✦ maekar targaryen x niece wife! reader ⋆ just a lil thought... about how vocal you are in bed — so shameless that even baelor can hear you through the walls. +18
a long, throaty moan tore from your lips. your back arched in a sinuous curve, pressing your hips back against maekar as he fucked you from behind with deep, relentless strokes.
“close your mouth,” he growled, breathless. “by the seven hells, quiet yourself.” his fingers dug into your hips, holding you firmly in place as he drove into your cunt again and again.
you had been entangled for some time now, yet you showed little inclination toward silence — or even discretion. the unfortunate knights stationed beyond the door were undoubtedly hearing every shameless sound you made. so too was your father, baelor, who was likely twisting his rings with weary resignation, eyes closed, silently praying that his brother would finish claiming his daughter and be done with it.
“I… I can’t,” you gasped, a dazed, half-witted smile curving your lips as his cock plunged in and out of you with wet, obscene sounds. you were so slick, so utterly soaked, that your body welcomed every inch of him with greedy ease.
he snarled in frustration. your body shuddered as he drew back slowly, only to slam forward in one savage thrust, striking that devastating spot deep inside you. pleasure tore through your nerves like lightning.
and you cried out... loudly.
“then bite the pillow,” he commanded. one broad hand glided down the elegant line of your spine before gripping the back of your head, pressing your face firmly into the silk.
a soft, foolish giggle escaped you, muffled against the cushion that was quickly darkening with your saliva. from that angle, you could still glimpse him sidelong — his handsome face twisted in a potent blend of ecstasy, irritation, and shame.
how would he ever face his brother again after this? the walls were thick, yet your cries seemed determined to slip through them. of that, he was certain.
“have you not heard me?” maekar hissed through clenched teeth. he seized a fistful of your hair and pinned your face harder against the damp silk. “I said bite.”
only when you finally obeyed did his voice soften with dark satisfaction. “good girl,” he exhaled, listening as your moans were deliciously stifled.
he watched from above as your body continued to move in perfect rhythm with his — arching wantonly, offering him deeper access, your eyes fluttering with bliss while drool trailed from the corner of your mouth and down your chin.
with a low curse, maekar lowered himself fully over you, pressing your body into the mattress. his thrusts grew fiercer, more demanding, his cock pulsing inside you with urgent need.
“ugh. come here,” he murmured hotly against your ear, his breath caressing your flushed cheek. “turn your face to me.” a flicker of envy for the pillow stirred in him. “I will silence those fucking sounds myself.”
the moment your teeth released the silk, his mouth claimed yours in a fierce, devouring kiss. His tongue plunged deep, swallowing every moan, every desperate whimper.
“yes… moan for me now, you wicked creature,” he rasped between kisses, his body growing taut as release approached. he drank down your cries of pleasure, feeding you his own guttural groans as your inner walls fluttered and clenched around him, milking him with desperate pulses.
a raw, ecstatic sound broke from your throat as he gave one final powerful thrust, flooding your depths with thick and hot pulses of his seed.
when the last tremors had faded and exhaustion settled over you both, he withdrew with a heavy sigh. he rose, fastening his robe, and tossed yours toward you with casual authority.
“clean yourself and go to your father,” he said. “I expect you to apologize. otherwise, I doubt I will be able to meet his eyes on the morrow.” his voice dropped, laced with both exasperation and lingering desire. “damnable woman.”
heat flooded your cheeks as reality descended like cold water. you had been so utterly lost in the feeling of him moving inside you, in the way he possessed you so completely... oh, no! what have you done?
maekar fixed you with one last stern look, yet you caught the faint, satisfied gleam in his violet eyes.
“what are you waiting for, niece?” your husband prompted. “go. perhaps this will teach you a measure of decorum next time.”
I'm so fucking sorry. my head still throbs but my soul decided to speak up 😮💨
Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Reader
Type: Headcanons
Warnings: mentions of children and pregnancy, I guess.
Relationship: established.
Requests: OPEN :)
Jean’s always wanted a big family, but you were a little more hesitant.
When I say big family, I mean like 5+ kids.
He wanted the first pregnancy, but it was unplanned.
After the first, all other pregnancies were planned.
He’s surprisingly good at changing diapers.
Always makes sure you and the baby come first.
He did his best to make sure you got your cravings.
He never left you alone during the pregnancy.
He was worried about leaving you for more than 5 seconds because he wanted to be there if you needed anything.
Jean’s a very strict parent.
He always has a curfew set for his kids when they leave the house.
Plans need to be made a week in advance before his kids can hang out with their friends.
He needs to know where they’re at, who they’re with, and what time they’re leaving/coming home.
When you’re not home, he likes to take the kids out to the movies, to get snacks/drinks/treats, etc.
He reads the kids to sleep and puts them to bed/gets them ready for bed so you can rest.
Jean is definitely the "embarrassing father” when his kids get older.
He’s very close to his mother, and she comes over often to see the kids, who absolutely adore her as much as she adores them.
Jean doesn’t really agree with his mother, though, because he thinks she spoils the kids too much.
I think Jean would have 3 girls and 2 boys, minimum
He’s the type of parent to play Barbies and beauty salon with his daughters
But he wrestles and horses around with his sons to the point that you constantly have to tell them all to stop doing it in the house.
In a modern world, Jean and the kids have a weekly movie night on Saturday nights, where they’re usually watching Shaun the Sheep or Spirit together, cuddled up together in blankets in front of a large tv mounted on the wall.
he makes paintings of and for his family
he draws cartoons for the kids sometimes
he teaches the kids how to draw
he's the one who painted and decorated the nursery walls.
જ⁀➴₊⊹ AKOTSK men & their dicks !! : an in depth (and realistic) profile.
sorry aerion, i love you but i’ve gotta give the people the truth… xo
── .✦ ( AERION ) Prince Brightflame may have an immense ego, but he certainly doesn’t have the assets to back the bragging. he sits below average, a mere 4 inches while hard.
he grooms himself extensively, keeping the pretty white hair down below trimmed short, hoping it’ll give the illusion of a more substantial member… it doesn’t, really.
despite the meagre length of him, his cock is quite pretty: pale as the rest of him, with a prominent vein running down the underside of the shapely shaft, the blue hue of the vessel making him feel almost vampiric.
the even more unfortunate part of his less than satisfactory cock is that he really has no idea how to please a woman with it— his stroke game is trash!! all the whores he’s had are, of course, paid to act. paid to act as if he is the most glorious and erotic and pleasurable thing they’ve ever had the honour of having.
after Lys, however, Aerion deals with people he doesn’t fill the pockets of. he learns how to please women (and men) properly, understands that sex isn’t just in the way you can thrust, but also in your fingers and your tongue.
── .✦ ( DAERON ) though he’s a drunk that can’t even get it up half the time, Daeron always makes the ladies in the brothels happy with his cock. he’s a nice and girthy 5.5 inches, his shaft soft and velvety, a bit darker than the rest of his skin. he has a natural habit of leaking the moment he’s aroused, and has ruined many a pair of expensive breeches because of this. his cock is a bit of a stretch because of the width, so you’ll need a bit of prep beforehand, a bit of practice before taking the whole thing. he knows how to stretch you out with his fingers first though, don’t worry!
he doesn’t care much for his physical appearance, and the same goes for his downstairs grooming habits, which are nonexistent. his pubes are unruly, but natural, which isn’t a bad thing for most. he goes unwashed for long periods at a time… but lets just imagine he smells of musk and man, of something desirable and arousing in a kind of animalistic way.
Daeron is truly lucky he’s so handsome; it makes up for his more deplorable traits.
── .✦ ( VALARR ) a pretty cock for a very pretty boy!! the princeling is 5 inches, with a beautiful pinked hue to the skin there. Valarr doesn’t have much experience, though. he prefers to spend his days in princely leisure and in training his sword-skills. he’s a bit shy around women, despite the stoic face he shows to society.
as for the pubes… well, the carpet matches the drapes! if you somehow find yourself in his bed, you’ll have the pleasure of your nose pressed up against a neatly trimmed bush of white and brown.
he showers often. the man takes great care in his appearance—not in an obsessive way, but in a way that makes it clear that he takes the time. the normal musk a man might have is mostly covered with the perfume-y scent of lavender.
── .✦ ( MAEKAR ) with six children, he has to have something fantastic down there, doesn’t he? his cock is 5.8 inches (above average!), a bit on the skinnier side, but a good cock nonetheless. the goodness lies in the way he knows how to use it— and he knows how to use it exceptionally well!!
Maekar doesn’t bother with grooming downstairs, despite the care he clearly puts into his beard and hair. he’s too old to give a shit, he’ll say, if you ever comment on how unruly the thatch of white is.
── .✦ ( BAELOR ) Baelor is quite an exceptional man… he’s 6 inches, and quite girthy, which makes for a nice stretch when he slides it in. it hits all the right places— it’s a shame he doesn’t use it very often.
Breakspear’s pubes are salt and pepper! they’re thick but trimmed, and go a little bit further up than normal, but who doesn’t like a happy trail?
── .✦ ( DUNCAN ) a man nearly seven feet tall must have something great beneath his braies… and that assumption would be entirely correct! Duncan is a whopping 8.5 inches as well as being incredibly thick— the average woman’s fingers wouldn’t be able to meet if they were to hold it in their hand.
his cock is tanned and smooth, the head turning a pretty pink when he gets turned on, and into an angrier red when he starts to get taken care of.
he doesn’t groom—he doesn’t really know people even do that. his pubes are a sandy blonde, (somehow a bit lighter than the hair on his head), and travels rather far up to his navel. yum! happy trail! he’s just a very hairy man downstairs.
the only problem is… he has no idea how to use his cock.
— AUTHORS NOTE i really love doing posts formatted like this… guys please send more requests for headcannons!! so much fun trying a new style of writing as well!
you still remember that day at training, where varka's muscles flexed under his clothes, and the way his veiny hand pulsed around the wolf's gravestone.
and yet, here you were, in the flagship, literally getting railed by varka. who knew this would happen just a week later??
even as he's railing into you, you keep staring back. staring at his meaty biceps and veiny hands, just wishing the archons you would get crushed by them.
that memory of him in the training ground, his muscle straining against his shirt, just made your cunt pulse around him even more.
a particular sharp thrust snapped you out of your thoughts as varka groaned and threw his head back, your eyes rolling back at the same time.
your eyes kept returning to the same spot, no matter how many times he makes your eyes roll back.
and he noticed.
he leans down, face level with you. "yr' staring, baby. somethin' wrong?" his thrusts slow down, and he's ready to hear you out everytime.
