A/N: Gwayne Hightower x A!FAB Reader. Touches the tiniest a bit on his sexuality that was brought up in the last episode, but just for opinion reference. I love my switchy little Reach Prince.
Warnings: Usually Iāll give a long explicit list but well. Look at that title; you know what youāre here for. This blog is purely intended for persons 18+
A = Aftercare (what theyāre like after sex)
Gwayne is very clumsy after sex. A little out of his body still, in bed with you is one of the only places he truly lets his guard down. Letās his very carefully crafted facade of righteousness and Hightower arrogance fade.
Heāll reach for a rag to clean you both up but then honestly heās a bit useless. Call a maid, have them draw a bath he requests.
Spoiled brat.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partnerās)
Gwayne likes his arms, years of knighthood have toned and defined them. Itās where he holds most of his strength. His forearms and biceps. He enjoys the way most eyes go wide when they the muscle he had labored for. Not just a high born little lord-ling.
Your waist. He enjoys the way it sinches in, your round bosom and wide hips framing it. He loves when you wear dresses that come in tight and show off your womanly figure. He traces every curve with his eyes. His fingertips.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He will pry your legs open after sex, while your cunt is still puffy and raw. Glistening with your spend and his. And he will lap at it, at the mixture of you and him. Earth and salty and sweet, fuck itās so good. You have to pry him away by his hair a lot of the times. Overstimulation is only fun to a point!
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He doesnāt mind sex during the days of your moon blood. Doesnāt think it dirty at all. Enjoys how reactive you are, how tight you are due to being swollen and needy. Itās all very erotic and he waves off any embarrassment or hesitance you have for it. Heās a knight. Blood scares him not.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what theyāre doing?)
Hot Take, but especially with the new episode 3x06 and how just like bored Gwayne seemed when Ormound brought up his sexuality- idk that doesnāt scream virgin to me. That doesnāt scream shamed into never touching another person by his near cult of a family.
I think Gwayne has taken lovers. Whores in brothels on the road, highborn ladies who flutter their lashes at him.
But he is extremely discreet. And makes sure to never come inside of anyone(we all know the pull out method isnāt safe sex, but, at least he tries) he refuses to sire bastards.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Ride him. He wants to be ridden. His cock. His face. His fingers. All of it, please. He is lowkey a pillow princess but we wonāt get too into that.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
It depends. If it is the two of you getting handsy in a hidden, shadowed alcove while a feast gathers in the other room heās all wide smiles. Almost boyish as he kisses your neck and rucks up your skirts.
If itās after a long campaign on the battlefield, and heās war worn, mind in shambles, body battered itās intense. More intense than youād know what to do with at first. You literally cradle him in your arms as he finds solace inside of you and itās enough to bring the two of you to tears.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Heās groomed but far from bare. He has a thick thatch of auburn hair at his base, and even lighter strawberry blonde hair that runs up his belly button and across his chest.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Gwayne will completely flay himself open for you during sex. Itās cathartic for him.
In private.
Itās scary for you how quickly after he can put back on his mask. Switch back into the role of dutiful and Hightower knight.
Once you had been interrupted merely necking by his father. Just kissing. Newly wed. His face pressed to the soft skin under your ear. You hadn't realized the hand of the king had entered the solar until he cleared his throat.
He had snapped to attention and gone cold. Instantly out distance between you physically but also- itās like he retreated into himself. His fathers presence instantly making him close off. It was extremely awkward and uncomfortable on all parts.
Otto never walked into you private chambers without knocking again.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Gwayne remembers his father telling him and his male cousins that The Crone would know if they touched themselvesā¦but would look away in order for them to satisfy their own flesh and not go seeking out rosy cheeked girls willing to give away their maidenheads.
Horrific, he knows.
Still. He went through a phase where there was so much pressure on him, all around, during the day that at night heād wring himself dry. Couldnāt sleep if he didnāt. That didnāt do him any good his first time in the road, in the middle of battle. Heād sneak away into the trees to find pleasure in his hand.
Can make himself come in 20 seconds flat. A practiced skill.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Gwayne loves being rimmed. Itās taboo and heās only experienced a few times but it makes him come hard, the sight, the feeling. Knowing itās so shameful.
When you do it, youāre pretty eyes looking up at him from between his thighs he loses it.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Donāt test him because he can be a little freak and especially when youāre wed? Oh itās on. He did it the right way, married his woman. Now why canāt he have her wherever he wants? Why is it such an aphrodisiac for both of you to test the boundaries of what is acceptable. Of being seen.
