Paring: Gwayne Hightower X Targaryen!Princess
Summary: Despite being a prisoner and the war still raging, a small light breaks through the darkness. Gwayne has arrived at Tumbelton, ready to join Ormund's forces. After months apart, you have the chance to see him again.
Warnings: Smut, barely any plot, porn with feelings, p in v, infidelity (not as you think⊠or maybe yes?)
An: Guys, I wrote this before episode 6 came out and before I saw all the rumors all over TikTok. I don't know, I just felt like a grieving widow or something.
Your hands were cold. That was the first thing you registered, before the news even had time to settle, before your heart had finished its frantic climb up your throat. And when it did settle? Nothing could have held you back. Not the guards, not the restrictions placed upon you, not the sharp calls of your name fading behind you as you ran.
You didn't stop until you saw his back.
The name came out barely a breath, swallowed by the castle noise. He didn't hear you. But the second time, that time your voice found its nerve, you watched his shoulders go rigid, watched him turn like a man who already knew who he'd find.
Gods be good. He hadn't even had time to wash. Dust clung to his hair, his cloak still bore the road's grime, and the shadows beneath his eyes told you everything about how long he had kept riding. No rest. No pause. Just duty, shoved down his throat like stale bread.
And that was all you needed.
You were in his arms before you knew you'd moved, burying your face against his chest, your own arms locking around him like he might vanish if you let go. His came around you a heartbeat laterâtight, desperate. He was really there.
He pulled you in harder, tucked his face into the curve of your neck, and you didn't care about the dirt or the sweat or how long it had been since either of you had felt anything but dread.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was muffled, thick. He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands finding your face. "Why are you here?"
The questions came too fast, worry bleeding through every syllable.
"Ormund knows," you said, and even you could hear how thin your voice sounded. "He knows Rhaenyra won't dare touch Tumbleton if she knows I'm here. If she knows my children are here too.â
His head dropped. You felt the tension ripple through him, saw his jaw work against whatever he wanted to say. He hated this. Of course he hated this. But he also knew, better than anyone, that when Ormund set his mind to something, not even the Seven themselves could pry it loose. The man was stubborn as a mule, and twice as loud about it.
"I'll speak with him," Gwayne said finally.
You couldn't help the small, tender smile that pulled at your mouth. There he was. Your Gwayne. The one who'd move heaven and earth if he thought it might spare you a single ache.
"Don't anger him," you murmured, reaching up to brush a smudge from his cheek. "You won't convince him of anything if you go in swinging."
He caught your hand before it fell, but instead of holding it, his fingers drifted lower. To your wrist. His eyes dropped, following the path of your sleeve, and you watched his expression shift when he spotted what you'd tried to hide.
"You're all right?" His voice was quieter now. Careful.
You pulled your hand back gently, tucking it against your chest. Away from his gaze.
"That question," you said softly, "should be mine to ask." You let your eyes travel over him, the exhaustion carved into his features, the grime settled into every crease of his clothing. You didn't know how far he'd ridden. How long he'd been awake. Or what happened after he left.
"Go. Speak with him." You stepped back, smoothed your hands down your dress. "I'll have a bath prepared for you."
Because if he couldn't rest yet, at least he could be clean. At least he could have that much.
You sank to your knees on the cold stone floor, your dress pooling around you like a whisper of silk against the flags. The fabric dragged softly as you settled, a gentle hush that seemed quiet as the room itself. Just this dim candlelight, this man with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the edge of the tub.
His face was relaxed. Peaceful, even. And it struck you, watching him like this, how young he still looked when the weight of the world wasn't pressing down on his shoulders. Made you remember Oldtown in those early days, when everything had felt foreign and frightening and you'd wondered if you'd ever find your footing. Strange, how different that time feels now. Stranger still, how much has changed since.
You hadn't received a single word from him since the war began. Not one. Ormund had made certain of thatâforbade you from sending or receiving any message that didn't pass through him first. Every raven that flew into Tumbleton, every rider that arrived with news, you'd watched with a hunger that bordered on desperate, hoping for something. A scrap. A whisper. Anything.
You dipped the cloth into the water, worked the soap into a soft lather, and began to trace it across his bare shoulders. The muscles there tensed for just a moment, then eased.
His eyes opened. Like he'd known it was you all along.
It had been months since he'd left. Months that had stretched themselves into years, each day longer than the last, each night emptier. You'd told yourself you were used to it. You'd been lying.
He smiled back at you, gentle and tired, but the worry hadn't left his eyes. It was still there, lurking beneath the surface, a shadow that no amount of warm water could wash away.
"Ormund is with Daeron," you continued, answering the question you knew was coming. "They'll be late. You have time."
