
“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”
He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”
“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”
“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”
“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”
“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”
“You arrogant...”
“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”
His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.
“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”
“They’re asleep.”
“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”
You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.
The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.
In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.
When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.
“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”
You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.
You’d been right.
“That was a long time ago,” you said.
“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”
“It feels like a lifetime.”
He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.
“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”
“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”
“I know.”
“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”
“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”
“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”
“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”
“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”
Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.
“You’re right,” he said finally.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.
“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”
“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”
You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.
“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”
“You...how?”
“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”
“Daemon…”
“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”
“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”
“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”
Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.
“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”
“I know.”
“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”
His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.
Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.
“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”
You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.
“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”
“I know. You should be.”
“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”
“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”
The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.
Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.
When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”
You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.
“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”
“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”
“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”
As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.
“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”
“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”
“You’re wrong.”
“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”
“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”
“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me anyway.”
You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.
The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.
“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.
“Daemon.”
“Hmm?”
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”
“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“For now.”
His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.
You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.
But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.
You went.
His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.
“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.
“Daemon...”
“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”
Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.
“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.
“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”
“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”
“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.
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Imagine being Rhaenyra's daughter married to Ormund Hightower. The marriage and Ormund's expectations are difficult to adjust to. You miss Dragonstone, your mother, and your brothers. But you unexpectedly begin to grow close your uncle Daeron. He is your one comfort in Oldtown. And imagine if you have a male dragon that begins to nest and mate with Daeron's Tessarion 👀👀 Ormund does not like any of it. He sees how his wife lights up around Daeron. Too much Targaryen closeness, he thinks. He begins assigning more duties to Daeron to keep him busy. He probably tries to command you to keep your dragon from Tessarion as if that's something you have control over 😭 meanwhile you and Daeron likely encourage the closeness of your dragons, hoping for eggs one day. Ormund's jealousy makes him rougher in bed, telling you he will civilize every drop of your savage blood 😭
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Could you write a story for Daemon Targaryen were he was in love with a woman before Rhaenyra, Laena. When he was younger the two planned to marry but one day daemon backs out. So now years later when daemon is in harrenhal in his visions instead of rhaenyra he see's his old love and is like feeling guilty and stuff.
a very belated request, but i hope you enjoyed it! (✖╭╮✖)
i will say i had a similar idea and immediately thought we were telepathic LOLL anyway im trying to catch up on other requests, and hopefully be able to write more for hotd s3! i just finished ep1 and yup, it was the catalyst for finishing this fic.
pairing: daemon targaryen x fem!firstlove!reader
synopsis: Daemon appeared before you as though a forgotten memory. For years, you had convinced yourself that you would never cross paths again. (requested)
notes... this is very old request that i decided to post for celebration for hotd s3! never actually wrote for daemon so enjoy this inaccurate version of him <3
tags... haunt the narrative trope!, established death (reader), reader is related to house tully and oscar tully!, reader has no phy description, daemon has hallucinations, right person wrong time trope, angst, reverse emotional comfort, ooc (just in case!)
There was a chill in the air.
Daemon felt it as Laena’s tomb was cast into the sea. The weight of her loss settled deep in his bones, lingering like the Valyrian chants her uncle sang. Grief was a constant now, never leaving him, always changing form.
He felt it again when he kissed Rhaenyra on the beach. Where Driftmark’s last light had faded and the waves grew quieter. The night was cold, and the wind was sharp against his skin, but her soft touch stayed with him. For a moment, he wanted to believe they could return to what they once were.
But the past was unreachable, just like the first time he met you.
Harrenhal was thick with tragedy. A graveyard of ambition, its walls had seen the rise and fall of men old and great. Daemon had not ventured this far from King’s Landing in years, yet here he was, in a place that reeked of loss and decay. The black castle felt lifeless, a hollowed-out ruin with its pride long since crumbled. If there had been anyone left to challenge him, Daemon thought, he would have it quickly.
A shrill cry shattered the silence. The storm raged on, rain pouring down in relentless torrents as if the Gods themselves sought to drown out whatever history remained here. Caraxes announced his arrival with a deep, guttural growl, his claws scraping against the remnants of the once-mighty fortress.
His rider pressed on, weaving through the cold, empty corridors, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. Water pooled beneath his boots. The scent of damp dirt was thick in the air.
Daemon paused before a pair of heavy doors, where muffled voices stirred behind them.
This was the moment the Rogue Prince knew well, the stillness before the storm, the breath held before a strike. Once, he had fought for Viserys. Now, he fought for Rhaenyra. The cause had changed, but war was all the same.
With one swift motion, he kicked the doors. The hinges groaned under the force, the sound swallowed by the storm outside. He stepped forward, Valyrian steel raised, ready to carve through whatever poor souls dared to stand in his way.
The room was smaller than he expected, with its occupants unimpressive. A handful of men sat around a table, their faces weathered but indifferent. At the head sat an old, plump man, completely unaffected by Daemon’s presence.
“I’m claiming Harrenhal,” Daemon announced, the words left flat, devoid of triumph.
No one moved. Men stared with unreadable expressions. Even as Dark Sister remained poised, sharp, and waiting, none of them seemed to have a shred of fear. Finally, the old man, presumably Lord of Harrenhal, studied him, calm and composed. Lord Simon Strong. Harwin’s great-uncle. Loyal to Rhaenyra, oddly compliant, and utterly unafraid.
“So it appears,” Lord Strong murmured, devoid of the fear Daemon hoped for.
“Caraxes have been growing quickly.” Your teasing is effortless, yet carries weight that lingers in the warm air. Daemon lets it settle deep in his chest, a warmth both familiar and unspoken, as he continues to scratch beneath his dragon's scaled neck. His fingers move with practiced ease, but his gaze, as always, drifts to you.
There is no fear in your expression, the wary caution he’s come to expect from others. The lack of hesitation and trembling hands. Instead, he sees quiet admiration, your touch lingering on the beast's hide as if Caraxes were nothing more than a hound at your feet.
The sight of it, the contrast of delicate fingers against hardened scales, stirs something deep inside Daemon, something possessive, something inexplicably tender. You move closer, the tips of your fingers grazing his own. It’s fleeting, barely there, yet enough to pull a knowing grin to his lips.
“He’s almost large enough to saddle two,” he muses, edged with amusement, but the meaning behind his words is unmistakable. The invitation has always been there, spoken and unspoken alike – a promise that passes like the wind that flutters quickly between your hair and the fire that stirs in the hearth after a long night.
Still, the warnings echo in his mind. The dragon keepers' stern words, his grandfather’s displeased sighs, and his brother’s inevitable outrage.
Viserys’ voice is almost tangible now. You would do no such thing! Daemon can practically see the arched frown of his brother, the exasperation in his features. The very thought makes him laugh, a silent, mindless chuckle under his breath.
Yet you, as always, are persistent.
You tilt your head, studying him. It takes everything in him not to reach out and trace the loose hairs that frame your face. There’s something in your gaze, something deep, something knowing that makes him feel as though you see straight through him.
It’s unnerving.
It’s intoxicating.
It’s you.
The summer heat clings to both of you like wet skin. The lingering scent of pine and damp Earth settles into your lungs like a fresh, made bath. The Riverlands are fertile in their crops, land, and people. Their beauty lies deep in their nature; however, no flower or gemstone could ever compare to the way you stand amidst them, unbothered by the weight of your House or the expectations it carries.
“Are you asking, My Prince?” There’s a lilt in your voice, teasing and testing.
The young prince meets your gaze without hesitation. “No,” he corrects, stepping closer, letting the space between you dwindle into nothingness. His breath is warm against your skin, his presence all-consuming. “It is a command.”
You stifle a laugh, barely. “A command?”
His lips curl, devilishly. “Yes.” His voice drops lower, softer, as a whisper meant only for you. “You wouldn’t disobey an order from your Prince, would you?”
You should falter, but you never do. That is your curse, and that is his.
You shake your head, falsely demure. “No, I would never.” A pause. “Though… what the prince speaks is against the King's commands, is it not?” You’re leading him into a trap, and he knows it, and still, he cannot resist following you in.
He exhales sharply, vexed and utterly enamored by your banter. “He doesn’t have to know,” he grumbled, as though his grandfather’s words had never truly held weight against his desires.
Daemon lowers his head, resting it against your shoulder, as though conceding a silent defeat. Between you and Caraxes, he finds himself surrounded, trapped in a cage of his own making – one of fire and steel, of warmth and long.
“One word to the King, and I’ll have you killed for that,” he mutters against your skin, devoid of any true threat.
You inhale, letting his presence wrap around you, the scent of smoke and sun-warmed leather settling into your senses. “You forget yourself, my Prince.” Your fingers thread through his silver hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he shudders, barely perceptible. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried.”
His head snaps up, sharp and sudden, his keen eyes piercing into yours. “You don’t know that.”
A lie. A weak one. One you both know.
Daemon’s heartbeat is erratic, his hands uncertain as they hover just above yours. You don’t need magic to see the anticipation in his gaze, the unspoken ache that lingers between. He always waits for you to close the gap, always lingers on the edge of restraint, as if savoring the moment before the inevitable falls.
And yet, you turn away. Instead, your attention drifts to the intricacies of his dragon armor, fingers grazing over its fine details as though each piece tells a story only you can read.
“I am your betrothed,” you remind him, voice softer now, wistful. “What other reason had King Jaehaerys declared this marriage for?” Your hands lift, resting gently against Caraxes’ long, curved neck. The dragon chirps, an oddly affectionate sound, his head tilting toward you like a beast tamed by gentle hands.
Daemon watches, fascinated and helpless.
A huff of laughter escapes you, fond and resigned. Your eyes are gleaming with something unreliable.
Gods, he was lucky.
Daemon did not anticipate meeting Lord Tully. His decaying health interrupts his plans for the additional Southern troops to fight in the war. For days, the Rogue Prince paced through the ruined grounds of Harrenhal, watching the fortress slowly crumble around him, just as his patience was beginning to fray.
He had expected this rendezvous to take a few days, just long enough to gain an answer and drive the Riverlords to the fighting cause. But with no word from Riverrun and his impatience gnawing at him, Daemon decides to take matters into his own hands.
He would not wait any longer.
By the morning, it was confirmed: Lord Grover Tully would not come. Instead, his grandson, Oscar Tully, the heir to Riverrun, would make the journey in his stead.
The Prince Consort, already frustrated, ran his fingers through his platinum hair. His body stiffened from the restless nights spent in Harrenhal, constantly stirring, unable to rest without the creeping, vivid hallucinations that plagued him. The silver-haired prince’s irritation only deepened. He could feel the weight of his impatience bearing down on him, as though time itself were slipping from his grasp.
With a sharp exhale, Daemon strode to the grand hall, his boots bouncing off the cold stone floor. His presence was as commanding as ever – every eye in the room turned toward him as he entered. His expression was grim, his scowl a mark of pure annoyance, and the room seemed to tighten with the weight of his temper.
“My- My Prince!” A young voice came about as a boy scrambled to catch him. Behind him, Lord Strong, as meek as ever, stood awkwardly, unsure how to soothe the nervous young lord.
“My- My Grace— Your Grace,” the boy corrected, his gaze flickering nervously between Daemon and Lord Strong. The Prince could smell the wretched scent of anxiety from him.
Daemon barely acknowledged the trembling lord. Instead, his eyes slid toward Lord Strong, whose anxious disposition did little to calm his fraying nerves. “Lord Grover is looking better and healthier than I expected.” His words were sharp, testing the waters of this meeting.
Lord Strong cleared his throat, his hands folded in front of him. “Ah, this is Oscar Tully, grandson of Grover Tully. He is heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.” He gestured toward Daemon hesitantly. “His Grace, the King… Consort, Daemon Targaryen.”
“It is an honor, Your Grace.” Oscar Tully said, bowing with respect. His eyes, however, were cautious as they met the Prince.
“Indeed,” Daemon replied, loosening his belt and placing his sword on the nearby table. He gestured for Oscar to take a seat. The boy hesitated, feeling the tension in the room thicken.
As Oscar sat down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting wasn’t just about formalities. There was something far more unsettling in Daemon’s gaze.
“How fair is your grandsire?” Daemon asked, his voice laced with disinterest.
Oscar lets out a sympathetic sigh. “Sadly, he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep, unable to do much more than take mead to drink. This is barely enough to sustain him.”
“So he’s alive.” Daemon‘s words were blunt and dismissive, though his eyes glinted with calculating edge. His fingers drummed patiently on the arm of his chair.
“Yes,” Oscar replied, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. He struggled to keep his composure, aware of the tension mounting between them. There was something in Daemon’s demeanor that unsettled him, something that gnawed at his sense of duty.
The Rogue Prince’s gaze narrowed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features as he stood. He turned toward Lord Strong, as if forgetting the man still stood there.
“Unfortunate,” he muttered, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. He faced a few steps, his voice growing colder. “But perhaps. It presents an opportunity, doesn’t it?”
His stare fixed on Oscar now, the dangerous gleam in his lilac eyes unmistakable.
“A weakened lord, ripe for the taking. I had planned to rally Riverlords, bring them under my banner. But now, with your grandsire in such a state, I wonder how you’ll handle it.” The suggestion lingered like a sharp knife poised to strike.
The young boy’s back straightened, his glare hardening. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of his house’s honor. “The Riverlands are not yours to conquer.” His words were firm and harsh.