He gropes when his queen sister is turned around, speaking with a septa during one of your afternoon teas with her that he ever rudely intrudes on. Cups your cunt from behind, grabs at your ass-
Your manicured hand runs up his thigh at an important dinner- hidden by the mahogany of the table. You watch him speak politically, sure mindedly while you get closer to his bulge.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
A look. It starts with a look, and a lingering touch in the morning, before breakfast. Before you both take on the duties of the day. Itās a coy little thing. You pressing a kiss to his cheek for a bit too long. A gaze under your eyelashes as you bite into a ripe strawberry. He knows heās about to be played with all day long. He isnāt opposed.
For you itās always words from him. Him telling you he likes the shade of your gown, or the way your hair is styled. He likes your tits in that corset. The way you look when youāre blushing for him. His words get more and more vulgar and they always have you squirming.
N = No (something they wouldnāt do, turn offs)
Hard No? He doesnāt have many of those. Although I donāt see him being interested in bringing anyone else into your marriage bed. He can be a jealous little lord-long. And also just for proprietyās sake.
Heād given you the most disgusted look when you divulged a juicy piece of gossip youād gathered at luncheon with your handmaidens. Lady and Lord Lannister invited chamber maids into their bed! She watched as he fucked them-
āAbsolutley notā heād said, and you cackled and called him a prude.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He loves receiving head, but loves giving it even more. Itās his secret skill. Could be his career path had he not been born a Hightower and chosen Knighthood, you tease him. Far and wide women would come to have their pussies eaten by him. To ride his tongue as he grinned up at them. Very satisfied in his own abilities to please.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Gwayneās jackhammering you. Thatās just the vibe I get from him. I donāt see him slow thrusting on a regular day. He wants it hard and you want it deep.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Often. You both can get so busy. You will take the time to have each other whenever you can.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
At first? Heās hesitant. Especially if you two donāt know each other very well before your betrothal. He will try to be the perfect husband, pious and duty bound. As heās always tried to be the perfect son.
As you peel away his layers you find a side to Gwayne that is endlessly fascinating and wondrously open. Heās willing to try anything once. Whether itās a foreign Dornish pastry or letting you bound his hands with lacing from one of your gowns. Heās willing to try just about anything.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Heās athletic and young? Youāre going multiple rounds. The only time heās really reluctant to it is when heās physically unable- after a rough day of sword training or when he gets home from actual battle.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Skip. But in a modern AU? Gwayne would love vibrators. Heās very into overstimulation.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
The. Fucking. Worst.
Like, torturously so-
But.
Only in the beginning.
Only if he knows you like him more then he likes you. Youāre more attracted to him, or have bigger feelings for him then he does you. If the scales of power are imbalanced.
The moment he is in love? And those scales tip? Oop. Heās begging for it. You even look at him right and heās dropping his trousers. Letās you fondle his soft dick, just to touch him, not even for intimacy as the two of you lay in bed. Leans into your kisses automatically. So easy for you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He thought he was good at being quiet. Heād been forced for many years for any sexual experiences he had with himself or with others be discreet. On the quieter side.
The first time you jerk his cock while licking across his hole heās shouting so loud youāre actually worried that heās woken someone and theyāre going to come looking. Heās a bit mortified, grits his teeth. Steeling himself.
You just kiss his inner thigh and reassure him that you love it, you love knowing he feels good. Love hearing him in the throws.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Gwayne loves pretty things. Loves the look and feel of them. Loves when you wear silky, feminine night dresses. Gauzy things. He can see your nipples through them in the right light- they look so pretty against your skin.
He makes you keep them on sometimes while he fucks you. Suckles at your breasts through the thin fabric. Licks at the lace on the neckline.
When youāre pregnant? Itās even worse. Heāll gather the bottoms of the nightgown and rest it right under your taught belly, hands rubbing at your sides through the barley there material as he ruts into you.
X = X-ray (letās see whatās going on under those clothes)
Average width- but longer in length. 6.5-7 inches. Pretty and pink and flushed.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Again? Heās a little freak. Being away form you kills him because he honestly always wants to fuck you at any given moment.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
What is the Westerosi version of NyQuil? For Gwayne itās pussy. He kind of pavloved himself when he was younger- when he needed the release of an orgasm to come down from a stressful day.
Literally will be knocked out drooling against your clavicale after while you flip the pages of your latest book by candlelight.