Gwayne shifted, turning toward you, bringing his face closer to yours until you could feel the steam rising between you.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Not long after Ormund pretended to surrender to my sister's forces." You paused, watching his brow furrow. "He tried to trick Daemon, sent a different boy in Daeron's place, hoping the ruse would hold."
Gwayne frowned, confusion pulling at his features. He didn't understand. How could he? Since Aemond's disappearance, since Rhaenyra and Daemon took King's Landing, Ormund had kept his plans close. Trusted no one. Spoke nothing aloud that he didn't have to. Gwayne had been riding blind this entire time.
"He told me none of this," he said slowly.
You kept moving the cloth across himâover his arms, across his chest, letting the motion steady you both. "He knew my sister wouldn't recognize Daeron by sight. He sent a decoy, bought himself time. And when the truth came out, he made sure Tumbleton was protected." You met his eyes. "By using me as a hostage."
Gwayne exhaledâa long, weary sound that seemed to carry every mile he'd ridden, every battle he'd fought, every sleepless night. His hands fell still in the water, and for a moment, he just sat there, letting the weight of it settle.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I should have done something. Kept you and the children away from all of this."
You smiled, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. You both knew that was a dream. A pretty one, but a dream nonetheless.
"It would have happened one way or another," you rested your arms along the rim of the tub. "You and I both knew that."
After all these months, his eyes on you felt like warm water on a winter's night. Like coming home.
You brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers trailing across his brow, tracing the lines of his face like you needed to memorize them all over again. Like touching him might quiet the anxious beat of your heart.
"I missed you," you breathed, no louder than a whisper against the wind.
His blue eyes found yours, those eyes that had more than once brought you comfort and company in the loneliness of a strange castle. He breathed your words in the same way you'd spoken them, slow and reverent, and reached for your hand. He guided your fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss there, soft and full of devotion.
"I missed you too," he murmured.
The water had grown tepid around him, but neither of you seemed to notice. Your fingers lingered at his temple, tracing the line of his jaw, and you watched his eyes flutter half-closed at the touch. Like a man starved for warmth. Like a man who'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched with anything other than violence.
"You're still wearing too many clothes," he murmured, and there was something different in his voice now. Lower. Rougher.
You laughed softly, the sound barely a breath. "And you're still covered in road dust. The bath was meant to fix that."
"I'm not talking about the bath."
His hand found your wrist again, but this time he didn't stop at your sleeve. He pulled gently, guiding you forward until your arms rested on the rim of the tub, until your face was close enough to feel the heat still rising from his skin. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across his cheekbones, and you couldn't look away from his mouth.
"Let me finish washing you," you asked, your voice soft but steady.
Gwayne didn't stop you. He simply watched, those blue eyes tracking your every movement as you dipped the cloth back into the water. The soap had long since dissolved, but you worked it anyway, dragging the damp linen across his shoulders, down his chest, over the planes of his stomach. Each pass of the cloth made his breath hitch just slightly. Each touch of your fingers made his muscles tense beneath your palm.
You could feel the heat of him even through the cooling water. Could feel the way his gaze burned into the side of your face, patient and hungry all at once. Your own skin prickled under that attention, flushed and warm despite the chill in the air.
You kept washing him, down his arms, over his hands, between his fingers. You traced the lines of his palms, the calluses earned from years of swordplay.
And all the while, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with something unspoken.
Finally, your hands stilled. The cloth dropped into the water with a soft plop.
You reached up and found the first lace of your dress.
Your fingers fumbled with it, nervous, clumsy, but you'd barely loosened one cord before Gwayne's hand caught yours.
His fingers replaced yours, working the laces with a deliberateness that made your stomach flip. One by one, he pulled them free, each tug loosening the fabric until you could feel it begin to slip. The bodice went slack. The weight of the dress shifted.
Then his hands found the edges of the fabric at your shoulders, and he pushed.
The silk slid down your arms in a slow, whispering cascade. Cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced the newly exposed curve of your shoulder, the line of your collarbone.
And then his lips were there, pressing soft and warm against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. A sigh escaped you, breathily, almost helplessly, and you felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.
"Beautiful," he murmured, the word vibrating against you. "Gods, you're beautiful."
He kissed along your shoulder, slow and languid, his lips trailing a path that made your knees weak. Your hands found his shoulders for support, fingers digging into his damp skin as he worked his way across your collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate. Worshipful. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
"GwayneâŠ" His name came out shakily, barely a whisper.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and something in his expression shifted. Darkened. His hands found the loosened fabric of your dress and pushed it further down, letting it fall past your waist, past your hips, until it pooled on the cold stone floor in a heap of silk.