"i..." you hesitate. you know he doesn't make you feel embarrassed, yet it feels so different to say it out loud.
"i want you to... i want you to put me in a headlock.."
"oh? what was that?"
you know hes teasing. but fuck, you just want him to crush you at this point.
"i said- i want you to put me in- a headlock." you say, in between shallow breaths.
"mmhhm. is that so, pup?"
"yes. yes please." you were quite literally shameless. you said and did everything you could to get what you wanted.
"please what, baby?"
"please sir. i need you."
"atta girl."
he leaned back over your body to his original position, his palm slowly sliding from your hip to the dip of your waist, then finally towards your neck.
you could finally feel his hand through your hazy vision, and your cunt fluttered in anticipation.
his forearm brushed roughly against your cheek, hot and flushed. then, it settled around your neck, his wrist resting on your shoulder. he pulled your body up gently, using just his forearm to lift you.
"...like this, love?"
your pussy speaks before you can, a soft moan tumbling out of your lips, and you wrap your hand around his bicep, finding balance. "yes- yeahh... like this!" his cock is pressing against a new spot now, which makes you chase your release faster.
your head felt so heavy, and so did your body. but all you could care about was the fact that you were getting fucked by the hottest man you've ever laid eyes on.
then, your release hits - you cry out, your body twitching as your orgasm washes over you. you squeeze varka's bicep, which in turn makes him squeeze it around your neck slightly tighter.
"mmhm, there we go, atta girl." your cunt pulsed at that nickname.
🏩 "𝑽𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑨," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ nsfw varka's cock is big, as we all assumed, and it just causes a little bulge on his wifey’s abdomen when he's balls deep inside her ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა artist credits: @/aveli.nnn on insta plz reblog / like 2 support ⠀ ⃘໋ׅ♡ 𝑤.𝑐: 0.6k ⁀ ˳ ⟡
#⃝ 𝓦ARNINGS ◦ ₊ㅤ ㅤ﹙ smut p i v sex varka’s huge mentions of breeding reader’s body allows tummy bulges unprotected sex varka’s mean & teases you this mf knows exactly what he’s doing 2 u finger sucking mentions of cunnilingus reader is his wife slight dumbification
໒ִ 𓈒ིྀ ˚ ℳINA'S 𝓝OTES ⫽ ୧ྀ ─ I’m writing this before I go to bed after studying and reciting ⁺ ノ masterlist ◦ ₊
VARKA’s cock pulsed deep inside your pussy, your half lidded, pleasure-drunk eyes meeting his teasing ones.
“You feel me deeeep inside you, yeah?” He spoke in a low deep hum, kneeling on the bed before you, his hips pressed against yours. The room felt hot, sweaty, walls too thin for what you two were doing. Mondstadt saw him as the grandmaster, smiling, perfect, and a little empty headed at times. You were the one who saw past the outer shell, who got to experience him at his most depraved state.
His favourite state; being balls deep in his wife.
You hummed softly in response, naked and sweaty beneath him. Your thighs were aching from the past 20 minutes of “foreplay” which he loves so much. Burying his face between your thighs while striking his cock but edging himself so that he could finish inside your warm, sweet hole.
“I’m not letting any of it go to waste, m’kay?” He had told you, before filling you up repeatedly with his sticky white seed.
His hand shifted from your thigh, warmth spreading to your tummy when his large hand pressed down gently. Eliciting a soft moan from you, your hands clawing into the silk sheets, curling your toes and squirming. As if you weren’t already on edge. “Mmm… s-stoppp.. don’t press there,” you whined, left eye closed from the twitching pleasure.
“No?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking, before lifting his hand obediently and staring at your abdomen. “S’hard not to… can see my cock bulging from inside your cute belly,” he hummed lowly, hips slowly pulling back.
It’s almost like you could feel what he was about to do, already watching your back and holding on a breath. His hips slamming forward, knocking the air out of you, a loud moan passing unfiltered through your soft lips. “Fuck… you sound good with me in you, you look incredibly good with me inside you, you smell so good when I’m in you… wanna marry me, doll?” He breathed out, his hand moving from above your abdomen to grab your chin.
“We’re already marriedddd.. stop talking and just fuck me..”
He chuckled, moving to push his index and middle finger into your mouth. “Don’t even need to ask twice…” he grinned, eyes half lidded with blissful pleasure. He blinked, watching you instinctively suck on his fingers with muffled soft moans, before he pulled his hand back, pushing your thighs down against your chest again. Lifting his hips, and slamming back into your again.
Plap. Plap. Plap.
Your breathing had quickened, your head lolling to the side, moaning out loud between every thrust. The room was loud and lewd. A fwop here and a shlorp there. “A-ah.. ah… mmh..!” You moaned out for him, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut. While he was groaning shamelessly and moving his hips with a desperate pace.
“F-fuck yeah… you love this, don’t you?” He chuckled between his own gasps at your mindless nodding, “love being fucked dumb by me,” he punctuated dumb with a sharper thrust, pressing the gummy head of his cock against your cervix. Before focusing on the quicker, more shallow thrusts.
His pace quickened when he felt the tingle at the back of his spine, that euphoric sensation buzzing through him, before he stuttered and slammed against your hips for the last time.
Cum spurted from the tip of his cock, painting your walls in his warm white seed again. Filling you up for the nth time that night. His body blanketing yours in a warm hug, kissing the tension and stress away on your face. “Y-yeah.. just… a little more, angel..” he breathed out, muscles tightened and sweating all over. Nose nudging against your cheek.
“Just… a few more rounds, I need to see your tummy all big, whether that be from our babies… or just that cute bulge from my dick.”
Tags ✶ uncle/niece incest, mutual pining, religious guilt, devotional penance (self-flagellating), mild masochism, love confession, smut, kneeling, non penetrative sex, oral sex (female receiving)
Wordcount ✶ 3,505
Growing up together in Oldtown, Gwayne now struggles to accept that as you grew into a woman, his feelings changed from brotherly love to unbridled passion. You discover by chance that he has taken to discipline himself as Septons do.
Gwayne Masterlist
Nightly prayers were a ritual as much as they were a burden to Gwayne, one he could not consider forgoing even in his darkest moments. No matter the course of the day, once the sun had kissed the horizon good night, he bathed and kneeled, freshly washed and cleaned, on the carpet, and prayed. He spoke to the Seven as he had been taught as a young child, in private whispers, offering grateful thoughts and praises, and begging for forgiveness for his transgressions.
As all living human creatures, he was a sinner, and of all the sins that could plague men—wrath, greed, jealousy—it was the sin of the flesh that corrupted him. He was the son of the Hand of the King, nephew of the Defender of the Faith ; he had values to uphold and beliefs to defend, but inside him lurked a deep seated shame. He was a lustful creature, coveting the most precious, forbidden thing.
The daughter of his own sister, you.
Once a child in the charge of his uncle Lord Hobert, you were now a young woman of age, with many a young lord in the tower eager for your favor at tourneys.
Every one of their attempts was rebuffed with grace, and every time it settled Gwayne’s mind—it was selfish, to be relieved in seeing you without a suitor, but in the darkest corner of his mind, he coveted your hand, knowing it would never be his.
While you were a Targaryen, he was not, and where he came from, where his blood was born, such an attraction was forbidden and looked upon with repulsion.
Therefore once a week at the least, when his love became too wild and his desire too present, he came to his rooms at night with the intent of atoning. There was a ritual to it ; first he would fold his shirt, then place his knees wide on the carpet, adjust the grip of his hand on the familiar handle, and proceed.
This night was no different. He settled at the foot of his bed and took the whip he had begged the Septon for, many moons ago. The old man had praised his devotion to the Gods, only because he knew nothing of the lusting beast inside of Gwayne.
It was made with a handle of braided cords that split into lengths of the same rope, with heavy knots on every strand, each as long as his lower arm. It looked almost harmless, simple hemp rope, but when whipped across the back, it was brutal.
“Father, give me the wisdom and courage to face this weakness,” he prayed out loud, and braced for the pain that was to come.
The first hit across his back made his breath catch in his chest—for a moment there was nothing, then a line of heat bloomed across his skin and he hissed behind gritted teeth. He never allowed himself to cry out or moan, instead he bore his self-inflicted punishment in silence.
“Mother, give me the grace and patience to bear this burden,” he pleaded, and the second strike hit atop the first, reawakening the pain, a line of fire that made hot tears prickle at the back of his eyes.
As a rule, he disciplined himself with seven hits, and a prayer with each, counting each one aloud. With every strike, a new layer of pain was building atop the preceding hits, and if he did it with enough strength, he was utterly spent by the time the seven strikes had been completed.
Tonight was no exception, and by the time he was nearly done, his knees were threatening to give out. “Warrior, give me the strength to overcome it,” he sobbed.
The seventh hit felt like salvation. He dropped the flogger and fell to his hands and knees on the carpet, but he could breathe again. His mind was clear, and his traitorous cock was soft between his legs—he was relieved of his burden, for a time at least.
Wandering thoughts and wandering eyes were sins alike, as much as touch, you had been taught in your youth by your Septa. Transgressing in your mind and in your heart was deserving of correction, and the Gods were attentive to even those silent sins—and yet there you stood, untouched by any sort of godly punishment, save for being forbidden to love the one you loved.
Growing up in Oldtown alongside your mother’s kin, you had followed a strict upbringing, rooted in faith and the fear of the Seven Gods. However no matter how much you prayed or how long you spent reading scriptures, there was a part of your soul that you could not tame.
Perhaps it was in your blood—after all, many blood relatives had been wed inside the House of the Dragon, brothers and sisters, and uncles and nieces alike. Yet the man you longed for belonged to another house, and to other customs.
The object of your admiration and desire, none other than your uncle Gwayne, was currently showcasing his talent with the sword, in training with his cousin Ser Ormund for all to see. The two men enjoyed practicing in full view and it was always a spectacle you enjoyed.