In conclusion, I am obsessed with him. Someone help me. This canāt be healthy at this point.
š²Ö¼š¢ š¬š®š¦š¦šš«š²: for four years you've stolen affection from ser gwayne hightower. kisses pressed to his cheek. fingers buried in his auburn hair. now you're finally betrothed, yet he remains as painfully chivalrous as ever, denying being pulled into an unwatched hallway or even a kiss despite his mischievous princess' every attempt to entice him.
š²Ö¼š¢ ššš š¬: smut, p with p, mild angst, fluff, heavy romance, swearing, poor gwayne, reader is a menace, making out, cunnilingus, thigh riding, 18+ MDNI
š²Ö¼š¢ šš§: reader is targaryen (rhaenyraās younger sister)āno physical features are explicitly described other than targaryen features (purple eyes and silver hair since i couldnāt resist)
title from freddie fox's droolworthy reading of Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci~ link
He spent four years before your match as your personal knight. And you had hardly been restrained with your affection for him then.
You pressed kisses to his cheek whenever he did something that pleased you. You threaded your fingers through his auburn hair when he knelt before you to fasten the ties of your riding boots. You touched him at any opportunity.Ā And now that he was your betrothed, your behavior grew tenfold.
You wore your lowest cut gowns, enough to earn disapproving stares from the maids, and leaned over tables when he stood across from you, asking what he thought of your rubies, baring your throat with the peak of your breasts.
A few goblets into any feast, you became a terror. You would catch Gwayneās hand beneath the table and attempt to pull him toward abandoned halls, empty balconies, shadowed alcovesā anywhere private enough so that he might finally claim what was his.
He always followed where you led him. His fingers would close around yours. He would let you pull him from the hall, his long strides carrying him behind you without protest until the music dulled and the torchlight thinned. He followed until he realized what you planned. Then it was like trying to pull a stubborn mule by the rein.
"Princessā¦ā
"Ser Gwayne." You would wrap your arms around his neck.
He would carefully peel them away. You would press yourself against him and feel, unmistakably, the hard outline of his cock against your stomach. Proof enough that he was not unaffected by you.
Sometimes his eyes closed as though he were praying through some private agony. His breath would leave him slowly through his nose. His large hands would settle upon your hips, warm and tight enough to make you ache beneath the silk.
But Gwayne always stepped away. He always peeled your hands from his clothes and returned you to the safety of the feast like some wayward child who had wandered too close to the fire.
Gwayne was too good a man. Too honorable. A knight who still believed in chivalry when half the realm treated it as a pretty lie told to maidens before men stuck themselves inside. He guarded your virtue more fiercely than you, refusing to take advantage of your wine-softened judgment no matter how you tempted and tormented him. Gwayne never allowed himself to ruin you.
It was the hottest day of the summer when you realized why.
You went to the training yard whenever the weather was warm. When the knights in their exertion would shed their shirts to continue their training. It was improper. This was explained to you endlessly by your ladies, your father, even your sister, but no one succeeded in stopping you.Ā You sat there for hours, watching as sweat ran down his throat and gathered along the hard planes of his chest. His auburn hair darkened at the temples. Broad through the shoulders, lean at the waist, his pale skin flushed from the sun.
You sat beneath a covered gallery with a cup of watered wine and made no effort to conceal your staring at only him.
Gwayne made every effort not to acknowledge it.
But the other knights did not conceal their interest in you. A young knight from the Reach bowed every time he passed the gallery. Another removed his shirt despite having done nothing strenuous enough to justify it. When one of them asked whether you might favor him with your ribbon for his next bout, Gwayne lowered his practice sword and looked at him.
āSer Roland.ā
āMy lord?ā
āIf you possess enough breath to beg favours from the princess, you possess enough to continue.ā Gwayne struck him hard enough to send the knight sprawling into the dust. When his opponent rose, Gwayne disarmed him so violently that both wooden swords cracked.
He never looked toward you, but the muscle jumping in his jaw was satisfaction enough. His jealousy was one of the few scraps you had. They were pitiful little things, but they proved Gwayneās restraint was not disinterest.
When the training ended, you descended into the yard while the men washed and dressed. Gwayneās shirt lay where he had left it. You only meant to collect it for him. That was all. A sweet, wifely gesture before you were properly his wife.
A ring slipped from the breast pocket when you lifted the linen.