Instead, Daemon’s lips twisted into a slight smile, though it was anything but kind. “Bold words.” He tilted his head slightly, intrigued by the young lord’s resistance. “But what of the old man?”
His voice dropped lower, colder. “Perhaps… There's something we can do to hasten his departure. It would make things so much simpler, wouldn’t it?” His stare remained locked on Oscar’s, studying him closely.
The Tully boy’s breath caught in his throat, the suggestion weighing heavily on him. His mind raced, trying to process what Daemon had just implied. His expression faltered for only a moment before he found his voice again. “Are you suggesting…?”
The silver-haired prince chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. If you ever change your mind…” He allowed the silence to hang in the air like a poisoned blade. “The Riverlands are rich with opportunity. Too rich for someone as… restrained as you.”
Oscar’s jaw tightened, and his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His anger flared, but he did not allow himself to act on it just yet. Instead, he turned toward the door, his steps deliberate as he moved to leave.
“I’ll be taking my leave, my Prince.” His voice was low, cold with barely contained fury. “Don’t ever speak of my grandsire in such a way again.”
With a final, seething glance, Oscar made his way out of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence that remained behind. The tension in the room seemed to follow him, like a shadow he could not escape.
Daemon remained seated, his smile fading into something darker as he reflected on the encounter. He had gone too far, but the young Tully’s defiance sparked something in him. There was something in the boy’s fierce loyalty, his strength in the face of Daemon’s threats, that reminded him of someone.
Someone like you.
Daemon’s thoughts flickered to his old life, to you, your own House, and the fire that burned you with it. How similar Oscar Tully was to the very person who had shaped Daemon’s destiny. And yet, Daemon knew the boy’s restraint would be his undoing, a weakness that could be exploited.
His eyes darkened as he stood up abruptly, a sense of urgency seizing him. The Riverlands could wait. His mind turned toward other matters – more important matters. There was a war to be fought, and Daemon Targaryen would not be the one to stand aside.
With a swift motion, Daemon snatched Dark Sister from the table and made his way to the Godswood. There, in the shadow of the great weirwood, he would meet his dragon, and the path to the throne would grow clearer. The Riverlands, the Riverlords, and Lord Grover Tully would all be pieces on his chessboard.
Viserys had been a fool to let that alliance go. Daemon would show him how it was done.
You were his first love – there was no simpler way to put it. Daemon rarely spoke of you. Never to Rhaenyra, seldom to Viserys. Your name was a whisper locked away in his mind, a forbidden utterance. It felt almost sacrilegious to speak aloud.
And yet, when he saw glimpses of you, a flicker of movement in the empty halls of Harrenhal, he ran.
For the first time in years, the Rogue Prince felt uncertainty. Real, unshakable hesitancy. Not of battle or death, but of yearning – of desperation. He wanted to reach out to you, to take hold of your body, and convince himself this wasn’t madness.
The fleeting impression of your hair – the color, the silky sheen of it – haunted him like a memory half-thought, slipping through his fingers like mist. It danced at the edge of his mind, leading him deeper into the castle’s darkened corridors. The deeper he wandered, the further you drifted, swallowed by the shadows.
His grip on Dark Sister remained firm. “Don’t run,” he murmured, but the words sounded wrong, as though he were the hunter and you the prey.
He had accepted this visage of you too easily. He had seen his lost wife, Laena, and Rhaenyra in his dreams before, and they had shaken him, but this broke him. The mere trace of your scent, that familiar blend of oak and wildflowers, was enough to bring him to his knees.
Yet unlike them, you never appeared fully before him. The ghosts of this wretched place knew what you meant to him. They taunted him with pieces, never the whole.
“You can’t hide forever!” the silver-haired warrior called into the dark, his voice raw with frustration. The rain began to fall harder now, cold droplets striking his skin. His sword gleamed beneath the dim light, as sharp and unyielding as the grief buried deep in his chest.
And still, you lingered in his thoughts, needling at him like an ache that never healed.
Daemon was used to keeping himself occupied – rallying men, strategizing, tending to the mundane affairs of war – but it was in the quiet moments that you returned. When he was left alone with his thoughts, you came back to him like a ghost who refused to sleep.
Thunder cracked as he turned a corner. A soft, golden glow seeped through the cracks of a heavy wooden door at the corridor’s end. The scent that met him was unmistakable: fresh grass, pine, rain-soaked Earth. A memory, so vivid and cruel, flourished before him. He pushed the door open, stepping into another world.
The lake stretched beyond the rolling hills, its surface smooth and undisturbed. A great tree stood rooted in the Earth, its branches swaying in the wind. The scene was so painfully familiar that it nearly drove him to his knees. It was a cruel trick of the mind, but gods, it felt real.
And then, your voice cut through the stillness.
“I never took you for a coward, my Prince.”
His grip on Dark Sister slackened. You stood before him, whole and untouched by time.
You looked older, refined in a way that only deepened the beauty he had once adored. The sky-blue gown draped over your form was something he could swear he had seen before, something he had once mentioned in passing. Your hair, unchanged from his memories, caught the light just right, and for the first time in years, he was afraid to blink.
If he did, he might lose you all over again.
When you turned to face him, smiling in that way only you could, he exhaled sharply.
“Surprised?” you teased, your voice laced with something knowing, something bittersweet.
Daemon laughed, low and breathless. He sheathed his sword, surrendering to this cruel dream. “I half expected you again sooner or later.”
Your gaze softened. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“You know I never could be.”
You stepped closer, unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. The distance between you felt insubstantial, easily crossed with just one step – but he held back, drinking in every detail of you as if committing you to memory all over again.
“You were everything I ever wanted.”
The confession came easily, too easily, slipping from his lips before he could stop himself. And the way you reacted – averting your gaze, biting back a smile – reminded him too much of what once was. How you had always flustered under his words, how you had always been so unguarded with him. Daemon reached for you then, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent. The surface of your skin was a torment in itself.
And then, softly, you asked, “Would you say the same for your wife?”
It should have been a simple question. But your voice, the way you said it – distant, laced with something fragile – it carved through him.
Daemon inhaled sharply. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, you knew.
Your lips pressed together in a small, knowing smile. “Your wedding must have been beautiful,” you mused, tilting your head. “Old Valyrian custom. Just as you promised me.”
A knife twisted deep in his chest.
You had been the one.
He had known it then, and he knew it now. But fate had not been kind. Death had stolen you away before he could be the man you deserved. And now, here you were – a dream, a memory, a cruel illusion. His hand began to slip away from you, but you caught it, pressing his palm to your cheek. You held it there, grounding him. Your eyes, deep and dark, shimmered with unspoken words.
“I’m sorry, my–”
His voice broke. The words felt foreign in his mouth. Daemon Targaryen never apologized. But for you, he would. For you, he would have done anything.
But you, ever resilient, only smiled – a quiet and bitter thing. “I don’t need your apology, Daemon.” Your fingers tightened around his hand, as though neither of you could bear to let go. “It was right of you to move on.”
“If you had still been alive,” he mumbled, forehead resting against yours, “I would have wed you all the same.” You exhaled, shuddering at the admission. Daemon pressed soft, lingering kisses to your knuckles, the way he once had. “You know I would.”
“I know,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “And I would have accepted.” But then, the inevitable question. The one you had every right to ask. “Do you love her?”
His silence was answer enough. You looked away. Daemon felt it – the shift, the unspoken acceptance of something neither of you could change.
“I should hate you,” you murmured.
And yet, you didn’t.
Daemon knew this truth as well as you did: He loved Rhaenyra. She was the mother of his children, the flame that could not be extinguished. But you – gods, you – were the reminder of a life he had lost before he ever had the chance to truly claim it. And when you disappeared, as he knew you would, he was left standing alone in the hollow halls of Harrenhal.
Dripping in rain. Haunted.
And still, you did not leave him. You never had.
Perhaps you never would.
Ever since then, Daemon’s mind has been occupied. He could not shake the thought of you away. Because every time he turned the corner or heard distant shouts far away, you were always expected to be there. You’ve been reappearing every so often, whenever Daemon would at least not want you to be. He would become distracted, occupied with one topic and then another. Very few men dismissed this as the way of his attempt to reconcile with the other allies back on Dragonstone.
He hasn’t sent word to Rhaenyra. It should have angered him – this hesitation, this silence, especially now, at the most critical moment of war. She deserved more than distance; she deserved a moment with him.
Yet Daemon continues to avoid it, pushing it aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There was Lord Strong, ever watchful and composed, his nerves barely concealed beneath the line of patience. Then there was Alys Rivers, the strange, peculiar witch who came to him in the dead of night, spinning tales laced with riddles. None of them would allow him a moment of silence.
The urgency of the war was closing in on Daemon. With each passing day, more lords from the South arrived at Harrenhal, and his patience, once formidable, grew thin; his judgment clouded.
In those moments, when the silver-haired prince least expected it, he saw you. In the shadows, behind passing figures, always there when you sought a moment of calm.
At some point, he had gotten used to your presence. He could even predict when you’d appear like a shadow tied to his thoughts. Whether it was the growing sentiment he harbored for you or something twisted in the bones of Harrenhal, he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind.
“You should be kinder to him, Daemon.” You urged, keeping pace just behind him.
The Targaryen Prince strode past the blacksmiths, where molten metal hissed and sparked. At last, the Riverland army was starting to prepare with steel forged, strategic planning, and boots ready to march. Everything was falling into place. And yet, doubt lingered, fed by none other than you.
“He is my nephew,” you muttered, softer as if your blood would convince him to reconsider.
“That Tully trout,” Daemon snapped, jaws tightening. “He challenges me at every turn, questions orders like he’s already won his damn banners.”
You stayed silent for a moment, letting his anger breathe.
“He looks at me like I’m some relic,” Daemon continued, voice low but sharp. “Like I’ve outlived my worth. The boy’s barely grown into his armor, and yet he dares to speak to me as though I’m the one who should yield.”
You tilted your head. “Perhaps he only wants to be heard. As you once did.”
Daemon stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. “And look where that got me.”
You met his gaze evenly, unshaken. “It made you feared. It made others follow you.”
“It made me hate,” he countered, softer now, the fire in his voice dimming. “By my brother. By the realm. Maybe even Rhaenyra.”
You stepped closer, your voice only a whisper now. “But never forgotten. And certainly never ignored.”
For a moment, something passed between you – recognition. Not of affection, but a shared weight. You had become a voice he could not silence, a mirror he could not ask to look away from. Whether you were a spirit or a shadow, you were part of him now, part of his reasoning.
“He is my nephew,” you said again. And so Daemon tried, with a clenched jaw and cold civility, to treat Oscar, not as bait, but with understanding. “Compromise with him.”
In the cool air, the Rogue Prince waits by the Godswood, the chill of the South clinging to his chest like mist. The haunting presence of Harrenhal beside him was none other than a mutual reminder, but never an annoyance anymore. No, he’s grown quite used to their non-sequential riddles and whispers. Close by, boots and horses marched, and voices echoed, in preparation for war in the following days. But in his small corner of waiting, there was only silence.
And you.
You stood in an open space that replicated a window. Half shadowed in the pale sunlight, watching as he dwelt on, reminiscent of your previous memories.
“Do you remember Riverrun?” you asked quietly, as if it were the question you had been waiting all day to ask. Today, you adorned a pale pink gown, draped in satin that elevated your figure elegantly. It softened your features, your gaze looking longingly at a distant memory.
Daemon glanced up, brow furrowed not in confusion but remembrance.
“I remember thinking I was being punished,” Daemon muttered dryly, lips curling at the corner. “Another full formality. Another highborn girl bred to smile and say little.”
You laughed, and the sound warmed the cold air between you. “You looked like you’d rather be thrown into a pit of vipers than be introduced to me.”
“Because I thought I was walking into a cage,” he said, voice low now, tinged with the memory. As if it's fresh in his mind, Daemon hums softly. “Polite words, sweet wine, and a girl too scared to meet my eyes.”
Your gaze met him without hesitation, just as it had been back then.
“But instead,” he went on, “you looked me over like you were the one judging me. No curtsy. No trembling hands. You told me my reputation was exaggerated and then asked if I’d ever done anything truly interesting.”
“And you said, ‘Not yet.’” A small smile played on your lips.
Daemon’s smirk softened into something fleeting. “You surprised me. I wasn’t used to that.”
You took a step closer. “You still aren’t.”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. There was something just beneath the surface, an ache too stubborn to name. In war, there was no time for softness, but in this moment, before duty pulled him away, Daemon would allow it. For a moment, he would allow himself to indulge in this fantasy. With you, everything around him disappeared and welcomed the cool breeze and warm skies. With you, he was able to understand the love his mother and father had, why it was worth settling down with the one you loved.
His hand brushed against yours – just barely, a passing moment of contact, but it was deliberate. You did not pull away.
Then, a knock.
Oscar Tully waits. And Daemon Targaryen, Prince of War, straightened himself with you still lingering at the edge of your thoughts. You never leave his peripherals, peering at the closed doors of Oscar Tully’s arrival.
Daemon takes this as your way of reminding him of his promise. Compromise with him. He has to, for the sake of the army and the numbers it may offer; it would be big enough to rival Landing. He would be able to leave Harrenhal once and for good. The chamber door creaks open. Oscar Tully entered with the poise of a young man who was far too young to be leading an army. His red cloak trails behind him, confidently making a banner. He bowed, not too deeply.