Despite his arrogance, Ormund did make a good show of himself in tourneys and on the training field, but your eyes always strayed to Gwayne, no matter who he was competing against. It would have been more appropriate for you to admire your cousin Ormund.
While an uncle and a niece was an appropriate match for Targaryens, it did not extend to other houses in the land—here in Oldtown, it would be more than frowned upon, it would be forbidden.
Gwayne was kind and gentle, and had never treated you as an ignorant child. Ormund often took pleasure in reminding you of your young age and lack of knowledge of the world, while Gwayne listened to your thoughts and opinions, and never dismissed them. The two of you shared a passion for the arts, and some sort of understanding about the world around you.
Sometimes there was a glint in his eyes that made you foolishly hope he would one day see you as more than his sister’s child, and that in his instinct to protect you, there was more than mere duty, but the primal desire of a man to defend his chosen spouse.
Thoughts straying on dangerous paths, you watched as the two men charged each other as children would, laughing and forgoing all proper technique. Ormund was agile despite his size, and the man liked to brag, which was how he ended up twirling on himself and hitting Gwayne square across the back—the young man hissed and moaned, cursing him out.
“Gwayne,” you cried out as both threw their practice swords aside and turned to their respective benches, where you followed him. His back to you, he took a linen cloth and dipped it into the basin of water provided, wiping the sweat from his face and the nape of his neck.
“There is a spot of blood on your shirt,” you remarked, and forgoing all propriety, untucked the linen from the waistband of his trousers before he could protest.
The gasp that tore from your throat served as a bucket of ice water across his back, and the flush of heat from his training vanished. He spun around suddenly, but the damage had been done—horror was spread across your graceful face.
“Who has done this to you?” you asked. Across his back, you had seen lashes from a whip, with deeper welts that you could not make sense of, and bruises underneath.
“No one, fear not,” he replied, but it did little to assuage your worry.
“What do you mean?” you inquired.
Gwayne looked at you, seemingly ashamed, his high cheekbones flushed and his hairline as well, pink disappearing into his fiery red hair, and for a moment you thought he would not answer. “I discipline myself, when it is necessary,” he finally replied, quick and sharp, and his answer was almost worse than what you had imagined.
“Prayers ought to be enough, surely,” you protested with a small smile, attempting to ease his embarrassment.
However his answer was curt and severe. “It is nothing I do not deserve. I am sinful and I must atone,” he explained, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and taking his leave without another look towards you.
“No one is without sin,” you said quietly, unsure whether he had heard you, and watched his retreating back, the traitorous spot of blood between his shoulder blade a startling crimson against the white cotton.
That night, you could not find sleep. The sight of the red streaks across Gwayne’s back was haunting you, as well as the admission that he had been inflicting such punishment upon yourself. Knowing you would not rest until the matter was resolved, or at least discussed, you rose from bed and slipped a robe on before making your way to his chambers.
It was quiet in the Tower. Slipping along the hallways without a word, you reached the bachelor’s corridor and knocked quietly, unwilling to attract any attention. Light was coming under the door, yellow and bright across the stones, and you thought candles were still lit—Gwayne was awake. Perhaps he was reading as he was prone to do before bed, or perhaps praying.
As no answer came, even when you knocked a second time, harder, you pressed your ear to the heavy door. It was inappropriate, you were aware, but the afternoon’s confession had taken hold of you, giving you more audacity than you naturally possessed.
What you heard through the door made your heart startle in your chest. The sound was faint but rather unmistakable—the whistling sound of a whip followed by muffled grunts. Tears rose in your eyes and against your better judgment, you turned the handle and entered, closing the door behind you.
In the middle of the room, on the carpet, Gwayne was on his knees, his bare back to the door. It was already streaked with angry welts, his pale, freckled back flushed pink with raised marks. In his right hand, he held a flogger made of corded rope, but before he could deliver yet another hit to his own flesh, you cried out.
“Gwayne!” you called, and he startled, the flogger falling to the floor in a muted sound as he rose and turned, looking frantic.
“I did not hear you come in,” he said almost as a defense—his face was crestfallen, his eyes full of tears, and you noticed with heartbreak that he was shivering in pain.
“I beg of you,” you pleaded, reaching out to him, but he took a step backwards. “It causes me great pain to see you inflict this upon yourself.”
“I must atone,” he protested.
“Then let it be through prayer, good works and charity!” you insisted, looking so earnest he wanted to lean into you. “Whatever burden you bear, I would bear with you if only you would share it with me,” you continued, and your words of friendship only added to the ache in his heart.
“I cannot,” he said once more, but you would not relent.
“Why?” you cried out, and he loathed to be the source of your distress, but he would rather the Gods strike him down where he stood than speak of it and cause you even more anguish. His shame was his own to carry, and he could not stand to burden you with disgust.
“You are the source of my torment,” he finally confessed, his cheekbones flushed red and his eyes full of tears.
Sweet and innocent as you were, you did not seem to understand what he was alluding to. “What have I done that is so terrible that it plagues you so?” you asked. “Please tell me.”
“The fault is not with you but with my treacherous mind,” he explained.
“I don’t understand, please speak plainly,” you pressed, your hand flat against his chest, and perhaps it was the softness of your palm against his wildly beating heart that finally broke his resolve.
Gwayne closed his eyes and sighed. “Please forgive me,” he murmured, and setting his hand atop yours, confessed. “I yearn for you, even though I know I should not.”
“Gwayne…” you murmured, hope galloping in your heart like a horse across a plain, suddenly freed from its reins.
“I desire you, and I cannot rid myself of this cursed affliction,” he admitted.
Eyes wide and mouth dropping open, your gaze did not leave his face as you removed your hand from his grasp—he let you go easily—only to lower yourself upon the floor and pick the flogger up, rising again.
“Then take this and punish me as well, because I am just as sinful as you are,” you said tearily, handing the flogger back to him, but more assertive than he had ever seen you.
With a trembling hand he took it, thunderstruck as you walked to the dinner table while undoing the laces of your night gown. Pushing your hair aside, you dropped the garment until it pooled at your waist, held at your elbows, and bared your back to him, bracing yourself on the edge of the tabletop.
“I desire you as well,” you confessed then, loud and clear, glancing at him over your shoulder. Stupefied, Gwayne approached carefully, his eyes roaming the expanse of your skin with barely concealed greed.
A shudder ran across it as he raised a hand and the tips of his fingers traced the curve of your shoulder blade. Against his better judgement, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then the back of your neck. “Punish me, then,” you cried out, and his heart ached—no matter how you begged him, he knew he was at fault, he knew he was the one leading you astray, but he was weak.
The flogger fell to the ground in a muted sound, and then you heard the thudding of his knees on the carpet—you turned and there he was, kneeling, devastation painted on his handsome face.
“Do you think me wicked?” you asked.
“Never,” he replied, quick and certain as though he knew no other truth, and at that you freed your gown from the crooks of your elbows, and the fabric fell to the ground, pooling at your feet.
“Gods have mercy,” he whispered, his gaze following the drop of the fabric and remaining caught at the apex of your thighs, your most intimate place now bared to him.
Leaning against the tabletop, you gripped its edges and waited. He could easily send you away with a single word, or chastise you as an uncle ought to chastise his transgressing niece, but instead he was looking at you like a supplicant looking at a goddess, worshiping the sight of your curves. Slowly he raised his hands and rested them alongside yours, finding purchase on the smooth oakwood.
The first kiss of his mouth upon your core was reverence, a taste of the heavens—his lips were soft and almost shy, afraid to startle you. Instead it spread a gentle heat in your core. You trembled and sighed when he did it again, firmer, lingering slightly.
Attentive to the way your sighs grew deeper, he allowed himself to be bold, and licked across your folds once—you quivered then, one of your hands carding through his bright mane.
“Gwayne,” you gasped like a prayer, and his own desire burst in his core. His cock filled with blood against his thigh.
He licked the seam of your folds once more, pressing at your pearl with a flick of his tongue, relishing how it made you quiver and whine. Slowly, he built a rhythm you thought would drive you to madness, kissing your pearl and pulling it between his soft lips before pressing his tongue past your folds, into the sensitive divot that led into your body. Each of his kisses and each pass of his tongue was making your thighs quiver, liquid heat spreading into your veins, throbbing in your core.
In your pleasure, your hand had tightened in his hair, but the sting at his scalp only spurred him on.
“Please, I need to feel you—” you sobbed when he thought you would finally collapse where you stood, desire and pleasure making you tremble violently.
He knelt back, looking up at you with reverence. His mouth was a gift, and it was a transgression far greater than you would have ever imagined would take place between the two of you, but not enough to sate your hunger.
“I will not take you,” he replied, almost broken. “It would only damn us both.”
“I will be damned if you send me away now,” you protested.
Devout, he rose until he was standing over you, and swiftly took you into his arms and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his slim waist. He walked you to the bed, his length trapped between your stomachs, and you whined, unable to rock back against him.
When finally he lowered you to the sheets, discarding his trousers, you did not let go of him, instead found purchase to grind up into his body, spreading your wetness over his cock.
It was only a facsimile of what he desired most, but the look of rapture on your face made it impossible for him to refuse you. He dipped his head down and captured your lips in a kiss that spoke of all he could not voice, his mouth hot and relentless against yours. You whispered his name against his own lips, kissing him back with as much passion and yearning.
Taking his cock in hand, he guided it to where he most desperately wanted to sheath himself but could not. Biting his lip, he teased the head of his cock between your folds, feeling your wetness and the way you clenched around his absence, the divot leading into your entrance squeezing him. It was the cruelest torture to you both, a taste of what you both desired but could not have.
Only allowing you a taste of the forbidden, he took his cock away, making you mewl, only to find his place against your core, trapping his length between your stomach and his, your pearl caught against it.
He started a desperate rhythm, nearly frantic by moment, sating the hunger that threatened to unravel both your minds, and painfully slow the next, trying to stave off the peak that was rising in him. There was no grace to it and yet you were grinding back against him, lost to it and unable to contain the moans that felt from your lips.
“Gods be good, how lovely you are,” he praised, slanting his mouth over yours for a breath of air at your lips, falling into your embrace further, your knees digging into his waist, your hands curled at his shoulders.