It fell into the dust without a sound. It was gold, old enough that its surface had softened with years of wear. Small, delicate, made for a womanās hand. A pale green stone rested in its setting, not bright like an emerald but gentle, almost clouded, with tiny filigree vines around the band. It looked like a humble version of your own betrothal ring on your finger set with purple sapphire.
Oh.
For months, perhaps longer, you had noticed him touching something inside that pocket. His fingers would disappear briefly beneath the edge of his doublet, finding something hidden there. You had caught him alone once, holding a small golden object in his palm and staring down at it with such a contemplative expression that you had quietly retreated before he noticed you.
You had wondered what it was. And now you knew. A womanās wedding ring.
You looked toward Gwayne. He stood beside the well, speaking to another knight as water ran over his bare chest. He did not notice you.
Perhaps she was blonde. Oldtown seemed filled with golden women in your imagination, graceful and pious, with eyes as crystal blue as their waters. Likely she was the daughter of some landed knight, far too low for the son of Otto Hightower. She had to be beautiful.
Like your sister, Rhaenyra, you had been permitted your pick of the eligible men presented to you.
Ancient lords offered themselves beside sons younger than some of their horses. Heirs came from every corner of the realm, gathering at Driftmark until the corridors filled with unfamiliar banners and the stables groaned beneath the weight of their entourages. They waited in a line that curved through the great hall, each man eager for his chance to stand before you and explain why his blood was worth joining to yours.
You had sat on the throne of pale driftwood, made comfortable with plush white furs. Your skin polished with oils and perfume and your hair woven with pearls.
Your fatherās advisor sat lower at your side, jabbering endlessly on about advantages in your ear.
The men themselves offered ships, armies, ancient blood, loyalty, gold, grain, any and every resource the crown had want for, they offered at your feet. Young and old praised your beauty, your intelligence, your lineage. You were the fairest daughter of the king. Truly befitting the title Jewel of the Realm. A true dragon amongst women. You rested your cheek on your fist.
One lord promised to give you six healthy sons despite appearing near death himself. Another recited the victories of every knight in his family since the Conquest. A young heir stumbled through a poem about your amethyst eyes, despite never having actually looked at your face since his attention was too caught at your breasts.
Then Gwayne stepped forward and bowed.
Your Gwayne. He was painfully handsome in the green finery of his House and silver jewelry; his auburn hair brushed back from his face.
āMy princess, House Hightower hasā"
āI accept.ā
It was the first time you had spoken since the procession began. Silence spread across the hall.
Gwayne remained bent for a moment. When he lifted his head, his expression was almost comical. His eyes were wider than you had ever seen them, lips slightly parted.
āPrincess,ā the advisor beside you began cautiously, āperhaps you should considerāā
āPray, consider what?ā you turned on the man sharply. āHouse Hightower is among the oldest and wealthiest houses in the realm and Ser Gwayneās father has served faithfully as Hand of the King for years.ā
Otto Hightower was the worst of any power-hungry, conniving snake youād ever witnessed, and his elder brother had only one son, Ormund. A cruel, volatile young man according to what Alicent heard from Gwayne. It was a matter of time before he befell accident and Gwayne would inherit Oldtown in his stead.
You had not spent years dreaming of Gwayne without considering what marriage to him would mean. You were besotted, not a fool.
āEvery merchant vessel entering the Honeywine pays for the privilege. Every hold filled with silk, spice, wine, steel, or grain enriches House Hightower before its cargo ever reaches the market. Their wealth may not lie buried beneath a mountain like House Lannisterās, but trade does not run dry.ā
You looked back to Gwayne, softening your voice. āI have always longed to see Oldtown. The most beautiful city in Westeros perfumed by endless flowers, I am told, and near enough I would be only two days by dragonback from my most precious sister. I think it a fine match.ā
Gwayne looked at you.
You had begged him often enough for stories of Oldtown. Of the Hightower burning against the evening sky. The bells of the Starry Sept. Of the great markets along the Honeywine, crowded with merchants and sailors from half the known world. Of the city in spring and summer, when flowers climbed every wall and spilled from every garden until the streets seemed to burst with them. He always answered you patiently.
Otto coughed into his hand to poorly conceal his delight. He had already been presented and rejected before his son. He stood among the assembled lords looking every bit like a fat cat drowning in cream.
At the time you had thought Gwayneās reaction adorable.
Now you felt like you were going to vomitā
He would not kiss you because he did not want to.