“My Prince,” he said, curtly.
“Lord Tully,” Daemon replied, already grown annoyed at his presence. However, he hides it under his bravado.
They stood alone now, in front of the Weirwood tree. With red tears trailing down its face, it is the only witness to their conversation. Save from you, of course, whose ever so close and unseen by all but Daemon. He didn’t look your way, but he felt where you stood.
Oscar waits for no time. “We must address Willem Blackwood.”
The Rogue Prince raised an eyebrow. “What of him?”
“He butchered half the Brackens without trial. You gave the order, did you not?” Oscar’s jaw clenched. “But he went and burned their harvests, drowned their kin in the river, and even cut down the old weirdwood at Stonebrook. This cannot go unanswered.”
Daemon scoffed. “They were traitors. The Brackens chose the green banners over ours. They knew the cost.”
“There are costs, yes,” Oscar agreed. “But there are also laws. Traditions. We follow the Old Gods. If you wish to keep their swords on your side, Blackwood must be punished, seen to be punished.”
“Seen?” Daemon echoed darkly.
The young boy straightens his posture. “A gesture of good faith. Announce his execution publicly so that it does not trample the Gods and the old ways.”
For a short time, silence fell.
Then Daemon’s voice, quiet but sharp. “You would use my own knight as an offering. To show them I can be swayed like some… puppet prince.”
“It shows you rule with justice, not vengeance.”
The prince took a step forward, and Oscar confidently held his ground, with no hesitation. “Blackwood did what needed to be done. He was loyal to me.”
“Loyalty cannot excuse sacrilege.”
Daemon’s fury glared behind his eyes, his mouth twitching, growing into a sneer. He turned, pacing like a dragon restrained by a frail chain. And that’s when your voice came – not aloud but from the quiet place he’d kept for you.
“Justice is not weakness, Daemon. It is a rule. Without it, you would have no army, no order.”
You stood behind him, a silent mirror of the man he might become. He despised it. He needed it. At last, he stopped pacing himself. He did not want to look at Oscar, and instead glanced at the narrow window beyond the horizon of Harrenhal.
“Very well,” Daemon said coldly. “You may announce it. Blackwood will die.”
The young lord exhaled, relieved as if the heaviest burden had been lifted. But without turning, Daemon added.
“You’re just like her.”
Oscar blinked, uncertain. “My Prince?”
Daemon does not answer. He’s simply looking at you, sitting in the same spot.
Lord Tully chooses not to press further and leaves without a sound, closing the door behind him.
Yet you were still there, right behind him.
The courtyard of Harrenhal was clouded in cold mist, the sky above gray and ever watchful. Lords from the South gathered silently, and their banners stood still in the air. Their eyes were fixated on the center of attention.
Willem Blackwood lay on the peak of a stone perch, lifeless and bloodied. His face bore hesitation and worry, who moments ago did not anticipate his execution. He was betrayed and swore loyalty to the man who carried the sentence. Daemon stood above coldly, gripping Dark Sister, as he stared down at the lifeless body.
He said nothing. However, a wave of murmurs went through the crowd. Nods of approval and absolution, while others exchanged glances with each other.
You stood behind him as always. As it was, your favorite spot to stand. Like the mist, your presence felt the breath behind his neck. He did not look at you, but heard you all the same.
“It had to be done.”
As blood ran down the stone that held up Blackwood’s body, Daemon glanced at his sword. Silence clung to his chest as dusk settled with a newfound agreement between the Southern lords.
summary : one last night together before the dragons called your husband to war
warnings : smut, breeding kink, oral, religious imagery and other things I probably forgot MINOR DNI!!!
words : + 4,5k
a/n : wrote this instead of studying… 😭 there is a serious lack of ormund and gwayne fics in this fandom, and frankly, someone has to do something about it…. i guess that someone is me 🫦
ORMUND HAD ALWAYS LIKED THINGS SWEET SMELLING.
Like you, he would murmur on those rare evenings when the two of you shared a bath, the steam curling about you both.
You had known that since the day you wed him. He could not abide foul odors, nor the people who carried them. A man who stank of sweat and horses, a servant with dirty hands, a fisherman fresh from the docks —Ormund would wrinkle his nose at them all. It was a lordly failing, though hardly one unique to him.
A Hightower through and through, your husband was: pious, dutiful, ever respectful of the Faith. Septons were as common at his table as salt and bread, forever discoursing on the Seven, morality, and the duties of men. You had listened to such talks all your life. Being the daughter of a lesser lord, you had been raised in the Faith no less than he.
You had been his second wife. Not a marriage forged solely for duty or advantage, but one in which affection had found room to grow. You loved him. Of that much you were certain. And he had loved you too, in his own quiet way.
The Hightowers stood close to the Iron Throne in those days. Not as close as they once had, perhaps, yet close enough. Ormund's cousin had been queen, and now sat as the Dowager Queen Mother. Many a noble house would have counted such kinship a blessing beyond measure. Even you, as a girl, might once have thought so. What daughter of a minor lord would not have dreamed of wedding into so illustrious a line?
Today, you cursed it.
Cursed the dragons and their fucking crown. Cursed the blood ties that forever seemed to drag good men into wars that were not theirs.
For it was those same ties that had called Ormund to battle once again.
And not only Ormund.... Daeron as well. Kind and ever dutiful Daeron. Your husband's cousin's son, though Ormund had always cherished the boy as if he were his own. He spoke of him with pride, worried over him, laughed at his jests. A second son in all but name.
Now both rode toward war, and you remained behind, left to pray that the gods would prove kinder than kings.
The master bedchambers smelled of tallow wax and the crushed lavender you pressed into the linens each morning, the one Ormund loved so much.
Outside, the campfires of the Reach's host flickered against the city walls like a ring of captured stars. Ten thousand men. A dragon.... and your husband at the head of it all.
You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers worrying at a loose thread on your shift. The lilac silk slipped cool against your skin. Ormund had gifted it to you for your nameday. You had been accustomed to plain cotton shifts all your life, but this one had come all the way from Lys, or so he had proudly told you.
The seven-pointed star hanging from a delicate gold chain rested against your chest, emeralds glimmering in the candlelight. Another gift. Ormund was fond of gifts.
You took the pendant between your fingers before raising it to your lips, worrying the gold gently between your teeth.
Somewhere below, deep within the Hightower's vast foundations, a smith's hammer rang against steel.
Clang.
The sound traveled through stone and timber alike. You felt the faint vibration through the gold pendant, against your teeth and jaw.
Clang.
The forge never truly slept. Not in Oldtown. Not in the shadow of the Hightower.
You let the pendant fall back against your breast and listened, wondering how many swords were being hammered into shape for a war you wished had never come.
Ormund stood at the window, still in his green expensive leathers. The candlelight carved deep hollows under his cheekbones. He'd been standing there for nearly an hour, watching his army, one hand braced against the stone like he was already holding the realm's weight.
"I could still ask the Dowager Queen to appoint another commander."
Ormund turned toward you. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"Do not be ridiculous, my love. I would refuse. This is a matter of family. My cousin has need of me." He paused. "And I must set an example for Daeron."
Of course he would.
You knew it as surely as you knew the silver seven-pointed star he wore beneath his tunic would find its way to his lips before dawn, before he mounted his horse and rode to war. You knew he had already sent letters to the Citadel, to the Starry Sept, and to half the septons in Oldtown besides, asking for prayers. Prayers for victory. Prayers for protection. Prayers for his soul.
Ormund Hightower trusted in steel, but he trusted in the Seven more.
"And what of Daeron?" you asked, folding your arms across your chest. "Isn't it dangerous for him?"
"It is war. There is danger in that by its very nature."
The answer did not soothe you.
"He'll be disguised," Ormund continued hands behind his back. "His hair will be dyed, and he will serve as my squire. No man beyond those who need know will recognize him."
"A prince playing at being a squire."
"A future king learning what war truly is." There was no hesitation in his voice. "The boy has spent his life hearing songs of battle. It is time he learned the difference between songs and reality."
You looked away.
Daeron was scarcely more than a boy, no matter what crowns and prophecies awaited him, but then again, wars had never cared much for the age of the boys they swallowed.
"And your own children?" you asked quietly. "What of them?"
Ormund's gaze softened.
For all his piety, all his duty, there were few things he loved more fiercely than his children.
"They will remain here, where they belong."
"In Oldtown?"
"In Oldtown," he agreed. "Beneath the Hightower's protection. Surrounded by kin, and by men I trust."
Would they understand why their father had gone? Would they forgive him if he did not return?
"The younger ones will miss you." A shadow crossed his face. "As I will miss them." It was the closest he had come all evening to admitting fear.
Neither of you spoke then. The wind rattled softly against the shutters.
"Have you told them?" you asked, playing with your necklace.
"Not all of it."
A sad smile touched his lips, and you looked down, shaking your head.
"I dreamed of fire," you said quietly. "Three nights running. I wake with my hands aching, and I think — "
"I know what you think, my love." He crossed the room, his boots heavy on the flagstones. His hand cupped your jaw, rough and warm, and he tilted your face up. The lavender on your skin rose to meet him. "I have thought it too. Every hour of every day," His thumb traced your lower lip. "But all will be well."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can." He bent, pressed his forehead to yours. "I am promising you. I will burn this war down to cinders if it means I come home to you."
The words should have terrified you. Instead they settled somewhere deep in your chest, hot and alive.
His other hand found yours, brought your palm to his mouth. He kissed the center of it, then another kiss, and another, his lips lingering.
"I will miss you dearly," he said roughly. Like it cost him. "Every sunrise I do not wake to your hair tangled across my pillow, every night I do not hear you breathe beside me. I will think of you when I am wading through mud and blood and fire. You will be the thing that keeps me walking forward."
Your throat closed, but you nodded, because speech felt impossible.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, then he stood up. The candlelight caught the hard line of his jaw, you thought as you looked up at him. High Lord of Oldtown. Commander of the largest army left in Westeros. A man who had outlived a wife, buried a father, and inherited a war.... and he was looking at you like you were the only altar he had ever knelt at.
"One night," he said. "Give me one night of forgetting the fire."
You slowly stood up and reached for the laces of his tunic. Your fingers knew this work — had done it a hundred times, a thousand. But tonight every brush of knuckle against his chest felt like a prayer.
"You think too much," he murmured against your hair.
"One of us must."
He chuckled, and the sound of it sent heat pooling between your thighs. His hands found your waist through the silk, gripped, pulled you in your toes. The shift pooled against your body, and he followed the line of it down with his eyes.
"This scent." His voice dropped. Rough. Almost reverent. "Lavender and honey and something I cannot name. Something that is only you." He bent his head to the curve of your neck, inhaled. "I could drown in it. Drink it until I forget every other thing the world has to offer."
Your hands found his hair — thick, dark, threaded with silver at the temples. You tugged, just enough to pull his face to yours.
"Then drown."
His mouth crashed against yours. No gentleness now, no, this was hunger, the kind a man carries when he does not know when he will taste his wife again. His teeth scraped your lower lip, and you opened for him, let him in, let him take.
His hands found the ties of your shift. He pulled, and the silk whispered down your shoulders, caught at your breasts, fell to pool at your feet. The air hit your skin, cold and alive.
He broke the kiss to look at you.
Ormund Hightower had seen you bare a hundred times. He had mapped every freckle, every scar, every curve. But tonight he looked at you like he was memorizing the geography of you for a journey he might not return from.
"You are beautiful," he said. And then, quieter: "You are the only thing I have ever been certain of."
He lowered himself.
First to his knees. The commander of armies. The head of House Hightower. On his knees before you in the candlelight, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth pressing a line of kisses down your stomach.
"Ormund — "
"Hush." His voice against your skin. "Let me pray my way."
He guided you backward until your knees hit the bed, until you sank onto the furs. He stayed on the floor, pulling you to the edge, your legs falling open around his shoulders.
The first touch of his mouth made you gasp.
He didn't rush. Ormund had never rushed with you. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, slow, deliberate, his shaved skin scratching the sensitive skin. Lower and closer. His breath hot and damp against you.
"Tell me what you want."
You knew what he wanted to hear. "Your mouth."
"My mouth where?"
You reached down, fisted your hand in his hair. "Between my legs. Now... " He didn't move, "... please."
He smiled against your skin. "There. That was not so difficult."
And then his tongue found you.
You bit your lip hard enough to taste copper. His hands had your thighs spread wide, his grip firm enough to bruise. He licked you like a man dying of thirst — broad strokes of his tongue through your wetness, then tighter, circling the place that made your hips buck.
"Ormund—"
"Quiet. Let me taste you."
He buried his face deeper, and the sound he made — a low, guttural groan, something feral and hungry — rumbled through your whole body, through your bones, through the slick heat of where his mouth was. His nose ground against your clit, hard, while his tongue pushed inside you, fucking into your hole, and your hands tangled in his hair, in the furs, in anything you could claw at to keep yourself from dissolving.
His thumbs spread your folds wide, pinning you open, and he licked the full flat of his tongue from your entrance all the way up to the swollen bud, then circled it, once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. Your back arched off the furs. You yanked his hair. He only hummed — that vibration drove straight through your clit, down your spine, wet and deep into your cunt. He did it again, harder, just to feel you clench around nothing.