Gwayne hissed when you dug your nails into his sore back, reminding him of the burning streaks there, but the pain only seemed to incense him more. He looked undone, and the sight of him was more arousing to you than the feeling of him between your legs—his skin was flushed the loveliest pink, his freckles standing out like the stars on the backdrop of a dark sky, his eyes wide and wet in wonder.
He swallowed, taken by yet another shudder, and it seemed to you that he was on the verge of collapse.
Once more he guided the head of his cock past your folds, snug against the flesh that prevented him from pushing inside of you, pressing against the limit he had set for you both.
“I love you,” he sobbed, and those three words snapped the tension inside of you like the edge of a knife to a frayed rope. Crying out, you threw your head back as your peak speared you to the very core, pleasure pulsing through you until your ears rang with the force of it.
Gwayne moaned, feeling your core throb around the head of his cock. He cursed aloud, pulling away with barely a split-second to spare and spilled his seed over your belly in hot ropes, unable to restrain himself any longer.
As pleasure rescinded, the reality of his transgression rushed over him at the sight of his seed on your skin, over your womb, and shame pulsed in his chest at how it aroused him. “Gods forgive me,” he said, and you kissed the prayer from his lips.
“We shall pray together then, and earn their forgiveness,” you promised. “However the Gods cannot fault us for the way they made us. My soul calls to yours, and surely that is of their making.”
Gwayne hoped that you were right, and that he was not leading upon a dark path, one that would be your downfall. “As mine calls to yours.”
Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. A special thank you to @/zaldritzosrose and @tumblin-theworldaway who encouraged me to write this!
⋆❀˖ gwayne hightower x wife!reader married life habits .☘︎
cw: fluff, suggestive language
a/n: based on this lovely request <33 loved writing for him sm!!
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✦ gwayne is the type of man who absolutely adores his lady wife. borderline worships the ground she walks on. his wife is his north star, the core of his life purpose, the source of love and affection so deep, he thanks the gods daily for giving you to him
✦ despite all the battles he won and heroic victories, once you are wed, he realizes that he is the happiest in the comforting atmosphere of oldtown and you by his side. it sounds simple but apparently it is all he ever wanted, something solid to devote his life to, something he could never find in fights or tourneys
✦ your days always start with each other. gwayne wakes you up with trailing soft kisses down your neck, shoulder, chest, worshipping the skin slowly, until you stirr fully awake. he can’t get enough, simply obsessed and grateful, appreciating what he considers his very thoroughly
✦ he insists on always having breakfast in your company, discussing plans for the day, and recent events. it's always a very animated discussion, followed by a clash of opinions and laughing. he always listens to your opinion in political matters, it is one of the many things you can share together
✦ one of gwayne’s main love languages is physical touch. always kisses your temple in passing, puts his arm around your shoulder just to have you closer, always touching you in some way. sometimes it’s soft and romantic, sometimes… borderline improper. gwayne is never shy of being attracted to you and appreciating your presence. always shows his desire openly, so you never even question how he feels about you. no one questions it. though, despite all the lustful glances and seducing touches, he always ensures you are comfortable first, never making you feel awkward or nervous because of his words or gestures
✦ he genuinely sees you as the prettiest and the most interesting woman in every room. loves when other people compliment you or praise you, it strokes his ego just right. he is the type to just look at you dreamily and ask “isn’t she magnificent?” in front of everyone. totally smitten
✦ gwayne is passionate and expressive by nature, very teasing and playful, there is always this boyish mischief in him. loves flustering you. says outrageous things out loud on purpose just to receive a swat on his chest from you. he lives for your reactions and annoyance is one of them
✦ loves going on walks with you, holding your hand, talking. lots of talking. this man never shuts up, he could spend hours getting lost in the scenery of old town with you by his side and your laugh
✦ gwayne is the type to cherish presence more than anything. he brings you along with him wherever he can. he values your opinion because you know him better than himself. but if he is being completely honest, he just feels better when you are around, when he can tangle his fingers with yours or to whisper a teasing comment to your ear
✦ he is a yapper, yes, but he also listens. it might seem that he is not serious enough but his brain tracks every comment or new information about you he might stumble upon. gwayne knows which flowers you love and which hate, knows your favourite maids and the servants that talk coldly with you, knows where you liked to be kissed and that you pout when he doesn’t give you enough attention during the day
✦ gwayne knows how to make your heart beat faster with a glance and a word. he is a natural flirt and reads you like a book, always using his ability to feel your body against you. his hands will tease your thighs under the table while he pretends to be engrossed in a conversation. he will whisper obscene things, that are in fact promises, to you before parting, leaving you giggling and irritated
✦ always says he find feasts especially boring and draining, but secretly loves the opportunity to show you off. his eyes always find you first in a crowded room. he will be talking with guests and his gaze is fixed on your figure on the other side of the room. he is possessive in a soft way, follows you like a cat, trying to catch your attention just to be clingy with you afterwards
✦ it is some sort of tradition, for you to patch him up after the trainings. he simply refuses anyone else touching his face or treating his cuts except you. gwayne will sit there shirtless, with the biggest grin, looking up at your concerned expression as you bandage his forearm and just enjoy the soft moment of intimacy, answering to your scolding of him being reckless with a playful “is it bad I love when my wife has another reason for touching me?”
✦ gwayne is never shy about kissing you in public. in fact, he prefers it when there are witnesses of your passion. doesn’t matter where he is or who is watching, he will kiss your cheek or forehead for a quick goodbye and will pull you in by the waist and give you the kiss and makes your knees buckle if he is leaving for longer
✦ despite his teasings and light improperness, he is very chivalrous and attentive in a soft secure masculine way. he always stands up when you enter the room, not out of obligation, simply because you are his wife and you deserve respect. offers you his arm wherever you go together, it’s automatic, he never has a second thought about it, just like with waking on the outside of the road and having a hand on the small of your back in the crowds
✦ insists on helping you mount your horse himself, every single time. of course, always using an additional opportunity to grope you playfully, but mostly just because he views it as one of the many things he, as your husband, should help you with
✦ if he was away for several days, the first few hours after coming back home, he will spend just following you around. hugging, kissing, nuzzling. if you are walking the gardens, he is pulling you in a secluded corner to remind you how much he missed you. if you are reading or answering letters or simply busy, he will sit silently beside you, with his hand on your thigh or his head on your shoulder
✦ gwayne might be a little flashy but when it matters he is quite. he never brags about the things he did for you and most of the time you don’t even know it was him, who arranged for your favourite wine and fruits to appear at supper, that it was him who ensured your rooms are always the temperature you prefer, that it was him who ordered servants to feed stray cats that lived behind kitchens when he saw you doing so
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
part one
synopsis. You are named Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne upon your return to the Red Keep, following months as a Hightower hostage. Ser Gwayne Hightower, your former escort and secret lover while on the road home, is captured and thrown into the dungeons of the Keep.
contents. smut, angst, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider, show-canon divergence, love confessions, reader lowkey gets post nut clarity and is still just as oblivious, dry humping, finger sucking, fingering, p in v
a/n. the timeline for this fic compared to the show is so off but lets just ignore that and enjoy the story PLEASE. theres also less smut than the last part so sorry in advance if thats what you were looking forward to - its still there just not as much - i wanted this part to serve as sort of an epilogue and not its own entire thing
Gwayne would like nothing more than to turn his own blade inward and let the steel put an end to his immoral life.
He would have done it weeks ago if you had not been lurking deep in the shadows of his mind—the maddening shape of you standing behind the closing gates to the Keep, forever to haunt him for giving in to the gold cloaks and their command for him to leave.
He should have laid down his sword, got down on a knee, and he should have sworn fealty to your mother. Yes, he might have been prolonging his inevitable demise—a beheading, or a hanging, or perhaps immolation by dragonfire—but anything would have been worth it if it meant he could sit with your presence for just a few moments more.
The rain had come and gone several times throughout the day. It was relentlessly pelting the top of his head now, as his men prepared to continue the march toward Tumbleton. He should not be thinking of your face, but you persist. You have only now just begun to leave him.
He cannot remember the shape of your nose well enough, nor the exact inflection of your voice. It comes to him in moments then promptly slips away. Soon, the rest of your features will be sentenced to the same fate, and if he survives the war, he will only be able to remember you as a fleeting figure deep in the crevices of his mind.
He hopes he does not survive the war.
Worst of all, he cannot escape the dream of a life with you.
You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife, you had said. He had brushed you off thereafter, told you that you should not worry yourself with eventuality, and then he had distracted you with his mouth.
His decisions regarding you had only sealed the truth of his character. He cannot escape the fact that he is a coward, and the fact that he deeply abhors himself for what he let happen that day, and for what he did not do—but nothing will change now. He will continue the trek to Tumbleton, and he will continue the loop of war, like the dishonorable man he is.
He will continue to think about you. Of your smile, only brought on by the simplest of things and the most surprising of things, nothing in between. And of your unwavering loyalty to your mother—the thing he would never truly have for his own cause. And the fact that you loved him, you truly loved him—the fact that you said it, and the fact that he said nothing in turn.
He and his men were soon overwhelmed by enemy bannermen wearing black and red before he could cease in his reflections. And just as he had at the gates of the Keep, he had given up without a fight when they tried, letting himself be thrown to the ground without even reaching for his sword.
It had been a small ceremony, your coronation as Princess of Dragonstone. There were no high lords, and none of your siblings either. It was just your mother, her husband, and her council members, as well as the Dowager Queen and her own daughter. It was over quickly.
You begged and pleaded with your mother the day before to choose anyone but you. To choose Joffrey, as he was still young and learning—that you were too old and too overwhelmed with the war and with your duties “as a young maiden” to learn anything about ruling over the Seven Kingdoms.
They were all feeble excuses, but they were all you could think of in the moment your mother proclaimed you as heir. You never wanted to be queen of anything, and your mother knew it, which was why she had named Jace as Prince of Dragonstone despite your precedence over him.
She had apologized, and you could see sympathy in her eyes as you argued against it, but her decision was final. You were to rule as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday, probably with some noble house’s lord as your husband. Perhaps the son of your former betrothed—you believe his name is Benjicot. He was young, but closer in age to you than his father was.
Would you get to choose your husband? Perhaps your mother truly would force a marriage between you and one of the Dowager Queen’s younger sons as a way to secure peace. You hope not. One is mental, the other you know nothing of except that he is a Green.