Gwayne had ceased being your personal protector once the betrothal was announced. A future husband could not stand alone outside your chambers at all hours without inviting questions about your virtue. And youā vain, witless creature that you wereā found it romantic. You imagined him restless in his new rooms, him lying awake with the same ache that kept you from sleep.
All the while, he had been touching another womanās ring through the fabric over his heart.
Suddenly every kindness heād shown you spoiled beneath the memory of it.
He had been romantic, in his careful way. He remembered which flowers you liked and had them brought to your chambers when the gardens were bare. He stood beneath your balcony in the rain because you had fallen asleep under the covered daybed before dismissing him. He warmed your gloves before winter rides and carried sugared plums in his pocket because he knew you became more foul-tempered when hungry. After you rolled your ankle, he had carried you through half the Red Keep.
That was Gwayneās particular cruelty. He was too good a man to be careless with you. Too honorable to let his reluctance become unkindness.
He had proposed because his father commanded it.
He was your knight only because he was commanded.
You had seen him joust the day your mother died. Alicent had spoken of her brother, how he was good. He was kind.
You had been lonely, half-wild with griefā you had seen your beautiful mother bleeding out in her bed. His blood in the mud. The unfairness. The helplessness of everything. You fixated upon him like a dragon with prey. You wanted him. You wanted him more than you'd ever wanted anything.
Viserys had always had a fatal weakness for his daughters. Jewels, hawks, gowns, ponies, sweetmeats, if either of you desired something, he rarely found the strength to refuse.
He was only seven-and-ten, already a knight. The scar beneath his left eye a neat line of black thread against pink swollen skin. He spoke his oaths to you. That day onward, his life belonged to you.
Perhaps someone had given the ring to him before he left. Perhaps he had intended to give it back with another promise.
Your stomach lurches painfully and you need to physically hold back the vomit, closing your mouth and constricting your throat.
His back was to you. You dropped his shirt back beneath the tree as though the linen had burned your hands. With no greeting nor blown kisses you turned on your heel.
You returned to your chambers, hand clenched around the ring until your nails drew blood. When you finally opened it, the delicate gold was stained red along one edge.
By twilight, you found Gwayne beneath the Heart Tree.
The sky above the walls had deepened to violet, the last of the sun caught in the highest windows of the Red Keep. Gwayne sat with his back against the pale trunk, his linen shirt only half-buttoned and his auburn hair disordered from the repeated drag of his hands through it. His doublet lay overturned across one knee. The contents of his pockets had been emptied onto the grass beside him
The sight of him scraped away much of the satisfaction you had carried with you.
The goldsmith had worked quickly when summoned by a princess. You had rejected three designs for chains before choosing one fine enough to disappear beneath Gwayneās clothes, but strong enough that the ring would not be lost again. It was plain gold, without gems or needless ornament. Anything grander had seemed an insult to the modest woman you imagined once worn it.
Now, seeing the strain around his mouth and the bleakness in his eyes, you wished you had not taken it at all. āGwayne.ā
His head lifted sharply.
Relief came too quickly before he mastered it. He rose at once, brushing grass from his clothes, though his attention never left your face.
āMy princess.ā
You smiled despite the ache beneath your ribs. You had done something kind for him. That was what mattered. You brought the velvet pouch from behind your back and offered it to him. āI have something for you.ā
He accepted it carefully, brows furrowed together.
The fine chain spilled over his palm, followed by the ring he had clearly spent the last several hours searching for like a madman. Relief broke naked across his face. Ā His shoulders lowered. His mouth parted on a breath.
āForgive me.ā Your voice came quieter now. āI should not have taken it.ā
His eyes rose to yours.
āIt fell from your shirt in the yard, and I feared you would lose it. You carry it loose in your pocket as though it were a copper.ā You touched one finger to the chain in his hand. āSomething so precious deserved better.ā
āYou had this made?ā
You nodded. You would not be cruel enough to let him lose his last piece of her merely because you were a stupid, spoiled little bitch who imagined herself loved.
He looked at the chain again, thumb passing over the links with painful care.
Gwayne had always been good to you. Your blood was not made for gentleness, but he made you wish to be good back.
He was romantic in a hundred small ways. He gave you everything a good man might reasonably give a lady but withheld any single thing that would have allowed you to believe he wanted you as a man.
He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the ring beneath his shirt. It disappeared against his chest, settling exactly where you had intendedā directly over his heart.
You looked at his face and wondered what kind of woman could place such grief there.