He pulled back for a breath. His chin was soaked. His lips were slick with you.
"Your cunt tastes like fucking honey, my love." His voice was rough, wrecked.
"The Septon," you gasped, and he bit your clit — sharp, not gentle — a warning and a promise pressed between his teeth, "would not approve of such — fuck — such blasphemy from his most faithful lord."
Ormund lifted his head. Just enough. His chin glistened, strands of your wetness hanging in a thin thread from his lower lip. His eyes were black, pupils blown wide, no whites showing around the edges.
"The Septon is not the one who will make you scream my name tonight."
He drove two fingers into you without warning — no tease, no circling, just the thick stretch of them filling you to the knuckle, cold steel of his rings pressing against your entrance, against your stretched rim. You cried out, a broken sound, and he crooked them, found that rough spot inside you that made your vision splinter, and set a rhythm (hard, deep, relentless) that had you grinding against his palm, riding his fingers, your slick running down his wrist.
"Filthy," you managed. "The things you say."
"Filthy things." He curled his fingers again. "About how your cunt grips me. About how I want to fill you so full of my seed that you carry another Hightower in your belly when I ride to war. About how every man in my camp will look at my swelling wife and know that I have claimed her. That I marked her and that she is mine."
The words, low and rough and spoken against your wet flesh, pushed you to the edge. You felt it building : a coil in your gut, tightening, burning.
"Let go," he murmured. "Let go for me, I want to taste it."
His mouth closed over your clit, and he sucked, and the world finally shattered.
You came with a cry that you barely recognized, your back arching, your thighs clamping around his head. He did not stop. He licked and fingered you through it, slow and patient, drawing out every pulse, every shudder, until you collapsed against the furs, gasping.
He rose over you, still in his leathers, his chin wet, his pupils blown wide. He pulled his fingers out slow, dragged them up through your slick, painted it across your stomach in a lazy smear.
"Now," he said, and his voice was barely human, "I am going to fuck you."
He stripped with rough efficiency — leather hitting the floor, belt buckle clattering against stone.
When he was bare, the candlelight caught the scars on his body: a pale line across his ribs from some forgotten skirmish, a circle of mottled skin on his shoulder from a burn.
He climbed onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the furs. His cock slid through your wetness, not entering, just… there, hard and hot against your thigh.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice a low rasp against your lips, "what it does to me. Knowing you are mine. Knowing I am the only man who has ever been inside you." He pushed the head in just enough to stretch you, just the tip, and held there. "The only man who ever will be."
Your hand wrapped around his shaft. He was hot, pulsing against your palm, and you spread his pre-cum from the slick tip down the length of him, fisting him slow, feeling every thick inch of his vein press against your fingers.
"Then prove it." Your voice came out wrecked already, and you hadn't even taken him yet. You squeezed, dragged your thumb over the head, and he ground his hips forward, buried his face in your neck, nipped at the skin there hard enough to bruise. "Prove it to me," you breathed.
He caught your hand, pinned it above your head, fingers laced through yours against the furs. And then he pushed in.
Slow and torturous. Inch by inch you felt every ridge of him, every vein dragging against your walls, stretching you open from the inside. Your body yielded for him, gripped him, your cunt clenching around the invasion, trying to pull him deeper even as he fed himself into you. Your mouth fell open and he was there — swallowing the sound, kissing you deep, messy, his tongue pushing past your lips the same way his cock pushed into your cunt, both of you full of each other.
When he bottomed out, he broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he said. Just that. Like the word had been punched out of him.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel the weight of him, the fullness, the way your body kept spasming around him in small, desperate clenches.
Then he pulled back (almost all the way out) and drove back in. Hard. The sound of it wet and deep, your body taking him, your nails raking down his back.
When he was fully seated, he stopped.
He rested his forehead against yours, taking your jaw, making you look at him. His breath came ragged. "Look at me."
So you did.
"I love you," he said. "If I do not come home — "
"You will."
"If I do not come home, I want you to know that I loved you. Every day. Every hour. Every breath."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled him deeper.
"Show me." You whispered, not wanting to say something that may make you weep.
He did.
He fucked you like a man possessed. Hard and deep. His hips slammed into yours, the bed groaning beneath you, the headboard knocking against the stone wall. He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head, and drove into you with the same focus he brought to a war council.
"You feel that?" His voice was wrecked. "Feel how deep I am? That is where I will live. Inside you, even when I am a thousand leagues away."
He let go of your wrists, and your nails raked down his back. He hissed, bit your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
"I want to leave bruises on you," he growled. "I want you to look at your body in the morning and see evidence of me. Every mark, bite, and drop of my seed."
He drove deeper. The angle shifted, and suddenly he was hitting somewhere new, somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Yes — there — "
"I know." His voice a broken laugh. "I know your body better than I know my own prayers."
He dropped his hand between your bodies. His thumb found your puffy clit, rubbed tight circles in time with his thrusts. The double sensation (his cock filling you, and fingers working you) dragged you back toward that edge.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock... let me feel you."
You shattered again, harder this time, your inner walls clenching around him. He groaned, low and long, and kept fucking you through it, chasing his own end.
"I am going to fill you." His voice broke. "I am going to pour every drop into you, and you are going to take it. All of it."
His rhythm faltered. His hips stuttered. He sank deep, buried to the hilt, and you felt it — hot and thick, pulsing inside you, wave after wave. He cried out, a sound caught somewhere between a prayer and a curse, his body shuddering against yours.
The two of you lay together in the darkness, the warmth of his body a comfort against the chill creeping in from the sea.
After a time, you shifted, pressing a hand against him and gently urging him onto his back.
Ormund let out a low sound of amusement but offered no resistance. He settled against the pillows, looking up at you with a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
His hand found your hip, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"There she is," he murmured, his voice rough with fatigue.
You smiled back at him — lazy, wrecked, your hair plastered to your forehead in dark sweaty strands. You pushed them behind your ears, lifted yourself off his hips, and the first thing you felt was it: his seed, hot and thick, sliding out of you, dripping from your puffy, overstimulated folds down the inside of your thigh.
His eyes caught it immediately. The way it glistened, the way your cunt was still clenching around nothing, trying to hold onto what he'd left in you.
He didn't say a word. He just reached down, two fingers sliding through the mess, gathering it — white and warm and slippery — and pushed them back into your hole. Pumped them once, twice, forcing his own cum deeper into you, plugging you with it.
You bucked against his hand, grinding down, chasing the pressure, but he pulled his fingers out and brought them to your lips instead.
"Suck."
You opened your mouth. Took them. Tasted yourself on his skin — salt and slick and the bitter-thick taste of him, the taste of what he'd filled you with. You sucked clean every drop, your tongue working between his fingers, your eyes on his.
He watched you. Jaw tight. Breathing shallow.
And while you sucked, your other hand found his cock. Still hard and thick and wet with the both of you. You wrapped your palm around the shaft and pushed yourself down, positioned yourself over him, and sank down in one motion.
Both of you groaned, the sound of him filling you again, the stretch of it, the way your walls were already so sensitive they gripped him like a fist.
His fingers slipped from your mouth with a wet pop. A string of spit connected your lower lip to his knuckle, then broke.
You didn't waste a second.
You rode him, hips circling, grinding, taking him deeper with every roll of your pelvis. Your walls clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, milking him, and he moaned through clenched teeth, his hands finding your bare back, nails dragging down your spine.
The bed frame groaned beneath you both, a wooden rhythm that matched the wet sound of your bodies slapping together. His hand slid to your ass, squeezed the flesh hard enough to leave prints, and used the grip to guide your pace : faster, harder, deeper.
The sept burned around you, or maybe that was just the fever in your blood. The chamber you'd made into a shrine — the carved rosewood bed, the seven-branched candlestick flickering on the table, the crystal in the window that scattered the moonlight into a thousand fractured rainbows across the sheets.... and the two of you, tangled in them, sweat-slick and sinning.
Around your throat, the seven-pointed star he'd put there — gold, heavy, warm against your skin, rising and falling with every labored breath. It swung forward each time you rose, caught the light each time you fell, its points pressed into the hollow of your throat like a brand.
On his chest, the silver star. Resting in the thatch of dark hair, rising and falling, the metal warm from his skin, glinting in the candlelight like a wet eye watching.
You braced yourself on him first — palms flat against the muscle of his chest, fingers splaying in the hair there, feeling the slick of sweat between your skin and his, feeling the seven pointed star's cool edges press into your left hand. Then you found the headboard : rosewood.
Up.
The length of him dragged against the inside of you — every ridge, every vein, every inch of him a promise and a threat. The air caught in your throat.
Down.
You took him to the hilt, felt him bottom out, felt the pleasure-pain of being filled to bursting. The star settled back against your throat. His breath punched out of him — a sound that was half a groan, half a prayer to gods who had long since stopped listening.
Up again.
Your breasts swung forward, the nipples dark and peaked and aching. Sweat ran between them, down your belly, slick on your thighs where they gripped his hips. The golden star danced at your throat.
To Ormund's eyes, you might have been the Mother herself, or the Maiden descended from the heavens. It made no matter which. No holy image painted upon a sept wall could ever compare to the sight of you above him, your hair spilling over your shoulders like a silken veil.
A sin, the septons would say. Perhaps it was.
Ormund had spent half his life listening to septons speak of duty, virtue, and temptation. Yet in that moment, with your hands upon him and the candlelight dancing across your skin, he found he cared very little for their judgments.
Let the gods condemn him if they must, so long as it was you.
Down again, and you watched him watching you — watched his eyes trace the path of the gold bouncing against your skin, watched the hunger settle into his face like a man starved who'd just been told there was more.
His hands found your hips. Found the curve where waist flared into thigh. His fingers bit in, hard enough to bruise, and he guided you — set the rhythm — made you take him deeper, and deeper still, until you couldn't tell where his body ended and yours began.
The silver star on his chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. You reached for it (for the chain, for the pendant, for the symbol of everything you were supposed to be sorry for) and wrapped your fingers around it. The metal bit into your palm. You pulled yourself down onto him using it, and he came up to meet you, drove himself deeper, and the sound you made was animal.
His mouth found yours. Tongues first — wet and searching, tasting yourself on his lips, tasting him on yours, then teeth. You bit his lower lip, drew blood, swallowed his groan. His hand fisted in your hair, yanked your head back, bared your throat to the moonlight and the rainbows from the crystal.
He kissed down. Over your jaw. Down the column of your throat. Tongue tracing the line of the golden chain, following it to where the star rested in the hollow below your throat. He breathed there — hot breath on the metal, on your flushed skin, and then his mouth closed over the star itself, his tongue pressing it against your thumping pulse.
Lower. Between your breasts, his light beard rough against the tender skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail down your sternum. He took his time; licked the sweat from the underside of your left breast. Traced a circle around the hard peak of your nipple without touching it, once, twice, until you were arching your back, pushing yourself toward his mouth, desperate.
He gave it to you. Closed his lips over your left nipple and sucked — hard, pulling it deep into the heat of his mouth, his tongue working the stiff peak, his teeth grazing, the sensation sharp and bright and holy all at once. You moaned, and the sound bounced off the walls, off the crystal, off the seven-pointed star at your throat.
And then his hand found your right breast. Squeezed, palmed the weight of it, felt how it filled his hand. Then his thumb and forefinger found the nipple there, found it hard and aching, and he pinched. Hard. Rolled it between his fingers like a man testing a ripe berry, feeling its texture, feeling the way it peaked and tightened further under his touch, feeling the way your whole body shuddered when he pulled.
Humming. The sound vibrated through his mouth into your left nipple, through his fingers into your right. Humming like a septon at prayer, like this was worship.
Then he broke away. Licked a wet path up your chest — tasted the salt and sweat pooled in your skin, dragged his tongue over your chest, over the jut of your collarbone.
You threw your head back, arched your throat, offered him the soft vulnerable hollow of it, and he took what was offered. His teeth grazed your pulse. His tongue pressed against the tendon. The golden star at your throat got tangled in his hair for a moment, and you felt the weight of it pull, felt the chain dig into the back of your neck, and you didn't care.
His lips found your ear. His breath came ragged and hot — a hunter's breath, the breath of a man who'd run you down and meant to devour.
"I would make a religion of you," he said, the words scraping out of some wounded place inside him. "Your scent.... The smell of your skin. The taste of your cunt, sweet and slick on my tongue. I would wear it like a holy oil. I would breathe it in until I forgot the names of every god who ever watched us sin. I would fuck you in every sept from the Wall to the Summer Sea and call that prayer enough."
You heard him. Felt the words land in your belly like stones dropped into still water. Felt them ripple through you, through the place where he was still buried inside you, through the golden star pressing against your throat.
You took his face in your hands. Felt the silver star dig into your palm where his chest pressed against yours. Felt the gold one warm against both of you.
And then you kissed him : open-mouthed and hungry, teeth and tongue, the taste of blood and sweat and something that might have been salvation — and you rode him like a storm, like a prayer, like a woman who had found her god and meant to keep him.
You cried out, rode him, up and down, up and down, circling him, then up and down again, arching into his touch, back bowing, your rhythm faltering, then you felt it : the burn in your thighs, the ache in your hips, your body begging you to slow down.
He saw it, no, felt it in the way your pace stuttered.