The thought brings you back to many moons ago, when you had committed treachery with one of them. Not just any one of them, but the uncle of the usurper.
You find yourself thinking about him more as the nights grow restless—the day he had taken your maidenhood, the days following, and just how little you regret it. You hate yourself for worrying about him, but the heavy hum of nervousness persists. You have long already loathed yourself for your disloyalty.
The idea that Jace would understand brings you comfort in your dread only for moments before it is overtaken by the fact that he wouldn’t. Just like how your mother wouldn’t understand, nor your cousins. Not even your ladies-in-waiting.
Your kin would probably name you a traitor, and if they would not put your head to the sword, they would marry you off to some elderly lord, and your life would be squeezing out heirs until you died in the pursuit. You believe you deserve as such.
You wonder if he has already taken another lover. Perhaps he is already dead. His head rotting on a pike somewhere, body having been used as meat for hounds. You’d prefer that to it being used in pursuit of another’s pleasure.
If he is alive, he has probably forgotten all about you by now. The only thing on his mind must be survival.
“Open the gate!” a gold cloak had yelled, and the gates screeched against the gravel as they parted.
You had been called forward by your mother to view a gift from some bannermen on the roseroad. She had instructed a different gold cloak called Ser Manfred to accompany you to the King's Gate, the same spot where Gwayne had been taken from you weeks ago.
Something sudden and unfamiliar washes over you, worse than the chill—something indescribably dreadful, as if your entire life as well as your future had flashed before your eyes, and you see him for a split second behind your eyes. Him, Gwayne, the only man you have ever truly loved, there in your head and gone the next.
It comes back to you, in that moment, what you had said to him. You had told him you loved him in the haze of intimacy, and you hadn’t been in possession of your thoughts enough to see how he reacted, if he even reacted at all. Had he said it back? You cannot remember. If he did, you did not notice.
A little voice in your head whispers to you. You will see him soon enough. He will tell you then.
You squeeze your eyes shut a moment, as if to ease the voice away. It works for only a moment.
Two men on their horses amble in. You breathe a sigh, somewhat relieved yet all the more disappointed that he is not with them, and let your head drop to your chin.
He is, the voice whispers again, and your head jolts right back up.
A third horse has trudged in behind them in the time you had been recollecting your scattered thoughts. There he was—your man, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a thick rope tied around his middle and another binding his hands to each other.
He was thinner than you remember him being, and much more disheveled. Prickles of hair had begun to sprout on the lower half of his face. And his limp, restrained body was slipping off of his horse.
“He is going to fall.” You step forward, voice heightening as his frame curls further off the mount. “He is going to fall off his horse.”
At that, his body gives, and he drops to the ground with a heavy thud. It knocks the wind from his lungs and he heaves weakly, using the rest of his strength to try and flip himself over, to no avail. His throat is scratchy and you cannot make out what it is trying to say, but he attempts to speak nonetheless. All that comes out is slurred and nonsensical.
“What is this?” you ask the bannermen, who you now notice to have been letting out stifled chuckles at Gwayne’s peril with wide grins on their faces.
“Well…” one of them glances over to the other, the smile having been wiped from his face as he searches for a good enough answer for the sorry display. “It’s a Hightower, Your Grace.”
The other takes a single step forward, holding a proud finger up to get your attention. “Not just any Hightower—Otto Hightower’s eldest son.”
“And why haven’t you killed him?” you question.
The first bannerman shrugs. “We thought you might want to do it.”
You look back down at Gwayne. He has made it to his knees, torso curled toward the ground, but he cranes his neck up to look at you.
Your brows furrow and your pupils dilate, despite the sight before you. His brows are equally as downturned—more so, even, and you look away.
“I will not have him killed. Ser Manfred—” you turn to face him. “Take Ser Gwayne to the dungeons. Have him fed. I shall discuss the terms of his apprehension with my mother.”
Ser Manfred nods, moving forward to lift Gwayne up to his feet. Your eyes track the pair of them as they trudge across the yard, until they finally pass through a doorway.
“Your Grace—” one of the bannermen says. He clears his throat. “We were hoping—both of us—if there might be a… reward for our services—”
Your eyes haven’t left the doorway which Ser Manfred and Gwayne had disappeared into, and the bannermen’s speech does not draw your attention away from it.
“There shall be no reward,” you state.
You take off to re-enter the castle, heading in the direction of the small council chamber—where your mother had been meeting with her privy council.
Normally you would be with her—since you had been since being named heir—as a cupbearer for the council. You’d assumed they had been discussing something both incredibly important and incredibly confidential, and that was the reason why she had sent for you to attend to the arrival of the bannermen. Now, given who was with them when they arrived, you are unsure of her intentions.
You remember fragments of the day you returned to the Red Keep, but none of it is certain in your mind. You cannot recall the exact words you desperately uttered to your mother as you watched the gates lock you away from Gwayne, but you know whatever they were, they were much too honest. You cant remember what she said in turn, if she said anything at all.
You seem to have buried much of the last few months deep in your head. The fact that you have disappoints you, as most of it includes what happened on the roseroad with Gwayne. All you can recall is what you felt. The feelings you felt for the first time, and those you felt for the last time.
Now he is here. Here, as a prisoner of war, much like you were up until just weeks ago. Surely, you can protect him the same way he protected you. At least for a few moons. Until someone powerful enough calls for his death.
Once you make it to the small council chamber, the few of its members are already pouring out. You peek through the half-opened door, and sure enough, your mother sits at the head of the table. Judging by her strained figure that seeks to push itself further back into the chair than humanly possible, she seems vexed. You can only hope you don’t push her further.
The final council member files out, one you’ve yet to have seen before, and you slip inside. Hushed conversation dies down as the eyes of both her husband and her Mistress of Whispers fall unto you.
You step forward and replace your disconcerted expression with a calmer one. Your brows settle back over your eyes, and the corners of your lips turn up.
You offer her Mistress of Whispers a polite nod, and glance over to the man across from her. “Stepfather.” He nods back at your acknowledgement.
Your mother burns holes into you. She attempts the same, a happier face, but it comes out as a swift breath of air from her nose and a closed-mouth grin which is no doubt artificial.
It depresses with each second of silence on your end. You shake your head once to get the thoughts back to you—Gwayne—
“Gwayne,” you blurt. The faces of the White Worm and the Prince before you curl into something you can only recognize as amusement.
You lift your chin up anyway and clear your throat. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Otto’s eldest. He has been captured by our men. He is currently held in the keep’s dungeons.”
“He escorted you from the Reach, did he not?” Daemon interjects, a finger pointed up and at you.
You look between him and your mother. She offers you a small nod, so you proceed. “That is correct, my Prince.”
“Wandering back into the dragon’s jaws, has he? The gall must run in the family.” He looks over to your mother, letting a smirk inch over his mouth. At her blank expression, he pushes himself into an upright position, intertwining his fingers together.
She exhales. “As Princess of Dragonstone, the choice is yours to make,” she begins. “The prisoner is yours to dispose of.”
“He must live, mother.” You find yourself wringing your hands together, unable to stop. Your mother leans forward. “To execute Otto Hightower’s eldest son just weeks after you did he, it serves their narrative of you, that you are cold-blooded, and merciless.”
Daemon’s mouth opens before your mother can reply. “Perhaps it serves us better to be seen as merciless—”
His words are cut off by the White Worm very loudly clearing her throat. You notice her head shake gently in his direction.
You clear your throat once more. “Lord Ormund Hightower already believes Targaryens to be a savage race. If we slaughter the Protectors of the Faith to near extinction, that would send a message to the—”
“Okay.” A tight smile strains your mother’s lips. She rises swiftly from her seat.
You think she might be leaving, so you open your mouth again. “We hold him, and let him rot in the cells under our watch, where he can be useful.” It is that last word, useful, that halts her.
Her chin drops to her chest. “If he stays in the dungeons, you will handle his confinement, and you will ensure he surrenders the…” her head shakes as she searches for a good word, “intelligence we require.”
She makes her way around the table and situates herself in front of you. Her hands rise to your arms, and then one brushes your hair from your temple, ignoring how it falls right back into place after. “Does that sound suitable to you, daughter?”
You nod, and she smiles sincerely. Her hand cradles your cheek for just a second more, and she departs. Her husband and the Mistress of Whispers disregard your presence as they follow after her.
The dungeons were empty, save for Gwayne. Your mother had all the prisoners “taken care of” throughout the week she had come back to power, you had soon discovered, the first of which being Gwayne’s own father.
Your loyal lady-in-waiting, Cissy, had told you it was a gruesome sight—one she was not even supposed to see, but she had been looking to see if you were with your mother when she had come to take back the Keep. You hadn’t seen her since the start of the war, as she had been forced to remain in the castle while you were away with your family on Dragonstone, becoming one of your cousin Helaena’s handmaids.
Cissy continued, describing in detail how your mother had been crying as she lifted Dark Sister, and first delivered a strike to his back instead of his head. The second blow had been the one to behead him, and she had ascended onto the Iron Throne, leaving footsteps of his blood on the path to it.
You had always thought your mother to be capable, and hearing the story of how it happened had left you somewhat satisfied. You were proud it was not her husband to do it.
Not only were the dungeons empty, but they were dusty all the more. Dusty, and with the stench of sweat, from the countless other prisoners held for nearly a century-and-a-half before you—the now-dead prisoners.
In spite of all you were taught as a child, even what you were told by the most exceptional of maesters in the entire realm, you cannot recall ever learning of a prisoner who ever survived the dungeons of the Keep. Or, of a prisoner who has ever escaped. Did anyone love that prisoner, though? Did they have someone to feed them hope while they rot?
Two white cloaks stand guard beside his cage. He’s been placed alone in one of the celled blocks, and thankfully not the one with the heavy steel door that truly confines you from any outside life. You recall Cissy telling you that Otto was held there.
“Leave us,” you instruct the guards. They hesitate for a moment, and share a glance between each other, but depart eventually.
Gwayne looks worse in the candlelit dim of the dungeons. He has not touched the food that has been provided to him, and it instead sits as food for insects.
His eyes are shut, you quickly find, and his head leans against the wall. You do not think he has ever looked so peaceful. But his eyelids peel open, and the natural scowl returns to him as quickly as his vision does.