āShe must have been very dear to you.ā
Something changed in his expression. Love, certainly. Loss. A tenderness so old and deep that it appeared to have settled permanently into him.
āShe was.ā he said quietly. āMore than I could ever explain.ā His hand closed around the ring, āI miss her constantly.ā
Something inside you broke like a final cut of a frayed thread. You clasped your hands together so he would not seem them shaking. You smiled once more, though it felt like stretching skin over a corpse. āIt is late, I should return inside.ā
He stepped toward you. āAllow me to escort you.ā
āThere is no need.ā
āIt is dark,ā he reached for your hand.
You stepped away before he could touch it. The movement was small, no more than half a pace.
Still, his fingers stopped in the empty air between you. You pretended not to notice, giving a shallow curtsy, āgood evening, Ser Gwayne.ā
You had never addressed him so coldly in private before and his brown knit.
āMy princessāā
You only turned on your heel.
You spent the two weeks before your wedding being haunted by a woman who did not possess a face.
You saw her in every maid with golden hair. Every noblewoman who giggled at something dry Gwayne had said. Every daughter of the Reach who lowered her lashes and found some reason to linger near him.
Sometimes she was blonde and gentle, pale as milk, with a soft voice made for prayer.
Sometimes she was dark-haired and bold. The sort of woman who might have met Gwayne in stables or beneath the shadow of the Hightower, pressing herself against him while he promised her a life he would never be permitted to give. You imagined he liked boldness if it was her.
Sometimes she had a full, romantic body that would have filled his hands beautifully. Sometimes she was slim-boned and graceful, made to stand beside him without making him look like a man burdened.
You imagined him kissing her without having to be begged. Following her into dark halls without stopping halfway to remember his honor. You imagined his hands closing around her waist because she was gentle and he wanted them there, rather than because she had been dismounting a dragon and needed help down.
You imagined him fucking her. The thought arrived most at night, vicious and detailed. Gwayne beneath another woman. Gwayne above her. His auburn hair disheveled through her fingers, his mouth open against her breast, his cock disappearing inside her body.
You became despondent.
The curtains remained drawn in your chambers. You did not rise until later and later in the day. Your meals sat untouched and stone cold or sent back to the kitchens.
Weeksā worth of unopened gifts all from House Hightower sat piled high and collecting dust. The sent bouquets made your chambers smell of sweet moonblooms and died where they were placed because you would not allow your ladies to put them in water.
Far, far more had already been sent ahead to your soon-husbandās home in preparation for your arrival. You dreaded the thought of seeing any of it. You dreaded ever seeing Oldtown.
Your favorite gowns disappeared into the furthest reaches of your wardrobe. The low necklines Gwayne had once looked away from were replaced by collars worked high beneath your chin. You wore heavy embroidered silk despite the heat and sleeves buttoned at the wrist.
The first afternoon you appeared dressed like a particularly wealthy septa, Rhaenyra had choked on her watered-wine and kept staring like you'd grown a second head.
When you saw Gwayne later in the day, he eyed your gown as well. You gave him the same distant courtesy you might have offered any knight at court. āGood day, Ser Gwayne.ā
You did not kiss his cheek. You did not touch his hair. When he offered his arm, you accepted because refusing would cause gossip. Your hand rested lightly upon his sleeve. Nothing more.
You addressed him only when courtesy required it.
Thank you, Ser Gwayne.
That will be all, Ser Gwayne.
You need not trouble yourself, Ser Gwayne.
Within two weeks, Rhaenyra had exhausted both her patience and her sympathy.
āYou are ill,ā she said, bursting into your chambers, despite it being the midday before your wedding, to find you still in bed. Your wedding gown hung ready for you against your painted screen. You spent the night and morning staring glumly at it.
Your sister planted both hands upon her hips.
āYou do not attend the training yard. You have not spoken of your wedding, not with me or the planners. You have not tormented poor Ser Gwayne.ā Her eyes narrowed. āAnd worst of all, you have not even been to see Dreamfyre in three days.ā
You groaned, just wishing for her to go away. āI am not ill.ā
"I swear to the gods, if you're pregnant out of wedlockā"
You dragged a pillow over your head. āI'm not pregnant, you bloody fool.ā
There was a pause and you could feel her gaze burning a hole into your back. āAre you certain.ā
āI would first need to actually bed him for that to be possible.ā
Rhaenyra crossed the room in several quick strides and ripped the pillow from your face, staring down at you as if it was life and death. āYou have not bedded him?ā
You glare up at her, face scrunched.