And then he had you flipped. You didn't even see it coming, just the world spinning, the furs catching your fall, his body heavy on your back, one hand yanking your hips up into the air. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, spread you open, and drove back into you without a pause.
The angle was different. He hit something that made your vision white out, your mouth open in a soundless scream against the furs. He didn't stop, didn't even slow. Just fucked into you with that same relentless rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other tangled in your hair, pulling your head back.
And when you finally came (when your body seized around him, your cunt pulsing and milking and begging) he followed. Buried to the hilt, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken in your ear, his release flooding you, hot and endless, mixing with everything he'd already put inside you.
He stayed there. Breathing hard. Sweat dripping from his forehead onto your neck. Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just the sound of ragged breath and the slick, wet evidence of what you'd done.
He stayed inside you, weight pressed you into the furs, his breath hot against your neck.
"Stay," he whispered. "Let me stay inside you.... just a little longer."
You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "I am not going anywhere."
He lifted his head, his eyes, surprisingly, were wet.
"Marry again," he said. "If I fall. Find someone who — "
"No."
"Listen to me — "
"No." You pulled his face to yours. "I will not marry again. I will not lie beneath another man. I will be your widow, Ormund Hightower, and I will wear black until I die, and I will salt my pillows with tears for you, and I will not give any man what is yours."
He stared at you. Something in his chest broke open — you saw it happen, the crack in his composure.
"I do not deserve you."
You chuckled. "Then spend the rest of your life earning me."
"I intend to."
He pulled out gently, you gasped at the loss, and he rolled to his side, pulled you against his chest, tracing feathering touches to your back. The fire had burned low.
He pressed a kiss to your hair.
"One more thing," he said.
"Mmh?"
"Turn around."
You did slowly, and he pulled you close, spooned against him. His arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your belly.
"I want to sleep like this," he said. "With my hand on where my seed rests. So that when I dream, I dream of you growing round with my child."
Your hand found his, smiling, fingers lacing together over your stomach.
"You are a wicked man, Lord Hightower."
"I am a man who loves his wife," he said. "The Seven can judge me for it in the afterlife."
You felt his lips press against the back of your neck. Felt his body relax against yours, the tension draining slowly.
"I will come home," he murmured, already half-asleep. "I swear it by the Father's justice and the Mother's mercy. I will come home to you."
You closed your eyes.
You did not sleep.... but you held his hand against your belly, and you let yourself believe.
a/n : ( i also have a gwayne draft… if anyone is interested lol) sorry if he seemed OOC … we’re still on ep 1 and we don’t know much abt him unfortunately ;)
summary: the react to their wife being more popular than they are with other lords and common folk. based on this request. asoiaf mlist
𝜗ϱ ┆ Robb Stark:
Proud but (slightly) insecure husband
Robb would feel a flicker of insecurity. He’s used to being the Young Wolf, the one people rally behind. Seeing lords laugh more freely with you, or smallfolk light up at your presence, would make him pause.
He’d quickly shift from self-doubt to admiration. Your success becomes his pride. He starts introducing you with a smirk: “You’ll get farther with her than with me.”
He’d tease you—“You’ve bewitched the entire North, my lady. Should I be worried?”but his eyes would gleam with love. He’d watch you work a room full of old lords, and think: This is what ruling together looks like.
𝜗ϱ ┆ Jon Snow:
quietly awed supporter #he’s an ally
Jon wouldn’t feel threatened, he’s never craved attention (I dunt wunt it) But he’d be stunned by how effortlessly you connect. Lords who barely nod at him suddenly soften under your gaze.
He’d actually worry you’re too good for him. That you deserve someone more polished, more politically savvy. But you’d remind him that your strength complements his, not replaces it.
Jon would stand beside you like a silent sentinel, letting you shine. And when someone praises you, he’d just say, “I know.” No jealousy. Just reverence.
𝜗ϱ ┆ Cregan Stark
#supportivehusband #yougogirl
Cregan would love it. He’s a man of action, not politics, and watching his wife charm the court is unexpected and mesmerizing.
He’d lean into it hard. “You want something from me? Talk to her first.” He’d brag about your people skills like they were battle honors.
If anyone tried to undermine you or suggest you were “too influential,” Cregan would shut it down with one icy look. “She speaks for Winterfell. That’s all you need to know.”
𝜗ϱ ┆ Sansa Stark
Power couple idc
Sansa would be thrilled. She knows the power of perception, and having a wife who wins hearts and minds is a strategic gift.
She’d coordinate with you like a chess master. “You soften them, I seal the deal.” You’d be unstoppable.
Sansa would also cherish the emotional warmth you bring to Winterfell. She’d whisper, “You make this place feel like home again.” And she’d mean it.
Requested by anon: John Walker x reader based on the song Moral of the Story by Ashe . They used to be married with no kids, after tfaws she left him only to come across him during the events of thunderbolts. John attempts to reconnect with her as he never stopped loving her.
Description: You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.
Tags/Warnings: Language. So much ANGST. John being an emotional rollercoaster. Shame rooms. Lots of fighting and regret.
Note: This turned out longer than expected but I loved writing this (my angsty heart is thriving) I'm currently obsessed with this man so expect more about him.
Masterlist
John Walker liked to think he always had the answer to everything. Or at least, most of the time. His brain ran on tactical planning, constant gears grinding with strategy and precision. He was the guy who accounted for every variable, every angle, every possible risk.
But right now? He had no idea how the hell he'd ended up in this situation. Out of all the threats he could've anticipated, out of all the variables he could've ever considered, he sure as hell never expected one of them to be named Bob.
Yes, Bob.
The weird guy that popped out of nowhere, in a bunker buried in the middle of nowhere.
That clean slate Valentina had promised him seemed to be slipping from his fingers by the minute. It was the last thing he could afford himself to screw up, with all his past failures clinging to him like heavy chains.
And yet here he was, stuck with the blonde he'd been sent to kill, a phasing assassin, and Bob.
Middle of fucking nowhere.
"Come on Bobby, you missed legs, arms and torso day" John mocked him, as he pulled him out the elevator shaft they were using to escape.
But the moment Bob's hand touched his, the world around him melted into a black shadow as it shifted around him.
The once warm air went stiff, cold.
When he turns around, he's suddenly back in his bedroom. Those godforsaken walls he once shared with you.
He takes a step forward, his pulse accelerating, and he's met with a scene his mind only replays when he isn't punching someone, when it gets too quiet.
And the first thing he sees, is you.
The ghost of you standing by the bedroom door in front of him, arms folded tight over your chest like they were the only thing holding you together.
It was too quiet, almost, the only sound being the zipper of a duffel bag his past self had thrown onto the bed.
"You're leaving already?" you past self broke the silence, voice so soft it barely reached him.
You didn't sound angry. You didn't even look like you had the energy to fight, not anymore.
John takes a step forward, watching how his past self didn't even throw a glance your way. The prick was too busy yanking dirty clothes from the bag and swapping them out for clean ones.
"You just got here" you mumbled, quieter now when he didn't answer.
John remembered this moment differently. He remembered you nagging, picking up a fight. But standing here now, watching like some unwilling spectator in a memory he didn't want to relive he really saw it, saw ... you.
Staring at him with glossy eyes, looking like not one single bone in your body wanted to fight him that day. You just stood there, still hoping that somehow this time it would land, that he would listen.
"Yeah, well" He muttered, eyes locked on a dirty torn off pair of boots he needed to get rid off. "Val needs me again. You already know how it fucking goes."
A quiet sob was caught in your throat. He saw now how you tried to swallow it, like you'd done a hundred times before.
"I haven't seen you in weeks, John. Is it really that easy for you to leave me? Every goddamn time?" you said quietly.
And fuck, he cursed when he heard it, it didn't even sound bitter. It was desperate, tired.
He scoffed, and let out that bitter, dismissive laugh he always pulled when he didn't want to feel anything. "Jesus Christ, are we doing this again?"
He didn't stop packing, like the answer to all his problems was hidden in a pair of socks rather than just turning around to look at you.
"Doing what, John? You choosing to leave every time instead of fucking talking to me?"
There it was, the anger he remembered.
"Then yes, John, we're doing it again. It's always your need to feel important. Like if you're not out there 'saving the world' you're nothing in here" you finally snapped. The ache in your chest made your words feel sour as they left your mouth.
That's what got under his skin. He saw it in the way his past self stiffened, jaw tightening with that same goddamn temper he could never quite control.
"You think I like doing this? You think I like risking my ass every time to come home to this? To another one of your guilt trips?" He's yelling at this point, throwing the holster in his hand back in his bag.
You looked like you'd been slapped.
"This?" you repeated stunned, pointing at yourself with your hands. "You mean me? I'm this'"
He turned to the door then, finally. But not to deny it, or to apologize or to even spare one single glance at you. It was to grab a jacket hanging on the doorknob.
He didn't say anything. Just grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it over his shoulder like the argument was some inconvenience he could just walk away from.
He keeps pretending to ignore you when he walks past you by the door, but a hand pressed to his chest stops his getaway.
"This is the last time I'm asking you to stay" You warned him. The lump in your throat betrayed you, what you wanted to sound firm came out like a child plea.
He didnt even flinch. He brushed it off and kept walking, thinking he'd come back home in a day or two, bring some takeout and fuck it out like always.
"Jonathan..." Your voice sobbed his name as he made his way to the front door.
Yet still, he never looked back. And neither did you.
That was the day you gave up on him. He remembers coming back a few days later, your favorite takeout in hand, only to find a half empty closet, empty drawers.
An empty home.
And now? Now it burned him watching it from the outside. Watching you blink away tears while he was too busy being an asshole.
His eyes burned, as his heart clawed its way up into a painful knot his throat.
He snaps back to reality when Yelena calls out to him. All eyes watching him, but his were locked in the tempting elevator's dark void.
What the fuck are you doing, John?
They’ll see right through your bullshit.
"Im fine" He said, a little too quick for comfort.
But with a plastic smile plastered on his face, his mask falls back into place like muscle memory.
Once again, how the hell did he end up in this situation?
And because karma seemed to have fun making John Walker's life even more miserable, he'd ended up tied in a half collapsed gas station.
Hostage to none other than Bucky Barnes.
Naturally, he just couldn't help himself to mock Bucky's absurd political position. Though in his defense, the bastard kept gettting on his nerves. They already knew each other, so why was Bucky being such an idiot about the whole Bob situation?
So John did what he always does. He fucked around and, as usual, found out.
"Yes. I know you, John" Bucky’s tone was calm, but the hint of a smirk hid behind his words. "And you've made your choices. I know it's been hard since your wife left you, but that is no one's fault but yours"
The cruel words rolled out his tongue like he's been waiting to throw them in his face since he found him in the blown up limo they'd use to escape.
John just stares at him for a second, then his eyes drift to a particular paint chipping spot on the wall.
Yelena turned towards him, lips parted in surprise.
'I've got a gorgeous wife waiting for me at home' she remembered him saying it back in the bunker.
Liar.
Yelena had believed him back there. She knew a thing or two about John Walker, having read his file, recalled your name and picture being printed out next to 'affiliations'.
Must've been exhausting carrying that rage for two, was her first thought, but she wouldn't say it out loud. Not when he was giving her that kicked puppy look.
Cause he didn't shy away from her eyes, didn't say a thing. All he could do was give a small, tight shrug that said it all: add it to the fucking list of things I've screwed up.
Yelena didnt press further.
He was grateful for that, and for Ava being too busy bickering with Alexei to pester him any further about the matter.
But then, Bucky's stance shifted.
"Shhh" he hissed, hand going up to his lips. Alexei and Ava immediately stopped talking.
In a different occasion John could've laughed at the sight of Bucky Barnes looking like a guard dog about to bite, but if he was tensing up like that, it couldn't mean anything good for anyone. So he listened.
That's when he heard it too. An almost undetectable soft thump, but his enhanced hearing catches it. It was the slight creek of metal, straight above them.
"Someone's on the roof" John said at the same time as Bucky.
Everyone looked up. But before anyone could think about what it could be, the ceiling exploded.
The roof came crashing down in a cloud of smoke and ash. The room burst in chaos between shouting and coughing, debris flying everywhere as a smoke grenade rolled past their feet. All John could see was the flicker of Yelena's widow bites glowing blue as the haze blinded the room.
Then, a pair of boots landed hard on the floor.
He hears some struggle between Bucky and the unknown intruder, and then a thud of heavy metal hitting the floor. It must've been Bucky's arm slamming against the concrete.
Someone had taken him down.
"I'm not here for you" the intruder said, a woman's voice muffled by a mask.
John instantly frowned. Even with the sound of debris falling down and the fighting in the room that muffled voice sounded familiar to him.
"I don't care" Bucky growled back.
The fight went on, blows landing hard and fast. Whoever she was, was determined to take him out.
But Bucky was the fucking Winter Soldier.
John feels Yelena drop next to him, then what must've been Ava falling unconscious as well, as the smoke hit their systems.
"Lena!" Alexei shouts.
"Okay now, what the fuck is going on?" John choked out, coughing.
He hears the fight halt for a second when he spoke.
The intruder recognized the voice. His voice.
You recognized his voice.
Bucky got the upper hand at the distraction, catching your wrist mid swing. He slams you to the ground with a quick motion, pinning you down with his knee and pressing his metal hand against your throat.
You gasped, struggling, eyes wide with fear under the mask. Next thing you knew his gun was pointed at your head.