You straighten your back and cease the staring.
“My princess,” he mumbles. His voice is still hoarse, but he can get the words out now. He uses seemingly all of his strength to push himself up from the ground.
You feel an urge to correct him, despite your insistence on the truth being anything but. “Your Grace.”
“Your…” His brows pull together. “What?”
Your hands are wringing again. “Jace is gone. I have been named Princess of Dragonstone. The Iron Throne is my birthright now.” The words feel like glass as they come up your throat. Your head bows to look at the dirt floor, instead of at his puzzled expression.
“I…” he mutters. “You remain my princess.”
You cannot bring yourself to look him in the eye for long. He finds it as easy as breathing. It must be why his gaze seems to pierce through you.
Your pointer finger begins picking at the skin around your thumb. “To be perfectly truthful, I’m not sure what to do with you.” On your other hand, your thumb runs against the backside of all the other fingers. You keep your eyes fixed firmly onto the floor.
He chuckles. “What does the Queen reckon you do?”
“The Queen and her council think it best that I kill you.” You inhale, and the softening of his features goes unnoticed. “Do you believe it? Me, killing you. It is madness, Gwayne.”
“If I must die, I am ready,” he murmurs, leaning his head against the cold metal of the cell.
Your hand has found a place on your sternum, rubbing back and forth, attempting to calm yourself. The thought of killing Gwayne was never certain in your mind—it would never be certain—and it brings you immediate distress. His brows knit together at the sight.
There is offense in your voice, alongside tremble. “I will not be your executioner.”
He looks up at you, genuinely pleading, as if you would not defy the stars to bring about his being. “But if it must be so, let the last thing I feel be your touch.” His fingers curl around the cell bars. “Even if it brings about my death. That is all I ask.”
You take a step closer, gently placing your hands overtop of his. “You will not meet the Stranger as long as you are down here.” Your forehead, wavering in its effort, lies against his. Gwayne shudders at the contact. “Besides, I’ve already discussed the terms of your confinement to my mother.”
You let your eyes shut, unable to look into his.
“I must go now,” you whisper, yet you do not move. Unsurprisingly, neither does he.
When you finally pull back, you see a single tear fall from the corner of his eye. Your hand comes up to swipe it away, and it lingers on his cheek for a moment longer, before you breathe a shuddery breath and push yourself away from him.
You were never particularly close to your grandsire, Lord Corlys Velaryon. You had only strayed further from him since the war begun, in both relations and distance—in fact, you do not think you have had a single conversation since long before you flew off to fight the Hightowers yourself.
It was a foolish decision. You realized that when you hesitated to rain fire upon their army, and directly after when you and Silverwing had been pelted with arrows—and as your body met the ground—and as the Hightower belligerents advanced to your position. It was certain as you watched your dragon fly away on your instruction, and as you began bleeding profusely from a shot to your shoulder.
The next few moons came and went, and throughout most of them, you were not conscious. You remember a man, a kind man, wearing green and protecting you from the danger that are men with fury. His face slips from memory. You remember all but that.
“I will not have her killed,” he had said. “I will not let her be a martyr for the Black cause.” And then you were out again.
You wonder if your sympathy for Gwayne comes only from your love for him, or also as a deeply-rooted need to requite that man for saving you. You reckon it is both. If not, he had certainly taught you something valuable about negotiation. The idea to keep Gwayne alive for such a reason wouldn’t have come to you if not.
Your grandsire was there in the Gullet when your brother was shot down a similar way. Only he did not live, and neither did Vermax. You find that the gods have a curious way of letting someone such as yourself live over someone so brave and steadfast.
Cissy tells you Corlys can be found wandering around the castle these days—that he does not seem to like it on the water very much. It is just your luck to find him in the gardens overlooking the Blackwater Bay.
“Grandsire,” you chirp, and he turns to face you. A smile washes over his face, certainly most curious as to why you are here, instead of attending to some other matters.
He steps closer to you, his hands linked behind his back. “Princess.”
You find it simpler not to correct him. “It is peaceful out here, is it not?” you look to the bay, and he mirrors you. It is not just idle talk. It truly is peaceful. It is enough to make the feigned smile on your face falter.
“Indeed,” Corlys murmurs. “I find myself out here more often than not these days.”
You take a step forward, so that you are standing next to him instead of behind. “I was pleased to hear of Ser Addam’s knighthood. It is most wondrous news.”
He nods. “The Queen does not find it suitable to acknowledge him, nor his brother Alyn, as trueborn seed.” You look to him, and there is a subtle scowl on his face.
Good, you note. You can use that.
You look back to the sea and lessen your tone. “It is a cruel thing, grandsire.” He turns his head slightly toward you. “To watch men fight and die for the throne, just to be slighted by the council in return.”
The words, treasonous to anyone but the two of you, flow naturally. You yourself have been slighted in being named heir, and so has your grandsire with his own bastards—it is foolish of you to think your mother would understand your love for someone forbidden just because she has experienced such herself.
Lord Corlys looks through you to find no traps, but unfamiliar sincerity in its place. It frightens him. “What is it you want of me, child?” he demands.
Your lips press together. There are endless risks to practically unveiling your fondness of Ser Gwayne to the Lord of the Tides. You will give the crown away—no, you will give yourself away if you have made the mistake of telling the wrong man of your necessities.
The risks, however, seem so small over the benefits. Gwayne is the benefit. Knowing you saved an honorable man—one of the few honorable men you have ever known—is the benefit. There is not much for you to lose at this point, except him.
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, the eldest son of Otto Hightower, has been captured by our men.” Your nails dig deep into your palms. “He sits in the dungeons now, where he will rot away unless I do something about it.”
His jaw twitches. “He is the enemy. The usurper’s uncle—” he stops himself, realizing the irony of his words. He does not have to feign in your presence.
“On each side of the war there exists those both principled and unprincipled,” you continue. “Most seem to lose their honor as time goes on, but he has not. I have seen it myself, for weeks on the roseroad and while in capture, and I know I am correct in saying he does not deserve to lose his life behalf of the throne.”
You let your tone soften, as to appeal to the weary man before you. “We have both known many who have died in the pursuit of war. Surely there are those on the opposing side you wish were not our enemies.” Your hand finds a place on his forearm. “If you assist me with this, grandsire, I will ensure that when the crown is mine, Driftmark will have its due.”
He looks into your eyes. Your brows are pivoted upward, and it feels as though they are touching your hairline.
What you see in his are those that have seen death—much death. The lines that etch onto his forehead in defeat have felt the pain of losing a brother, losing his children, losing his wife, losing his grandchildren, all for it to culminate in the ascent of your mother to the throne. You can sympathize with him. He can see that.
He takes your arm into his. “Walk with me, my girl.”
The two of you proceed further into the gardens, to a secluded area, where you will secure Gwayne’s fate as the first prisoner you know of to escape the dungeons of the Red Keep.
You find lingering around the dungeons as your grandsire seems to find himself around the sea. Some days you do not enter, some days you do, and stand out of view of Gwayne, instead settling to bask in his presence.
It is surprisingly difficult to lay under the weight of his heavy gaze. The last time you did, you could not handle it for long, and excused yourself before you could even speak a word to him.
You must inform him of what you have planned. It will take place just two moons from now—a commotion large enough and near to the dungeons will occur, and Gwayne’s newly-replaced guards will be called to help. Someone will guide him through the hidden passages of the Keep, and he will meet Corlys to be escorted to one of the trade vessels that will then be shipped off to Essos. He will survive, and he will live the life you had planned together, with or without you.
You do not know yet whether or not to follow them. You are unsure if you could just leave your life and your kin behind—you think you could, but in the moment, you might stray away like you had in battle.
Gwayne perks up at the sound of your voice, as you order the guards away. Your body, clad in only your shift and a cloak over it, unveils itself. Your hair has been braided—he presumes you have snuck out before bed to visit—and you smell sweet and flowery, a stark contrast to what Gwayne has been used to in the days since his capture.
In turn, he has only grown more unkempt since you have last seen him. You deeply pity him, all while you assume he has anything and everything but the stress of how he looks on his mind.
You hope the news you bring to him will ease the thoughts that must be swarming through him constantly. He is, no doubt, incredibly lonely—especially as he is being guarded by two men incredibly resolute in both silence and dedication.
“Sit.” You point to the pallet hanging by chains to the wall. He obeys almost immediately, watching you as you unlock the cell door, and as you find a place beside him.
In your hands, you hold a bowl of soap, a blade, and a small cloth. You turn your body to him, putting your leg up onto the pallet and letting the other hang, and shift closer.
“I haven’t seen you for many moons, my princess.” His voice comes out hoarse. That seems to be normal for him now.
“I apologize.” You take the cloth into hand, dunking it into the soapy water. “I’ve had many duties to attend to.” A lie. You’ve spent much of your time hovering around the dungeons and considering whether or not to enter and see him, all to decide not to.
The cloth is gentle as it passes over his jaw, which you notice to feel considerably sharper. “Have you been eating, Gwayne?” you mutter, watching as his grime dissolves onto the material.
He sighs, his head dropping and forcing your touch to cease in its ministrations. “What they give me is fit for hounds, not humans,” he murmurs, a faint smirk touching his chapped lips. “So, no.”
You bring a hand to his chin and force it back up, continuing to wipe away at the filth on his face. In spite of it all, he remains as beautiful as the day you realized it such in the flower field. You would tell him, but he seems to not want to hear it.
“You must get your strength up.” Your cloth passes over his cheek, and he winces. “You are a knight, after all.” You find a blueish bruise under all the grime, no doubt from the bannermen.
His brows knit together. “What are they going to do with me, my princess?” he questions, truly concerned and all the more desperate. His self-destructive exterior seems to have fallen.
“I’ve already told you. You will not die here, not under my command.” You swipe the cloth over the other cheek, softer this time.
“But what after?” he says.
You do not falter in your movements. “What do you mean?”
“If you manage to trade me to Ormund, what then?” he begins, voice cracking slightly. “Am I to stand in the Reach and fight a war I do not believe in? Away from you, never knowing if I will see you again?”
“Gwayne, I do not plan for you to be given back to Oldtown.” You take his hand and put the cloth into it. “Wipe your face.”