āYour wedding is tomorrow. You have been betrothed for months. By the gods, what have you been doing all this time?ā
You rolled away from her.
āSend for him. Have him take you. When the child arrives before the proper number of moons, we can claim it came early.ā
You threw a pillow at her. āAre you deranged! I am still a maiden!ā
She wore satisfaction like silk having managed to finally rile you for the first time in weeks. She sat heavily at the edge of your bed and laid atop you, her low back across yours. āTell me.ā
You did not want to. But there were no secrets allowed between you. And your sister was a relentless animal. She would remain atop you all day if necessary. Sheād lie here till the end of time if it meant you would feel better.
āThere is another woman.ā
As you told your story, your sisterās expression did not change. Ā You didnāt expect her to understand. She has little interest in your brother-in-law, Laenor, which was hardly surprising considering he possessed even less interest in her entire sex.
āAh. Well.ā She nodded, resolved. āHe has always made you too soft anyways. And now the solution is obvious,ā her mouth curved faintly. āHe will be your husband before the court. In private, you must do as I do. Occupy yourself elsewhere just as he will.ā
Your stomach soured horribly again at the thought of another woman in his bed while you were married. But your thoughts moved toward her newest personal knight.
Ser Harwin āBreakbonesā had become a frequent presence near your sister. Broad as a fortress wall, smiling too easily whenever she spoke. Due to your sister's scandalous stories, you were far more familiar with the way the man used his cock more than his actual personality.
āSuch as your new occupation with Ser Harwin.ā
Her smile widened. āSer Harwin is certainly devoted to his duties.ā
āI am certain he performs them tirelessly.ā
āHe has remarkable stamina.ā
You laughed and you saw her face light in the way it always did when she managed to make you laugh. Then you saw the idea form in her head. A devious little spark.
Before you could object, she caught your face between both hands and smashed a kiss against your cheek. It was wet, loud and irritating.
You shoved at her shoulder, wiping her spit off. āUgh! Get off me.ā
āNo more of this.ā She declared.
āYou are not queen yet. You cannot simply command my misery finished.ā
She seized you again and smooshed another disgusting kiss upon your other cheek. āTonight, we are going out.ā
Your sister returned after dark.Ā She slipped through the hidden door behind the tapestry without knocking, wearing a rough brown tunic, loose breeches and boots that had been stolen from a stable boy. Her silver hair had been braided tightly and shoved beneath a dark wool cap, though several pale strands had already escaped around her temples.
She carried another bundle beneath one arm.
āGet dressed.ā
It was far from the first time the two of you had escaped into the city. Within the hour, your hair had been crushed beneath a cap, your body hidden beneath coarse wool and Rhaenyra was pulling you through the city by the hand. It smelled like piss and roast meat and floral perfume poured over unwashed skin.
You drank first in a tavern where every table was sticky and the ale tasted as though it had been strained through an old boot. Then a brothel where sailors sang were loud and one of them narrowly missed vomiting into your lap.
You would learn later what happened inside the Red Keep.
A maid entered your chambers shortly before midnight and found the bed empty.
She panicked, searching everywhere you may have hidden in your chambers or the kitchens. All your ladies spent years watching you and Gwayne. if you were upset, they fetched him. When you caused mischief, he untangled it. When you disappeared, he always knew where to look. So, frantic, she burst directly into his chamber finding him halfway through removing his doublet.
"My lord," she gasped. "The princess... IāI cannot find her."
For one moment, he simply looked at her.
His mind rejected the words. You had retired hours ago. He had watched you leave the hall, dressed in dark blue, your throat covered to the chin. You had scarcely looked at him all evening.
āWhat do you mean, you cannot find her?ā
The girl began to stammer. āHer bed is empty, my lord. Her ladies thought she was asleep. No one saw her leave, and the window is still locked, and I checked the solar, but she is notāā
āWho entered her rooms tonight?ā
āNo one, my lord. I swear it.ā
āWho was stationed outside?ā
āSer Martyn and Ser Olyvar.ā
āAnd they saw nothing?ā
āNo.ā
āThen either they are liars or imbeciles.ā
The maidās eyes filled with tears at his harsh tone. Gwayne scarcely noticed. Fear had already taken hold of him, cold fingers sinking through flesh and curling around bone. You had been different for weeks. Quiet. So unlike yourself that he had begun to worry you had fallen ill, though every maester he sent to you insisted otherwise. You acted now with perfect courtesy to him. You looked at him as though he were a fucking stranger and it was driving him to madness.