You stood before him, bare and trembling, and he looked at you like you were the answer to every prayer he'd ever whispered.
"Come here," he breathed. "Come here, please."
You didn't need to be asked twice.
He helped you into the tub, his hands firm on your waist, guiding you slowly, carefully, until you were standing between his thighs, the water lapping at your calves. The warmth of it seeped into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.
You lowered yourself onto his lap, facing him, and the feel of his skin against yours made you gasp. His chest pressed against your breasts. His thighs caged yours. And his hands, those steady, calloused hands, found your hips and held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
His hands began their slow exploration.
The curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft give of your hips beneath his palms. He traced you like a man learning a map by heart, each touch a line drawn in ink that would never fade.
You leaned into him, your body softening against his touch. Your eyes drifted closed, and you let yourself feel
The warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breath, the way his thumbs swept in lazy circles against your skin. The water had gone cold around you both, but neither of you cared. His heat was enough. It was always enough.
He shifted beneath you, drawing closer, and you felt the brush of his chest against yours. The slight roughness of his skin, the way his heartbeat thrummed against your palm where your hand had come to rest over his heart.
His lips were so close you could feel the warmth of his breath.
"Don't get my hair wet," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "I know."
Was slow, unhurried, a kiss that tasted of longing and patience and the ache of months spent apart. His lips brushed against yours like a question, soft and tender, and you answered by tilting your head, by parting your lips just enough to let him in. He has always asked.
He deepened the kiss slowly, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. The taste of him was familiar and foreign all at onceâhome and discovery tangled together. You sighed against him, your fingers curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your chest pressed against his, your thighs tightening around his hips, and you felt every inch of him against you. The water sloshed gently around you, a soft rhythm that matched the beat of your heart.
You draped your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, and kissed him back with equal tenderness. Your tongues met in a lazy, rolling dance, slow and sensual. His hands wandered down your back, tracing the valley of your spine, the curve of your bottom, the backs of your thighs.
" I'd forgotten how good you feel." he breathed against your lips.
"Don't forget again," you murmured back.
He smiled against your mouth. "Never."
His hands found your breasts, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing across your nipples in slow, teasing circles. You gasped into his mouth, your hips rolling against him instinctively. He groaned at the contact, low and throaty, and his hands tightened on you.
"I know," he husked. "I know. Just let meâlet me touch you. I need to touch you."
And he did. His hands roamed your body like he was relearning every curve, every dip, every secret place that made you shiver. He traced the line of your throat, the hollow between your breasts, the soft skin of your inner thighs. Each touch was worship. Each caress, a prayer.
You let him. You gave yourself over to his hands, to the slow, languid exploration that left you breathless and aching. Your own hands mirrored his movementsâtrailing down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, lower still until your fingers brushed against him.
He hissed through his teeth, his hips bucking into your touch.
"You're going to undo me," he rasped, his voice catching on the last word.
You smiled against his shoulder, your fingers still wrapped around him, stroking slowly, deliberately. The sound he made, low and guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, sent a thrill through you.
"That's the idea," you whispered.
His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward his. Those blue eyes, dark now, hooded with want, searched yours for a heartbeat. Then he kissed you again.
Your fingers were still wrapped around him, stroking lazily, and he groaned into your mouth. The vibration of it traveled through you, warm and electric. His hips rolled against your hand, seeking more friction, and you gave it to him, slow, torturous circles that made him break the kiss with a gasp.
His hands slid down your back, gripping your hips, and you felt the shift in his body. The tension coiling, the intent building.
Water cascaded from his body in sheets, streaming down his chest, his thighs, splashing back into the tub with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. He lifted you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locked around his neck. You clung to him, startled and breathless, as he stepped out of the tub.
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I've got you."
Water dripped from both of you, pooling on the stone floor as he carried you across the room. His skin was warm against yours, slick and damp, and you could feel every shift of muscle as he moved. The strength in his arms, the steadiness of his stride.
He laid you down on the bed, gently, so gently, like you were something fragile. The sheets were cool against your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he followed you down, covering you with his weight.
His forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. Water dripped from his hair onto your face, your chest, and you blinked up at him through the droplets. He looked like a god like this, all sharp angles and soft shadows, his chest still heaving, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
His tongue met yours in a slow, sensual dance, and you felt his hips settle between your thighs. The weight of him pressed against you, the heat of him seeping into your skin.
"Are you all right?" he breathed against your lips. His hand came up to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. "Tell me you're all right."
"I'm perfect," you whispered. "I'm perfect right now."
He smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. He kissed your forehead, your nose, each corner of your mouth.
Then he reached down between you, guiding himself to your entrance, and you felt the blunt pressure of him against you.
"Look at me," he husked. "I want to see your eyes."