He obeys, and you ready the blade to shave the stubble from his lower face. You mix the soap and the water once more until it foams.
“What do you plan to do with me, then?” he questions, flipping the cloth over to the unsullied side to scrub his face harsher than you had. Painful as it looks, it is more effective than what you had done, and takes nearly all of the dirt off in one fell swoop.
You lather his face in the foam, and grab the blade from beside the bowl. He flinches back.
“I used to watch my brother when he would have it done by the maesters. I know enough.” You smirk, pressing the blade against his skin. He settles, letting the fine material scratch against his jaw.
“Do you remember what we talked about—escaping to Essos together?” you ask, and his eyes seem to brighten. Yours only falter at his reaction, and at your uncertainty to truly do what the two of you promised. “In two moons, you will. I have planned with my grandsire to get you on a ship headed there. You will be provided with just enough coin to live until you find a suitable trade—”
“What about you?” he interjects. You hadn’t noticed how his gaze has softened into something sad since you have continued speaking—since you have been focused on the scrape of his stubble against blade.
You pause. “As of this moment, I am more focused on your escape rather than mine.”
“I want you to come with me.” He takes your free hand into his. It makes you freeze again.
You shake your head, continuing to shave his face. “I cannot leave Silverwing.”
“She can come,” he pleads.
You scoff. “Gwayne, you’re amusing.” The blade against his skin presses harder as it drags down. “A dragon on a merchant ship—one that just so happens to carry an escaped Hightower?—”
Gwayne suddenly recoils backward, the hand that had just held yours now gripping onto the area you had just shaved down on.
You look at the blade in your grip. The tip is covered in red. “I apologize,” you mutter, nearly curling in on yourself and preparing for him to berate you.
“Nothing I haven’t felt before.” His thumb swipes the blood away. You look back up at him.
He looks like a different person, you realize, being clean and shaved with cuts and bruises all over his face. His eyes, though, are still the same. They still hold that deep, heavy sadness in them, as if he has been holding the weight of the world on his back.
Your head moves forward before you can get the sense to stop. Your lips are on his before you know it and it feels immoral, but you do not stop.
His lips are dry but pliable and they do not fight for power over yours. He lets your mouth almost entirely envelope his, and he lets your tongue find a place in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
You let your cloak fall from your shoulders and onto the pallet before you, and without releasing his lips from yours, you straddle his hips.
Your linen shift has dragged up to your waist with the movement, leaving your bare cunt to rest on his clothed crotch. The noise that comes from your mouth and rings through him at the contact is humiliatingly desperate, but still, you do not waver.
Your hands come down to the edges of the cloth, and you pull it from your body, leaving yourself entirely bare before him. If the guards were to walk in, you would be in the most compromising of appearances, but it is the last thing on your mind.
You kiss him again. “I’ve missed you.” You kiss him. “So much.”
His hands finally rest on your hips, subconsciously dragging them forward to grind onto his bulge.
The two of you moan loudly together, and your hand comes up to smack over his mouth. Beneath it, he only pants harder as you take over in rocking against him. His head hits the wall once he lets it fall back, and his eyes squeeze shut as you persist.
He brings a hand up to your lips, and two of his fingers brush over the bottom one before pushing inside. You welcome them, sucking down and bobbing your head unto them. The thought of how dirty they must be—what they must be dirty with—does not even disconcert you in the moment.
Your hand covering his mouth comes to grip his wrist, using it to guide his fingers further past your lips. There isn’t much of an objective to it—you simply want to feel him everywhere, to taste him, to love him.
He watches you while you do it, blue eyes all big and glossed over, never moving from your face as you take his digits with such a desperate vitality.
The lack of physical contact you’ve experienced since returning home and the overexposure of it now with Gwayne paired together provide a brisk approach to your climax. You pull his fingers from your mouth and mash your lips onto his once more, all while rocking back and forth onto him, chasing the feeling you’ve forced yourself to forget in fear you’d never experience it again.
But you are feeling it again. And it could very well be the last time. So you let it wash over you, your unrestrained sounds being muffled by his mouth. He begins to grind up into you and you mirror his movements.
It comes over you quickly and washes away at the same pace. Like it does not want you to savor it, because perhaps it would be the last time, and you should be weaned off from his touch. Nevertheless, your body spasms and shakes overtop of his, and you can still feel bliss—even as it leaves your body and replaces itself with something similar to shame—coursing through you.
You pulled away from his mouth at some point, your lips sheen with his own saliva, and let your head drop to his shoulder. He pants against your ear all the same, trying to catch his breath, despite not even reaching his own climax. Still, he does not ask for anything in return.
“You told me Silverwing is large enough to saddle two.” His breath returns to him, slowly, though you still feel his chest jumping up and down when you push yourself from it to look him in the eye.
You shake your head after a moment’s silence. “The arrangements for your departure have already been made.” The floor is cold and rough against your bare feet, attached to weakened legs, but you do not let it show. “They will remain unchanged.”
“Then follow us,” he offers, reaching forward to tug your shift back down over your legs, letting his hands linger there for a moment before pulling back.
“It is not safe.” You grab your cloak, placing it over your shoulders.
He scoffs. “What are men compared to dragons?”
You let a heavy sigh come from your mouth, trying to communicate your weariness to him. “I shall consider it.”
“You must.” He steps forward, reaching a hand out to gently hold your wrist. “You will die if you do not flee your place here, if you do not relinquish your titles—”
“How can I be sure this is not just a ploy to weaken my mother’s rule?” you interject, and let your wrist jerk away from his grip.
His jaw clenches at your words. For a heartbeat, his brows jump to his hairline in pure disbelief. “You do not think my love for you to be genuine?”
You cannot deal with the arguing, not now—so you turn to leave, pulling your cloak hood over your head. Perhaps he can settle his own thoughts in the time you are gone. You might be gone for a long, long time. You might even be gone forever, and he may never see you again, so he’ll be able to do a lot of thinking without you there—
“I love you,” he says, and every muscle in your body hardens, rooting you to the ground which you stand.
From the corner of your eye, you see him standing there, hesitating to take even a single step further. He hesitates even to continue speaking. You notice it, when you finally look back to him, in the way his lip quivers.
“Must I say it a million times? I love you. I have loved you since your dragon fell into our encampment. I will love you until I meet the Stranger, and if there exists a life after death, I will love you there too.”
You move back slightly as you shuck your arms into the sleeves of your cloak. His fingers instinctively twitches toward your hand when it comes back down to your side.
He takes another step until he stands right beside you. “I would like you to live out the rest of your days in rest and tranquility. I shall swear myself as your protector if that is what it takes. I shall swear fealty to your mother. Whatever it is, I shall do it. Just come with me.”
You press your lips together. The glint in his eye that grows the longer you look at him is almost depressing, because you know what must happen.
It takes your entire will to break your gaze away from his, and you shake your head. “It’s too late, Gwayne.”
He does not move. Not as you look back at him just once more before leaving the threshold of his cell block, not when you close and lock the door. He does not move a single inch. His expression remains the same, blank and dissociated, even as you walk off and out of his view.
An entire day had passed since you had last spoke to Gwayne, though it felt more like an eternity. You had not been so impatient since you were a child—since you did not have to be anything but.
You did not want for that to be the last conversation the two of you would share. It very well could be, since you do not have the courage to go down there and break your vow of silence, and because he has metal bars that confine him from doing so.
You’re still unsure of what to do. You do not think you should go with him, but you want to. And you are a princess—so what you want, typically, you get.
There was a small voice in your mind telling you that you did not know him well enough, that you should not go with him, and it would be unsafe, you would not be happy after just a few months, and you would miss home with no way to get back to it—but they were all silenced whenever you were tasked with another “duty” or whenever you had to serve as a cupbearer for your mother’s council.
They were silenced when you remembered how your brothers died—young and desperate and on dragonback. If you went with him, should you even bring Silverwing? She could be killed in Essos. It wouldn’t be the first time they have killed dragons there.
You did not need to add a number to the countless dragon deaths the war has produced already. Arrax, then Meleys, and most recently Vermax. The number should be zero, but battle still rages on. And Vermax will most certainly not be the last. Listening in on your mother’s council meetings has set that fact in stone.
Murders of gold cloaks in the streets throughout King’s Landing. The occupation of Tumbleton by Lord Ormund Hightower and his men. Aemond and Vhagar’s disappearance, a bounty to pay for his head. No word of the usurper’s body. These were only the recent tellings, and your mother has her own worries and petitions to deal with—Cissy tells you that she isn’t dealing with them very well.
Would you die if you did not follow Gwayne to Essos? The odds are higher with each passing day—even higher now that you have been named as your mother’s heir. You would not be leaving just for Gwayne’s sake, but for your own too. Possibly even your mother’s. Perhaps it would ease her to know that if she does not win the war, you would not be dead.
You loved her and you loved Gwayne and you loved the Red Keep to some degree, but above all, you loved living more. Your uncertainty regarding the gods had only grown since your mother had her throne taken from her. Even if there did exist some life after death, you would certainly be cycled through the seven hells, the sins you’ve committed.
You were not interested in the idea of death. Not until you’ve had children, at the most. Until you’ve left some legacy, something other than being Princess of Dragonstone, and even then—who knows? Your name might be erased from history if Aegon takes the throne once more. There is nothing to tell what he might do.
If you died now, your legacy would amount to nothing. In Essos, you could do something. Be something. You might not be remembered in Westeros, but you would be remembered somewhere. That mattered. Gwayne mattered. Your own opinion on what you should do in your life mattered.
You should not rule over the realm. You should not inherit the throne. You should live a life of peace. The life you dreamed of as a child in the Keep.
The night before Gwayne’s departure—and yours as well, you had decided—you find yourself outside your mother’s chambers. It was beyond late, and your body was exhausted, though your mind was restless and prevented you from dreaming.
The white cloak posted outside her door nods at the sight of you and lets you enter immediately.
Ahead, you see your mother lying on her featherbed. You cannot tell if she is feigning sleep, trying to catch it, or if she is truly awake. You step forward until you are beside her, fingertips grazing the quilt lying on top of her.
“Mother?” you murmur. Her eyes shoot open, and you nearly flinch back.
Her gaze softens when it reaches yours. “What is it, sweetling?” she questions.