As the dust cleared enough for John to see the scene, his face turns to horror.
He sees the mask, and immediately knows.
You're about to get blasted into next week by Bucky.
"Bucky–Stop! Stop! It's Y/N!"
John broke his cuffs in one go, his arms fighting against the bent rod holding him back.
Bucky froze, confused. He ripped off your mask, and there you were, gasping for air. Still beneath his knee, throat red where his hand had been.
"Shit" Bucky breathed, when he recognized you. But before he could lift his weight off you, John tackled him to the ground.
The girls jolted back to consciousness at once. Coughing as they sat up.
"What the hell is going on?" Yelena rasped, seeing John on top of Bucky and you standing beside them.
"Man come on, I didn't know it was her!" Bucky snapped, twisting beneath John to shove him off.
You sat up in your spot on the floor, coughing, one hand still braced against your throat.
And then you saw him, that voice you heard. God, it had been years.
"John?" you said, voice hoarse. You wished it really wasn't him.
He pried his eyes off Bucky without loosening his grip, and half turned to you.
"Oh, you have to be kidding me" You curse, a hand covering your face.
It was really him.
You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the pain. "Get off him you idiot, I'm fine"
John didn't argue. Just got up and backed off, hands on his hips.
Everyone stared at him like he'd just grown second head. Why didn't he protest?
Bucky immediately got to his feet, annoyed, brushing dust from his shirt.
"So ... who even are you?" Ava asked. She was still tied up and this was getting annoying.
"Y/N Walker," Yelena replied, the name burned into her memory from that file.
"That's not my name anymore," you snapped, too fast, too sharp.
John's jaw clenched, eyes going back to that same chipped spot on the wall.
"Wait, you were his wife?" Ava asked, incredulous. "What, Steve Rogers wasn't available?"
Bucky bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something.
"Ava..." Yelena warned, voice low.
As much as Yelena might've loved to take a jab at Walker herself, she didn't, his expression had left a feeling on her chest that stuck to her more than it should've.
"No but really, where'd you even find this guy?" Ava pressed on, like the idea of you marrying John Walker had personally offended her.
You turned slowly, your glare enough to shut her up for half a second.
"Give me a fucking break, Ava. When you're young, you fall in love with the wrong people sometimes." you snapped, without even thinking.
The words tasted like regret as soon as they came out. And you knew the way John stiffened meant they landed like a blade on him.
His gaze burned the side of your head.
If he'd only looked at you like that then.
"Is no one going to mention she tried to kill Mr. Soldier?" Alexei chimed in, at least the drama was interesting.
"I wasn't going to kill him," you muttered, rolling your eyes. "I just needed to knock him out long enough to get rid of you—"
You pause, the pieces clicking together.
"Goddammit. Valentina." You muttered under your breath.
That bitch. She'd really sent you to kill your ex husband without even telling you. What is he going to think about you? That this is what you'd turned into?
"Wait–you work for Valentina now?" John asked, like the words physically hurt, like he couldn't believe that's the path you had taken.
"It's not like that, John," you sighed, suddenly aware of how many eyes were watching. "I was angry at everything. At you. I figured... if running helped you escape your life, maybe it would help me too."
He didn't speak, but you saw it in his face. The guilt, the disbelief.
Had Val gotten to you the same way she got to him?
"She told me she lost a facility to some rogue agents" you explained, more to yourself than to anyone else.
"Yeah" Yelena cut in, "Because she tried to kill us."
You blinked. And suddenly, it all made sense.
You turned back to John.
“She didn't tell me you were one of them."
Your eyes locked on his, for some reason needing him to believe you. To see the truth in you, if nothing else. He barely nodded, but it was enough.
And then, from the corner, Ava scoffed.
"Pfft... perfect family" Ava muttered under her breath, shaking her head at the lie he'd told.
It had been perfect once, you thought. The dates. The proposal. The wedding. The honeymoon. The house with the porch swing.
The high school sweethearts who got married right after graduation because you couldn't keep your hands off each other.
The partying, the late night drives, the making out in parking lots, it was reckless and "romantic", all that was okay as teenagers.
But running wild has a way of turning volatile.
And then suddenly you were grown ups, trying to build a life, a home, a future. But your boy? he only knew how to fight. Maybe for the country. Maybe with you. Maybe both.
That's what he loved, really. The fighting. The heat.
Screaming, slamming doors and then fucking it off was the usual. The real break? Was when there was no more yelling, the unbearable silence.
Silence in a home you thought was built on love. Turns out it was just paper house you burned out.
All that "marry your high school sweetheart, build a dream life behind a stupid white picket fence" bullshit?
Propaganda. Nothing more than that, a fraud.
You weren't perfect, you knew that. Maybe you were even selfish. But was it selfish to want to be wanted?
To want John to look at you like your company meant more than his next mission?
It didn't seem fair.
You thought you had your lives figured out. But then he was made Captain America. You were there when he went to the army. When he lost people. When the world turned its back on him.
But when he got the serum? It was different.
All that pressure. The eyes on him. Expectations he could never live up to, no matter how right he tried to follow the orders.
And he tried. God, he tried. But the weight of it all twisted something in him.
He started carrying it alone like he had to. Like letting you see the cracks would make them real. He stopped talking, started shutting you out.
And in the end, the silence between you became permanent.
So it wasn't the fight, the heat, or that stupid shield what got to you.
It was the quiet between two people who forgot how to ask each other for help.
—
It all happened too quickly. Even for John.
One second you were helping a little boy who fell, the next he saw you dive straight to push Yelena, shoving her away from a collapsed beam.
You barely dodge it.
But now there you were, in the middle of the chaos, standing directly in Sentry's line of sight.
John saw the way your body stiffened. You knew it. And he knew it too.
You made eye contact with him, just long enough to hold the blue of his eyes. That look, carved into his memory forever, like you were trying to memorize his face, like this would be the last time you'd see him.
He was horrified. He wanted to scream. He did scream your name so loud, so broken, it tore through the chaos and made the others flinch. But not even his enhanced speed could reach you fast enough.
One second you were there, and then the next ... nothing.
You turned to nothing more than a black shadow spilling on the ground.
John stopped dead in his tracks, wide eyes staring at the shadow where you stood. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what he just saw.
No. This wasn't happening to him again.
The ringing in his ears drowned out the screaming around him.
Not again. Please, not again.
It was Lemar. It was Afghanistan. It was everything all over again.
It was you, gone.
No, this couldn't be real.
He didnt give Bucky enough time to grab him. He didn't even think twice about it. He ran straight into the void, his footsteps so heavy they tore through the pavement, cracking it beneath his boots.
All he knew is that he couldn't fail at another thing in his life.
When darkness surrounded his eyesight, he crashed onto a wall. His ragged breath was the only thing he could hear as he came to his senses, and realized he was thrown into the same memory, that same room he had stepped in before.
"You're leaving already?"
Your voice behind his back startled him, and he whipped around expecting to see you. The real you. But it was your ghost.
"No, fuck that" John growled, marching forward. "I'm not watching this again."
He grabbed the shoulders of his past self who kept stuffing clothes into the bag like it wasn't costing him everything.
"Look at her, you fucking idiot!" He yelled at himself, shaking his body. “She’s right there!”
His past self looks at him with that same smug, distant, uncontrolled anger he used on everyone else.
John barely had time to react before he was spun around and yanked into a chokehold by himself. His arms crushed his windpipe like a vice.
"Should've done that when you could Johnny" Past John muttered coldly.
John fights to free himself from the chokehold, kicking wildly, clawing at his own arms, struggling against his own brutal strength.
He could feel his breath giving out.
"She’s not here anymore, John" You said, and if felt like adding salt to the wound.
This was it. This was the punishment. Watching himself ruin everything and then being choked by the same hands.
And then, it stopped.
The grip vanished. He collapsed onto the carpet, coughing, gasping for air.
The scene resets.
"You're leaving already?"
"No, no, no" He grunts, dragging himself up from the floor, looking around for a way out.
He spins, breathless. "Nice place, Bobby” he mutters bitterly under his breath, looking around like a caged animal.
He slams himself into the wall next to him, bent shield first. Nothing. The plaster doesn't even crack.
I have to find her. Where is she?
"Come on, baby. Where are you?" He spins again, searching for something, anything. A door, a window, a crack in reality.
His eyes catch on two mirrors standing side by side against the far wall. They shouldn't be there, they weren't before.
Both reflecting something different from what they were supposed to.
Two different scenes.
He steps towards the first one and sees those fucking pillars. The blood stain on the concrete. The day Lemar had–no. He turned his face away violently, he'd save that one for his nightmares.
He turns his eyes to the other mirror and catches the sight of an office. Your lawyers office.
He finds a silhouette across the room, watching the scene unfold on repeat. It’s you. The real you.
He puts his bent shield in front of him and pushes through the glass, landing hard in a new memory.
The crash doesn't startle you. You stand frozen, eyes glazed, watching the scene replay again, the end of your marriage looping in front of you like a broken film reel. Your back is to him.
John doesn't move forward, he can't.
He feels like throwing up when he sees it. The mahogany walls. The glass table. That goddamn vanilla air freshener like this wasn't the worst moment of your lives.
The moment he signed the papers.
You were separated by that long glass table. You sat beside your lawyer, hands fiddling in your lap, eyes glued on him. He was across from you, beside his lawyer.
And worst of all, his past self doesn't look at you. Not even now.
He just sat there, head hung low as he fiddled with the corner of the page. Your fresh signature next to his empty spot mocked him.
He'd told himself that day he couldn't take your angry eyes. But looking now he sees the truth. You weren't angry. You were grieving.
Hoping he'd just meet your eyes one last time. Like maybe if he did, you could still fix it. Maybe he'd remember how he used to look at you, like you were everything.
Like he still had some love left for you.
The pen next to the papers laid untouched for too long. He was dragging it out.
"We just need your signature, Mr. Walker, and we'll be settled" your lawyer said. Her voice slices through the tension like a knife.
It made him flinch, of course she was in a rush. For her, it was another Tuesday. For you, it was the end of the world.
And for him, it was losing the love of his life.
He gathered the guts to finally reach for the pen, signed with one quick stroke, and tossed it back onto the table. The glass cracked where it fell.
Then came the screech of his chair, echoing off the polished floor, and the sound of his boots walking away.
The scene restarts.
John takes a shaky step forward. "Hey" he whispers, voice rough. You flinch. "It wasn't supposed to end like that"
"You just ... wouldn't look at me" You reply, your back still turned away.
"I couldn't" He blurts. "I couldn't see you not wanting me anymore. Wanting to end it all"
You spin around, voice breaking with anger. "Look at my face, John. Did I look like I wanted to end it?–I waited. I thought if you just looked at me, maybe we could salvage something. But you didn't. You never did"
He can't speak.
God, he'd thought about that day a thousand times. About every way he could've stopped it, every word he should've said. But right now? that you're in front of him, sobbing and shaking, he was speechless, too ashamed.
"I tried to be there for you. After the captain America mess, Lemar, the government turning their back on you" You cry, remembering all the shit they put him through. "But you kept pushing me away, like being out there was the only place you mattered. Like having me wasn't enough for you."
"It wasn't like that" he said, shaking his head. "After everything I ruined, the field was the only place I felt like I was doing something right."
You cut him with just one line.
"I'm sorry our home didn't feel like that to you."
The pain in your voice hits him like a train. His pathological need to feel useful, needed, like his skills still held some value, had already taken so much. Then he gave it the last thing that still loved him. You.
"I used to think I knew everything about you" you whisper, shaking your head. "But then you got the serum and it turns I never really knew you. God, I really tried to."
You wipe your eyes, and John feels the earth drop from under him.
"I know I made too many mistakes. But it was real" he says, desperate. "You did know me, you loved me as much as I loved you."
He still remembered everything. The way your laughter filled the room after he made a stupid joke. The way your hands always found his, in crowds, in private, even in your sleep. The way you looked at him like he was worth saving, even when he wasn't sure he was.
"We were never what they made us out to be" you said, bitter. "We thought we were in love, but we were really just in pain."
You lie. Because it's the only way left to protect yourself.
Because you still remember too.
The way his arms felt around you, safe, strong, like the world couldn't touch you as long as he held on. The rasp in his voice when he was half asleep, mumbling nonsense against your neck. The way he made love to you like it was the only way he knew how to say I'm still here.
And the way he looked at you, like you were the one good thing in a world that had taken so much from him.
But you also remembered when it started to change, when the look in his eyes started to fade. The never ending fighting. How the conflict just kept escalating, becoming bigger than it should've.
And it hurt like hell.
He wants to punch a wall. To throw himself into that void he'd seen earlier. He sees right through you, he knows you're lying. He knows you remember as much as he does.
And the scene kept playing behind you, over and over.
"No" He snapped. "We loved each other. I loved you. I still fucking do."
He points at himself with both hands, and that's when you see it.
A glint of silver poking out under his left glove. His wedding ring.
And that's what breaks you.
Because you can't answer. You can't admit you still love him too, not after all he's done. Not when he still wears the symbol of a promise he broke.
He steps forward, hesitating and you turn your face away, but he doesn't stop, not this time. Cause all you ever needed was for him to stay, to fight for you the same way he fought out there.
And now? He would crawl to the ends of the earth if you asked.