You did. You looked into those blue depths as he pushed inside you, slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The stretch of him, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, it stole your breath. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, and a sound escaped you, low and breathy.
He stilled once he was fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving against yours.
"Move," you pleaded. "Please, Gwayne. Move."
His hips began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a deliberate, languid stroke that made you see stars. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against your neck.
"Like that?" he murmured, his voice rough. "Is that what you want?"
"Yesâyes, like thatâ"
He kissed you, swallowing your words, and you felt his rhythm quicken. Still deep, still deliberate, but faster now, more urgent. The bed creaked beneath you, a soft counterpoint to the wet sounds of your bodies moving together.
His name came out in a broken gasp of your mouth.
âI can feel you squeezing me."
You were. You could feel the tension building low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed at the sensation, his pace growing rougher.
"Come for me," he rasped. "Please. I need to feel you come around me."
Your climax crashed through you like a wave, splintering you apart, and you cried out his nameâloudly, wantonly, without shame. Your body clenched around him, pulsing, and he followed a heartbeat later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere primal.
Your humming filled the quiet room, soft and lilting, a melody you'd half-forgotten from your own childhood. Your fingers moved through your children's hairâslow, soothing strokes that made them sigh in their sleep. They looked so peaceful like this. So small. So untouched by the war raging beyond these walls.
Two hours. That was all Ormund allowed you. Two hours a day to sit with them, to hold them, to pretend for just a little while that you were still their mother and not just another piece on the board.
Your smile faltered. Just slightly. Just enough for someone who knew you to notice. You dropped your gaze to your eldest, tracing the curve of his cheek with your thumb, buying yourself a moment to compose your features.
"Today you're late," came the voice from the doorway.
Ormund stood there, silhouetted against the torchlight in the corridor. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was unreadableâthat careful mask he wore when he was measuring his next move. You'd learned to read him over the years, but some days he was still a closed book.
"I wasn't feeling well," you answered.
He said nothing. Just watched you with those dark eyes that missed nothing. The silence stretched between you, heavy and expectant. You knew that silence. It was the one that came before a question you didn't want to answer, or an accusation you hadn't seen coming.
"How is Daeron?" you asked, desperate to fill the space with something neutral. Something safe.
Ormund's head tilted, just slightly. "I heard you received Gwayne."
Your body went still. The kind of stillness that came too fast to hide, too obvious to deny. You felt the flicker of panic in your chest and forced it down, forced your expression to remain calm.
"He's your cousin. Of course I received him." You offered a smile, careful and measured. "It would be strange if I didn't."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A smile, or the ghost of one. You couldn't tell if he was mocking you or if he'd taken your answer at face value. With Ormund, it was always impossible to know.
He walked toward you until he stood directly in front of you. You had to lift your chin to meet his eyes, the difference in height making you feel smaller than you wanted to.
It was a question, or maybe not.
Lying would have been pointless. He could probably smell the soap on your skin from here. You'd been careless.
"The servants didn't notify me," Ormund said, and there was something new in his voice now. Something that made your stomach clench.
"Do they need to notify you every time I take a bath?" You tried for incredulity, for indignation.
Ormund shrugged, a casual roll of his shoulders that did nothing to ease the tension in the room. "You're my wife. And you're quite important at the moment. Of course I should know everything you do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Five seconds. Ten. You didn't move, didn't blink, didn't give him anything to work with.
Then you rose to your feet.
Now you stood at his height, your chin level with his, your eyes meeting his without flinching. You were a prisoner, yes. But you were still a lady of a great house, and you would not cower.
"You can ask the servants," you said evenly. "I ordered the bath prepared. There's nothing to hide."
Ormund's lips curved into a smile.
He reached out and took a strand of your hair between his fingers, rolling it absently, watching the way it caught the firelight.
"Did he tell you why he arrived alone?â
You kept your face neutral. "He told me nothing. He barely had time to accept my regards before you summoned him."
Ormund's fingers released your hair, and he stepped back. His smile had faded.
"He's been away a long time. I'm sure he'd appreciate the distraction."
There was something in the way he said it. A hint of amusement, or suspicion, or both. You couldn't tell, and that was the worst part.
"I'll do that," you replied, keeping your voice even.
Ormund turned toward the door, but paused at the threshold. He looked back at you over his shoulder, and for a moment, the mask slipped. You saw something flicker in his eyesâsomething that might have been jealousy, or might have been warning.
"Don't forget who you belong to," he said quietly. "You're my wife. My hostage. Keep that in mind.â
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were left alone in the quiet room with your sleeping children and the echo of his words.
For someone who used to express his repudiation of your blood and name, sometimes he made you think that, at times, he didn't.
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