It takes you a moment to find the words. “I cannot sleep.” You haven’t spoken them for over a decade, not since you were a child.
Instead of sending you back to your own chambers, or fetching a maester to make you some sort of tea like you had assumed she might, she slides over to make room for you.
You scurry under the sheets, her body warm and comforting as it lingers behind you. You pull the quilt up to your chin. Her arms wrap around your middle, and you take her hand into yours, squeezing your eyes shut.
You love her more than anything, in a way that is completely different to how you could ever love a man.
Someday, she will understand why you did what you are about to do. Perhaps she will not accept that it was you who did it, and that it was not some Green belligerent seeking to pain her further. You know what she suspects, though it is up to her to acknowledge the truth.
The words slip out. “I love you, mummy.”
You are so quiet, you do not even hear yourself. It is entirely possible that you did not say anything at all, and your mind is simply playing tricks on you.
Her breathing has already returned to a calmer state. She must have fallen back asleep. Your own fatigue hits you then, enveloped in her familiar hold, and you let yourself fall into dream. When you wake, Gwayne will have already gone, and you will follow him.
You dream about him that night, of him and all his beauty. He is not unclean like he has been the last few days, but polished in such a way one could only be by living a life of peace. The sun rises slow, but it illuminates his skin, and he looks to you.
You hear your mother’s voice somewhere distant. “I love you too, sweet girl,” she says.
Her grip around your waist tightens.
You had snuck from your mother’s chambers early that morning, before Gwayne had been set to leave. The cloak that Cissy had placed unto your shoulders was heavy, but you presume it is the pit settled in your stomach that weighs you down as opposed to the cloth itself.
She had fit managed to fit numerous bags of assorted coins, golds, and jewelry up your sleeves, “in case you needed them,” she had said. Her hands had held to yours for a moment too long, and then she had hugged you so tight and so sudden it nearly knocked the wind from your lungs.
You wrapped your arms around her just as firmly. You had known her since you were just girls, and she was essentially the closest friend you ever had. She let you go at some point, or you let her go. You’re unsure which is true.
The walk to the Dragonpit was long and grueling, but you made it without being spotted. Nobody would notice the Princess of Dragonstone out so early.
Silverwing was more than joyous to see you—to feel your touch against her silver scales.
The idea finds you as you watch her and Vermithor bring their snouts together with something you can only describe as affection.
Who would not notice a dragon as beautiful and luminous as she to be flying the skies? There is nothing to guarantee her safety in Essos. Sure, she could protect you, but it would essentially be torture to force her away from her mate and from her own kind. You are her kind, too, but there would be another with the blood of the dragon, another who Silverwing would accept as hers.
Some dragonriders that had survived the Doom had come to Essos, and then their people killed them and their dragons. There is nothing to say the same would not happen the moment you set foot in their realm. You would be even more of a target if you brought her with you.
You make your choice spontaneously. With a heavy breath, you press a parting kiss to the scale over her cheek, and immediately push back.
You have never run so quickly in your life to the seaside. It reminds you of when you were a child with your brothers, racing to the end of the courtyard and back. You will never be a child with them again, but they will live in your memory. You will live for them because they could not.
Your grandsire was a blur as you ran past him, but you could see for just a heartbeat the shock on his face which froze him in place as he watched you go.
The dock was pungent with the scent of salt and fish. You could not focus on it for too long—only the thought of which ship Gwayne was on, and how you would get onto it. Would he be glad that you decided to come with him? You’re certainly disappointed you cannot bring Silverwing, but the sadness has not hit you yet. You expect it will once you are with him.
You know it is the right thing to do. She would not be safe—you and Gwayne would not be safe. It aches, the more you think about it. You wonder how it feels for her. You wonder how it will feel for your mother once she finds out you are gone. What are you doing?
You’re already on the docks, mindlessly looking around at the countless ships around you. The wind blows your cloak hood from off the top of your head. You scramble to conceal yourself back, but you hear your name from behind you and you turn.
The person calls your name again, and you look up to find Gwayne.
He has his own cloak around his head. When you make eye contact, he immediately breaks it to speak to one of the shipmen beside him. The shipman nods at his indiscernible speech, and Gwayne looks back down at you again.
And he smiles.
You do not think you’ve ever seen such pure delight on his face. As the ship’s ladder is put back over, he does not look at it. There is not anything in the world he would rather look at than you. You are the only thing in the world now. You are his world now. He will protect you with his life, and he will be your husband if you so desire it, he will give you children if it is what you want.
Above all else, you will live a life of rest and tranquility like he had promised you would. He would never break a single one to you again. He will vow anything as long you stay willingly by his side. He cannot bare to see you go—never again.
He meets you halfway, pulling you up onto the ship with him when you make it mostly up the ladder. And he holds you by the waist for just a moment—just a single moment, a heartbeat, to see if you are real, to feel if you are real—and he kisses you. Gently. With chivalry. As an honorable knight should.
Essos was more than you dreamed it would be. You were safer without Silverwing by your side, though that deep emptiness often came to you as if you weren’t your natural self without it, and you missed her so desperately.
You missed your mother, your brothers, your father, Cissy, your grandsire, your grandmother. Sometimes even your cousin Helaena and her mother too. You missed sparring in the courtyard as children, you missed living the moments that are now just stories in your head.
But they are stories. Stories you will remember and cherish forever. You wonder how you will be remembered. If your mother would spread the word that you were perhaps killed, or if her anger would prevail over her devastation and she would tell of how you betrayed her. She would never, but the shame of your disloyalty often prevails over the truth of her character, and you begin to think untrue things.
In spite of all of it, you know it was best for you to leave. You did it to rid yourself of the weight of your mother’s rightful golden crown, to prevent your own and your love’s death, and to live how you hoped you always might be able to live.
Your life now reminds you of one you dreamed of as a child. It reminds you of the songs and stories you heard then, the ones that fed your fantasies of your future—the tales of honorable knights sworn to protect fair maidens, who would fall in love with them against their own vows. They would run off together and live in peace for as long as their hearts should beat.
Gwayne had proven to you that those knights truly exist. He had proven it in his devotion, and in his affection, and in the way he would chase your pleasure before his own—like now, as the two of you stir in the early hours of the morning atop your featherbed.
His lips placed a kiss onto the nook between your jaw and your neck, hands wandering down where they had originally held your body close to his.
He pulls your shift up to your waist, letting the fabric pool there, and his fingers graze the area right below it. You shudder once they find a place on your cunt, cupping and caressing it all while he breathes heavily onto your neck.
Your hips instinctively grind back onto his, and his forehead drops to your shoulder. You crane your neck back and press a kiss to the top of his head, and he lifts it so that he can look you in the eye then join your lips together.
As his mouth mashes onto yours, a finger breaches your folds, and you breathe a sweet little mewl into him. It starts to pump, albeit languidly, back and forth, forcing out gasps and whimpers from the depths of your throat—and he adds another digit.
His other hand glides up beneath your shift to grope at your breast, and his mouth finds its way back to your neck and up to your jaw before settling near your ear.
“What would you like to do this morning?” he drawls. His pace quickens, two fingers in and out, over and over.
You can’t quite make out any words to respond with. You manage to breathe out his name, earning from him a breathy chuckle, and another kiss pressed to the highest point of your cheekbone.
His fingers suddenly curl and press against the spongy spot inside of you. “Gods,” you mewl.
“No,” he murmurs, and kisses your jaw. “It's only me.”
His fingers begin to piston in and out of your cunt and your thighs press together, but the hand you had forgotten was on your breast swiftly comes down to pry them apart.
You feel it come to you, building slowly and ready to break like a gate against a Northern army, and you can’t find the voice to warn him.
He must sense it, though. He’s grown accustomed to your body over these few weeks, just as he had on the roseroad—only this time, there is no castle to return to, no limit to how much time you would be able to spend together.
“I know, sweet girl. I know, let go—“ he says, and you obey.
You’ve felt it many times for the many moons you have already spent together, but it feels incredible nonetheless. The heat courses from your loins up to the tip of your head and back down again, past your cunt and to your feet, and you feel bliss.
You spasm and writhe beside him, and his fingers do not stop—they only slow. Your moans turn strangled as you ride it out, languidly grinding yourself down onto his digits.
You do not notice how his eyes watch you, how his lips part in awe. His brows gently furrow at the sight of you falling apart from his touch. Nothing would take you from him again. Not the gold cloaks, not the Greens, not those pesky figures they call gods.
He was yours, and you would be his. One day you should find something close to a septon, if they have those in Essos, to certify that fact.
Once your body calms, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. You whimper, and he chuckles before rising from the bed.
You reach for him. “Indulge me a moment longer.”
When he turns, you notice the bulge beneath his smallclothes.
“I must prepare us a morning meal,” he utters, seemingly oblivious to how hard he is.
You shake your head. “We can eat later.” You reach for him again, holding out a hand. “Come back to me.”
He seems to consider disobeying you for a moment, but when his hand grips your own, you know you have him.
You pull him back toward you, and smash your lips onto his. Your hands move to hold his face against yours, and his keep him upright over top of you.
He swings a leg over your waist, lowering himself to his elbows so that his body touches yours. He shifts his weight to one of his arms so that he can take your breast into his warm palm once more.
You remove your own hand from his cheek to slide down his covered torso, and beneath his undergarments, gripping the base of his cock.
He inhales sharply at that, swallowing your breaths down his throat. Your lips curl up as much as they physically can.
“I’d like you inside,” you say after you manage to break apart from his mouth. He freezes for a moment, then nods. Sometimes, to him, it is still a wonder that you are real, that you are truly asking him to do these things.
His linens are shed within moments. When he presses into you, you feel it too. Awe, and astonishment, that you are together. That you genuinely made it to Essos with him. That this is only the beginning of the long life you will live together.
It feels odd that just months ago, this was only a dream. A far-fetched and idealistic dream, one that would never come true. Though now, as he thrusts into you and you soon enough feel that familiar tight coil start to unravel inside of you, you can truly accept the fact that it is real.
You truly should marry him. The concept of it does not matter much to you any longer, not when you have this life together in exile, but it seems a nice idea.
He spills his seed inside of you, but it does not occur to you to mind. Perhaps one day you will give him children. Perhaps you wont. You will not worry yourself with eventuality.
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