So he keeps walking, until he's in front of you.
Your hands cover your face as the sobs tear out of your chest, and his arms wrap around you without hesitation. One hand on your back, the other pulling you into him as he rests his chin on your head.
Your cries break against him.
How could he have hurt you like this?
You don't know how much time passes as he holds you. How many times you heard the pen crack the glass. All you felt was the pressure of his arms wrapped around you.
And slowly, your sobs soften. All that's left is the quiet shake of your chest against his.
"I'm sorry" his voice cracked the silence. This time, he means it with everything he has left in him.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.
Because what do you even say when the apology comes years too late? When the damage has already carved itself into the walls of who you are?
So you just stand there. Wrapped in arms that used to mean home. Sinking into a chest that once felt like safety. Trying to remember how it used to feel.
And maybe that's the tragedy, that after everything this is the closest you've felt to him in years.
And it wasn't enough, not now not ever.
“Please…” he breathes, his voice scraping at the back of his throat. “Please, just… let me try to make things right.” his voice cracks, it’s raw.
And for a second, you freeze. Just long enough to feel it, something you wanted to hear too long ago.
Then you pull away, not harsh, but before he can say more.
You don't want to hear it, not his pain, not his regret, not his late promises.
But his hand catches yours.
“Don’t leave me again, please.” His eyes search yours, desperate.
“John, you left me first” You shake your head, pulling your hand but he doesn’t let go.
“I don’t know if I can fix what I broke. And I know I lost the right to ask for anything from you. But if there’s a part of you, even a small one that still thinks of me when it’s quiet, then let me try. Cause I sure as hell think about you all the damn time”
You look at him, and it’s like he finally lets you see through him. Like he finally opened up the gates he shut on your face all those years ago.
“I was so scared” he admits, eyes looking to the ground. “Of all the weight, of failing, of not being enough for that shield or for you. And I didn’t know how to say it without sounding weak. So I fought everything instead, even…even you.”
“I would give anything just to go back to before I fucked it all up. To that night in the kitchen, when you asked if I still saw you in my future… and I stayed quiet.”
You feel something twist in your chest at that memory, the way his silence echoed louder than any fight you had before.
“I should’ve said yes. God, I should’ve said yes.”
There’s too much in you, too much pain, too much tired, too much history.
But for one second, you let yourself look at him. And it’s just your John in front of you. Bruised and begging.
And maybe that’s what love looks like sometimes.
Just the quiet, broken voice of someone asking for a second chance, even when they know they don’t deserve one.
Your throat feels tight, that fight in the kitchen.
You remember the way you leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to break while your heart thudded like a war drum.
“Do you still see me in your future, John?”
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you with eyes that didn’t hold an answer.
And now here he was, years later. Begging to rewrite a chapter that had already been printed and bound in the pages of your life.
You take your hand back, gently this time.
“You always had perfect timing” you say quietly, voice steadier than you feel. “Just never when it mattered.”
His hands twitch, like he’s ready to beg, to reach, to hold on, but you shake your head.
“I don’t know what this is anymore,” you whisper. “What is left of us, or if there’s anything left at all.”
His silence says more than words ever could. You let it stretch for just a second too long.
You meet his eyes, steady, unwavering.
“I need you to understand that I’m not her anymore. I’m not the girl who built her life around you.”
He nods slowly. He’s not the same guy who did that to you either.
You take a breath, slow and shaky, fingers lifting to the collar of your suit. For a second, you hesitate, then pull it down just enough to reveal a chain.
A ring dangles there, silent and gleaming like a ghost.
His breath hitches like you just knocked the air out of him. His eyes drop to the ring, and for a second, he forgets how to stand.
You still have it, you didn’t discard it, you carry it with you.
Just like he does.
“You kept it…” he says, barely above a whisper.
His voice cracks like a fault line, and your chest tightens because you weren’t supposed to make this harder. You were supposed to walk away and leave no room for what ifs.
John takes a slow step forward, not touching you, just standing close enough that you can feel how badly he wants to.
“Can I…” His voice falters. “Can I still try?”
You say nothing, just looked at him. Really looked at him.
The dark under his eyes, the tired weight in his voice. The ache of someone who finally understood the cost of his actions.
You bit your tongue. You wanted to say yes, that was the worst part.
And maybe that’s the moral of the story. Some mistakes get made, that’s alright, that’s okay. In the end you choose what you think it’s better for you.
Even if sometimes it meant to throw yourself back again into what once destroyed you, because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only thing that can put you back together.
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━ comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3
Uncle Toji comes around once in a blue moon at family gatherings, but never staying for long. Each visit, you remember seeing him wear the same black shirt and sweatpants over and over again, as if he didn't have another pair of clothes. Not to mention that you'd always find him either eating or drinking. Or even having both in hands.
No one really talks to Toji, and Toji doesn't talk unless spoken to, either. So when interacting, it's usually a miss. Even as a kid you've always wondered why everyone ignored him, or how some of your family members weren't keen on inviting him. He looks scary, sure, but the one time you spoke to him he just seemed like any other person. Like someone who just wanted to be acknowledged. But maybe not.
Despite Toji's looks and how he acts, he doesn't drink anything with alcohol like the other adults. When he's drinking something, it's juice, soda, or water—pretty much anything that isn't alcohol. You have seen him take a smoke break or two at the side of the house before, though, far away from the kids and everyone, really. You caught him once, and he had jokingly offered you to smoke as well, then immediately declining when you actually wanted to.
He's also surprisingly well versed and knowledgeable on certain subjects and topics, and you would've never found out if he hadn't seen you studying. He's good at math and history, and helps you understand the terms by using short, simple words. One time, he had given you information on history for your project after just one look."I didn't know that happened," you'd say, and he would provide you with a low chuckle, amused. "Pretty bad, huh?"
He doesn't look like the type, but he remembers things easily. Except for names. And it's weird because he remembers a lot of movies, new and old, their titles and the actors that starred in it. You started to suspect that he either doesn't put the effort to remember other people's names, or just purposefully forgets. Either way, uncle Toji is confusing.
Like everyone in your cursed family, Toji is nowhere near a good person. He feels cracked, forever in shards, unable to fit back together. Everyone seems to notice. And everyone seems to ignore it.
He's intimidating and strong, but at the same time he can look the opposite, even with his physique. Everyone seems to ignore it. To look away, to whisper and judge. To laugh and mock what they created.
And sometimes it hurts you, too, knowing you could never say the things you want to. You were, after all, still a mere child. And words from someone so young wouldn't do anything, no matter how comforting you could be.
Speaking of comfort, Uncle Toji brings comfort to a lot of the kids in the Zenin family. Which was weird, because the adults do not trust him with a lot of things. All they do is ridicule him, either behind his back, or subtly. Yet even though Toji was confusing, he was more comforting than the fathers and mothers the children belonged to. You could see that he never really minded, gaze softening ever so slightly despite his hesitance.
"You should be a father." You told him out of the blue, causing the man to cough, choking on his spit. "What makes you say that?" A hum. "You're nice." Then a pause. "I wish you were my father instead."
Those were one of the rare times his gaze softened in the Zenin household.
his wife ── michael robinavitch
michael 'robby' robinavitch x wife!reader.
summary: robby doesnt advertise his marriage. so when his wife shows up at ED to discuss their son, safe to say the residents were shocked. now they wonder how the two of you met. this throws him back to when he was a ms3.
content warnings: reader and robby w/ 2 year age gap. thought to be 22 and robby 24 when met, around when he'd be a MS3. fluff. med school robby. lightly flirty young robby. lil mention of mature content so pls mdni 18+. reader is clinical psychologist/completeting masters to be one. lowkey implied fem reader shorter than robby. im short im sorry. he adores his wife like hard. two kids.
authors notes: lowkey med school au and robby who isn't as emotuonally consipated in the show. lowkey wanna do a few bits here and there about their life but not sure lol. inspired by this meme.
word count: 4079
Everyone was aware of the chain that hung around Robby’s neck. It peeked from under his scrubs sometimes. Though, no one knew what might be on the chain. There might be nothing or there could be something. Either way, it was always tucked under his shirt.
Nobody questioned it, never really thought to. He’s a private person. Residents don’t ask about his personal life. But they get curious when he steps out to the ambulance bay sometimes, phone to ear.
Santos thinks that maybe he’s faking to take a break. Whitaker thinks he might be talking to a relative, parent or sibling. Javadi thinks … Well, she isn’t quite sure what to think. But she doesn’t think its what Santos or Whitaker’s thinking.
So when a gorgeous woman strolled into the department, beelining towards the charge nurse with a smile, they were confused to say the least. You seemed to be friendly and familiar with Dana, greeting each other like old friends.
The med student and two residents share subtle looks, watching the interaction.
“Is my husband around?” You asked Dana, glancing around to see if he was nearby. It was never predictable where he might be. It’s not uncommon for him to not answer his phone when he works and you don’t blame him. It’s understandable. But it’s rare for you to show up at the department, that usually means it’s important.
The three watching noticed your eyes wandering, quickly busying themselves. Santos and Javadi looked at the same computer, as if they were reading results together. While Whitaker fumbled with the chart he’d picked up. The two women look at him in disbelief and annoyance. Smooth.
“Trauma one. He’s in a mood.” Dana pre warned you, giving you a knowing look. You weren’t surprised by the fact, very aware how moody Robby can be when he’s stressed.
“Not surprising.” You huffed out a dry laugh. “When isn’t he?”
“True that.” The charge nurse hiffs, knowing you'd understand more than anyone. But you’re able to diffuse him unlike anyone else.
“Alright if I hang around?” You asked, knowing the answer but much preferring to be sure instead of assuming.
“Of course.” Dana assured you, well aware you don’t like to presume but instead hear directly. Everyday is different in the ED. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just Levi.” You explained, not details but enough for her to understand that something had happened. Your son could get into his own mess these days, he’s 22 and at college, figuring out his life. Didn’t mean he didn’t avoid doing dumb shit.
Before Dana could respond, her mouth hanging open before shutting as a painstakingly familiar voice rang out.
“What’re you doing here?” You heard your husband’s gruff voice, head turning as he wandered up beside you. He pressed a kiss to your head before his eyes returned to your face. Concern was etched across his features, worried that something was wrong. You didn’t show up here without a reason.
Javadi tried to not look invested but she was, Robby was married? Santos and Whitaker thinking the same thing. And this woman is his wife? No way. That can’t be right.
“Your son decided that getting drunk and running around campus was a good idea.” You informed him dryly. This is the second time you've talked about this. Not that you were angry but more annoyed. You had to leave work, because Robby couldn’t, to go and get him from the police station by his campus. “Naked.”
“Why is he always my son when he does something stupid?” Robby inquired in disbelief before shaking his head immediately. It was too early for this, barely 8:30am. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
He knew that if either of you had passed the doing something dumb gene, it was him. He had never done something quite like that but he was the more reckless between the two of you. He didn’t need to have his workplace hear about some of the dumb things he’s done in his 20s.
Levi isn't a bad kid. Just tends to do dumb things.
Javadi, Whitaker and Santos all shared glances in utter shock. This man has a son? A kid? No way. They don't believe they’d heard this correctly.
“Anyways. He’s alright. But he called Jack who called me.”
“Fuck.” Your husband signed, hanging his head low before looking back at you. “You going to get him?”
He gave you a look that said you gonna go or… not to rush you out but instead to figure out why you were hanging around with your shared son behind local station bars.
“Yeah.” You nodded, pausing before you explained absentmindedly. “Letting him sweat a bit.”
“You’re evil.” He commented dryly.
“It’s why you married me.” You grinned.
He huffed a soft yet dry laugh. He won’t even deny it. Your nature was one of the many reasons he’d fallen inlove with you in the first place. He knows how incredible of a mother you are. He’s cherished raising children with you. He’d never seen you so soft and loving. He sometimes still found it hard to believe you had married and had kids with him.
But he was aware that you weren’t going to let this stint slide.
“That’s why you’re here?” He quizzed, almost a little amused, though pissed that his son had done something so stupid. This would be something you two would discuss with him later.
“Partially. But thought I'd tell you before Jack blabs at shiftchange.” You answered, not going to have spoken to him later about this. It was too important. And you knew Jack would’ve let him know this evening. Better if it comes from you.
Jack has been a staple in your kids' lives since he’d met Robby years ago. When Robby had started working at PTMC as an attending, you’d been pregnant with your second child. When Jack had joined a few years later, your kids were 8 and 6 at the time. He’d immediately grown attached, loving them like they were his own. They adored him, not having a day without him since (minus when he’d been in the army and deployed).
As much as he loves them, he made it clear he wouldn’t keep things from you and Robby. Especially when it’s important. He loved them. But he loves you both too. All of you are like his family. He wasn’t going to lie.
“Good thinking.” He nodded, appreciative you’d told him instead of letting him be blindsited later.
“I’ll head out.” You said, wanting to get this whole thing sorted and just get back home. Not like you’d go back to the office. Thankfully your appointments were all via zoom today, it helped. “Hopefully won’t take too long but i’ll let you know.”
“Alright, thanks.” Robby replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It was something he always did when you’d separate for the day. “See you after work.”
“I love you.” You said softly, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I love you, honey.”
You waved goodbye to him and Dana, turning back around and heading back to your car.
“You’re married?” Santos blurted in disbelief, unable to keep it in. Whitaker nudged her with his elbow in panic, she should not have said that.
He looks over at her, pulling the chain out from under his undershirt. The chain dangled with a gold band hanging from it. His wedding ring. “26 years.”
He doesn’t hide he’s married. He just doesn’t find himself needing to share that information unwarranted. He loves his wife and kids but he prefers to keep his family outside of the workplace. So if he’s not prompted, he doesn't talk about them.
“How… when … what?” Santos stammered, in disbelief he’s been married. To you. For 26 years.
“You didn’t know?” Langdon quizzed the three as he wandered to the desk, amused at their shocked expressions.
“Don’t act like you didn’t react the same way when you found out.” Dana mused, shooting Langdon a knowing look.
He can’t even deny it. When he discovered his attending’s long-lasting marriage, he was shocked. The man didn’t seem emotionally capable. But must've been wrong. He’s grown to know that over the last few years when he’d seen you two interact.
Robby is a man inlove.
“How’d you meet?” Javadi mustered up the courage to ask, curious to hear how you’d met. Especially since you’d been married for so long.
Robby huffed a laugh at the memory, recalling the evening you’d met. It was forever seared into his memory.
1995.
Robby was out with a couple of his med school classmates for a rare night out between rotations. Being a MS3 was intense, going from classroom to real direct-contact work with patients.
The four of them were mostly sharing how their recent rotation had been. They’d all been put into different specialties. Paediatrics, orthopaedics, cardiology and gastroenterology.
He was mid laugh when his eyes glanced over the room, eyes locking on you. It felt like his breath had been pulled from his lungs.
You were out with friends for a monthly catch up. Since you’d both graduated and begun your career’s, you rarely get to spend time together. The two of you made it a point to organise a once a month where you’re both free to catch up in person. Talking on the phone can only do so much for a friendship sometimes.
The two of you were chatting, discussing recent events in your lives. She was halfway through telling you about an incident at her new job.
“God, can you believe it?” She said in disbelieving scoff. “I mean, who in their right mind thinks that it’s okay to show up drunk and deny the whole thing, it's just dumb to try and gaslight your boss.”
“That’s so fucked. Please tell me he was fired. Or at least suspended.” You said in disgust, already hating whoever this guy was.
“I wish.” Your friend shook her head in annoyance. She went to take a sip of her drink, to realise it was empty. “But I will say that I need another drink.”
“I’ll get some.” You said as you stood up with a chuckle, grabbing your wallet. Though you gave her a playfully pointed look. “Don’t venture anywhere.”
“No promises.” she teased, though not really planning to go anywhere. She was the type to just wander away without prompt. But honestly, so are you. She’s just worse than you, especially when intoxicated.
You chuckled and rolled your eyes at the tease, but accepted it. It's normal for the two of you, the teasing. But you do hope she won’t venture far if she decides to.
You made your way to the bar, sliding up between a tall man and a woman, there being a gap. They weren’t interacting so you took it as a safe spot to choose. It didn’t take long for the bartender to make it to you, barely 30 seconds.
“What can I get for ya?” He asked, leaning forward slightly to make sure he could hear you. It wasn’t too loud but to be safe.
“Vodka lemonade and a vodka coke please.” You asked kindly, always making sure to be nice to staff. He nodded and got to making the drinks.
Robby glanced down at you when he heard the honeyed voice. Oh shit. It’s you. He made an effort not to stare at you from a distance when he’d noticed you earlier. He’s not shy but he respects you’d been with a friend and he’d been with his. He barely noticed the bartender he’s spoken to before, placing the beers he’d asked for in front of him.
“Thanks.” He said to the guy but he made no effort to move. He glanced down at you again, at the same time your eyes had flickered up to him. You gave him a smile before looking back ahead of you, eyes seemingly glancing around behind the bar.
Robby’s attention went back to the bartender as he dug out a few bills and handed them over. He gestured with his head towards you besides him. “Her’s too.”
The bartender nodded, not really having much of a thought as he put the money through, conversing with the other bartender for what you’d asked for to figure out the total cost.
Your head had snapped up towards him, eyebrows slightly furrowed. You’ve had guys offer to buy you drinks, your friend too. Though never had been quite as forward as this.
“That’s awfully nice of you.” You commented dryly, looking up at him. You were a little suspicious. But you can't help but think of how gorgeous he is. It’s not actually fair. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” He said honestly, offering you a grin that made your heart skip a beat. Fuck this guy.
“But it got you talking to me.” He added a beat later, that breathtaking grin widening a smidge.
“Ah, so that was your plan, huh?”
“No, kinda just happened in the moment.” He said with a shrug, grin not faltering. It wasn't a total lie. He had been thinking about ways he could start a conversation with you. He normally can do without ease. But you’d made him throw away the idea of using shitty pickup lines.
“In the moment.” You chuckled, a grin of your own forming. Somehow you could tell it wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth. For not, you wouldn’t question it. As gorgeous as he is, you didn’t plan on hanging around long. You had your friend to get back to.
“That hard to believe?” He teased, having noted you seemed to be somewhat amused.
“Nope, but you can’t tell me you don’t already have a list of pick-up lines ready to go.” You joked, but half-meaning it. He was unfairly attractive and you’re sure he knew it. No doubt he could easily get a girl’s attention.
The bartender placed your drinks in front of you. Thanking him, you turned back to the man you’d been interacting with.
“You got me.” He chuckled, not going to deny it. “But they don’t seem like something you’d be interested in”
“Now that's a line.” You laughed, grin turning into a genuine smile.
That smile? That nearly stopped his heart.
“Maybe it is.” He said with a light laugh, not denying but not having intended on it being that way. But really, anything to make sure you kept smiling like that. He leant his head slightly forward towards you, speaking in a conspiratorial murmur. “Did it work?”
“I’m not at liberty to answer that.” You chuckled, unwilling to admit that maybe it was. It might just be his pretty face. But you weren’t immune.
“Besides, I have my friend to get back to.” You added, gesturing over to your friend. When your eyes landed on her, she seemed to be occupied with a guy. The two close together as they seemed in deep conversation. Good for her.
“Ah, that's one of mine.” he chuckled, eyes having followed where you’d directed and seeing it was one of his friends with your friend. He hadn’t quite anticipated his friend chatting with yours. But it certainly seemed to work in his favour here so he won’t complain.
“Yeah?” You quizzed but weren’t completely convinced he hadn’t coordinated that.
“Not my doing. Promise." He chuckled, raising his hands in faux-defence, sensing you thought it may have been. He meant it, genuinely not having a single thing to do with the situation. But he thought of it as good luck.
Your eyes drifted back to him, eyebrows raised. You looked at him for a few beats before grabbing your friend's drink and one of his beers. “Don’t move.”
He didn’t say anything as you left him, and your own drink. Not a smart move but it hadn’t even occurred to you in the moment. You made your way back to the table your friend was at, placing the drinks down in front of her and her guest. You subtly winked at her before you turned back and headed towards the drink and man you’d left.
As you slid back besides him, he felt elated. He hadn’t felt this excited to just talk to a woman in well … ever.
“Gonna tell me your name or am i gonna have to guess?”
“Michael. But you can call me Robby.”
“I don’t see how that correlates.” You mused, raising an eyebrow at him. You don't exactly see how those names worked together. Robby? You think Robert.
“Robinavitch.” he explained with a chuckle, eyes dazzling.
“Ah, gotcha.” You nodded with another light chuckle. Last name. You told him your name in return.
He repeated your name, letting it roll off of his tongue. He liked it. It was your name after all.
The two of you converesed. You discussed your lives, work, study, friends, hobbies. You discovered he was a third year med student, just completing a rotation in cardiology. He mentioned he liked the idea of emergency, wanting to help people at the hardest point of their lives. You respected it, understood it even. You were hanging onto every word he spoke, enjoying the words rolling off his lips and interested in what he was saying. That hasn’t happened in a long time.
He discovered you had graduated with a bachelor of psychology last year, now practising as such as you worked on completing your masters of clinical psychology. You explained how you want to conduct cognitive clinical assessments for patients who think they might have ADHD, autism and anything else that might support patients understand what is going on inside their brains. You didn’t go into details but you had admitted you’d had your own struggles with mental health. That being a huge part of wanting to support others with theirs. You wanted to work in a few areas of psychology, he had gathered.
You two spoke for hours. Literally hours. About everything and nothing at the same time. You joked, had serious topics at hand and discussed absolutely anything either of you could think of.
You checked the time on the wall with a glance, realising it was nearing 12am. God, you’d been talking to him since about 9, knowing you’d been here since at least 8 when you and your friend had arrived. Neither of you even touched your drinks, both just sitting there useless.
“Not to cut this short…” You said with a light huff as you got up from the seat you’d been on. Eventually the two of you had drifted to an empty table, finding it more comfortable to be seated as you chatted. But he would’ve happily stood there in discomfort if he got to hear your voice. Not that he’d admit that. “...but I should go, it's nearly 12.”
He looked at the clock as you spoke, eyes widening in surprise. It had been 3 hours? That’s how long he’d been talking to you. It felt like it had been 30 minutes. His eyes drifted back to you, not going to argue. He should probably find out if his friends are still here or not. You’d both noticed yours and his friend leaving earlier, so you didn’t need to worry about her being alone.
“Yeah, it was great talking to you.” He said with a soft smile. He was disappointed you were leaving but he understood. And he wasn’t going to make assumptions. Not with you. Other women he may have made some sort of line, getting them to go home with him or vice versa to never see them again the next day. But he didn’t want to do that with you.
“You too.” You replied with a smile of your own. “Bye, Michael.”
“Bye.” He smiled, his lips tugging wider at the use of his first name. Not his nickname. But his name. He watched as you waved and made your exit, eyes trailing you as you walking out the front door. He let out a small sigh, disappointed you were gone. He realised a moment later that he hadn’t even asked for your number. The thought slipped. Likely to avoid the anxiety. He;d never been anxious to ask a girl for her number before.
Meanwhile, the cold air was a welcomed slap to the face from the heat of inside the bar. It was soothing. But you couldn’t help the disappointment you felt. You had really begun to like him. You’d spoken for hours. Not like you’d spilled your entire life story. But still, you thought something was there. Something you hadn’t felt before. Not with your exes.
You became annoyed. Had he not felt that? Or did he? Either way, he didn’t ask for any form of contact details for you.
With a huff, you turned back inside and marched towards him.
Robby was shocked when he saw your figure storming towards him. He had just stood up to go in search for his friends.
“Okay. We have something. There’s this … this… I don't know … spark. It's there.” You ranted, eyes wide as you looked up at him. You wished you could blame it on the alcohol because this was not something you did. But you couldn’t help but blurt this at him. You can be embarrassed later. “We’ve been talking for hours. Literal hours. And you don’t ask for my number? Seriously? What the fuck?!”
His eyes were wide in shock as you spoke before softening. He hadn't exactly anticipated you running back to tell him off. It was hot. A soft grin tugged at his lips at each word you said.
“What?” You asked him in annoyance, arms now crossed over your chest.
“Is it too late to ask for your number?” He questioned, a hint of tease mixed in the hope in his voice. He had wanted to ask but had been caught off guard by you leaving. He was nervous at the prospect. What if you’d said no? That’d have just about broken his heart.
“You’re asking now?” You asked dryly. “Because I yelled at you?”
“First, you didn't yell. You firmly stated your annoyance.” He corrected genuinely but firmly “second, i wanted to but i got nervous.”
“Nervous?” you quizzed, not quite believing that. He hadn’t been nervous the entire time you’d spoken to him. Not openly anyways.
“Yeah. Nervous.” He admitted without shame. “Beautiful girl I've been talking to all night rejects me? That's nerve-wrecking.”
“Enough with the lines.” You responded dryly. He hadn’t really given you lines but that didn’t automatically exclude him from going to use them.
“Not a line. I'm serious.” Robby said, sincerity seeping through his voice. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He wanted you to know he wasn’t trying to be smooth. Just honest.
You stared at him for a few moments, debating if you could trust it. He sounded painfully sincere. You don’t think you can fake this kind of honestly.
“Still want my number?”
Present.
“I love her.” Javadi rushed out immediately, then flushing with embarrassment as she realised she said that outloud. Her hand covered her mouth in shock at her own words.
Robby just chuckled, which surprised her and the two residents.
“She’s incredible.” He commented fondly. His mind reeled with thoughts of you. Both from recent years and the early times of your relationship.
“Careful, you’re sounding human.” Dana joked, though she had grown fond of the dynamic between you and the attending. He was practically a different person with you. Your kids too.
“Don’t let my daughter hear that, she’ll use it against me.” He joked back, having broken out of his thoughts and preferring the humour based dynamic in the workplace. He didn’t need to be vulnerable here. Not about his family.
Before anyone could respond, he headed off. Intending to see a patient, check in to see how his residents are doing. But he’d instead slowed his moments and pulled out his phone, pulling up your text chain.
Husband <3: if he claims he was dared, you’re going to let me eat you out
Wife: if he says that he’s made a mistake and won’t do it again, you’ll eat me out
Husband <3: deal
“I’m sorry … DAUGHTER?!”
He heard the disbelief of his resident, ignoring the question and instead pocketing his phone continuing on his day. He’s the chief attending here. At home? He’s just a man who’s obsessed with his wife.
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wips folder. people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then tell them something about it/post a snippet!