Now your bed was empty.
āSay nothing of this,ā he ordered.
The maid blinked. āMy lord?ā
"You will not wake the castle. You will not summon the guard. You will not speak a word of this unless I command it."
"But the princessā"
"Would be ruined before dawn if the Red Keep learned she vanished from her chambers the night before her wedding."
The words tasted foul. Vanished. The night before her wedding.
He had seen reluctant brides before. Girls wrapped in silk and pearls with red-rimmed eyes. He had pitied them. He never imagined you among them. Not after you had chosen him.
But you had retreated from him. And Gwayne couldnāt understand for the life of him why. He tried everything. He sent flowers, your favorite white moonblooms, roses, violets, and sweet peas till your chambers began to resemble a garden. Every morning your maids carried armfuls of dead flowers out. So jewels followed. Silver necklaces set with sapphire, emerald earrings, rubies meant to lie against the hollow of your throat. You wore none of them. He suffered through two hours with a court poet selecting syrupy verses he knew would make you tease him.
You only thanked him for the politeness shown by House Hightower.
You scarcely left your chambers anymore, and whenever he sought a private word, your ladies intercepted him with smiling excuses. The only place he ever truly saw you was at dinner and he couldnāt bloody well ask why you were no longer trying to entice his clothes off in front of the king. Ā
His last resort, he wore your silk favor around his wrist every morning in the yard. It was almost embarrassing.
A favour was meant for battle or a joust, not an ordinary afternoon in training. The other knights had noticed. One had smiled knowingly before Gwayne put him flat on his back in the dust. Dutifully, he tied your purple and green woven silk to his wrist every morning.
You always possessed some uncanny gift for appearing whenever he removed his shirt. Without fail he would look up from the yard to find you leering over the gallery, licking your lips like a catā he, your cornered songbird.
But you never came. His heart fell everytime he glanced to the empty gallery and he was mottled with bruises because he kept glancing, failing to notice the blows coming to him.
He knew first where to search.
Dreamfyreās enormous body rose and fell beneath the darkness of the Dragonpit, blue scales catching what little firelight reached her. When Gwayne approached, one golden eye opened and fixed upon him with displeasure.
He stopped well beyond reach of her jaws. He had known your dragon for four years. That did not make him foolish enough to mistake familiarity for safety.
Dreamfyre released a low rumble that vibrated through his ribs.
āI know,ā he said, jumping back, āI very much dislike my being here as well.ā
You had not fled the city. You would never have left without your dragon. You loved the beast with a devotion that was purely absurd considering she possessed teeth longer than his forearm and could swallow the both of you without chewing.
Relief came first. Then frustration. He had not spent four years enduring your mischief without learning that when you caused trouble, Rhaenyra was rarely far.
Gwayne closed his eyes āSeven fucking hells.ā
The poppy den was warm enough to make your skin damp. Carpets covered every inch of the floor, stained with wine and ash. Smoke curled beneath the ceiling, sweet and burnt, thick enough to soften every face in the room. Men and women reclined against embroidered cushions with glassy eyes while servants moved between them carrying wine and pipes.
Neither of you smoked. You only liked the smell. You had drunk just enough to feel pleasantly warm without guaranteeing tomorrow's misery.
Rhaenyra sprawled beside you with one arm thrown over her eyes and one boot missing. You had no notion where it had gone.
A servant bent to refill your cup. His tunic hung open almost to his navel, displaying a great deal of smooth golden skin. Rhaenyra lifted her arm just enough to watch him leave. āLaenor would like him.ā
āLaenor likes anything with a cock and a smile.ā
āHe is not so particular about the smile.ā
Your laughter choked on your wine and burned as it came out of your nose.
Rhaenyra laughed so hard that she rolled onto her side, clutching her stomach.
You did not hear the door open. Gwayne stood at the entrance to the den, chest rising hard beneath his cloak. For the better part of an hour, he had searched every establishment Rhaenyraās personal guard, Ser Cole, told him of. Dread sitting like lead in his stomach. He had imagined finding you in some alley with your throat cut open. Some filthy bastard laying hands where no man had leave to touch. He had imagined blood staining your silver hair.
He had not imagined you were lying facedown upon a stained carpet, cheeks flushed, drunk off your pretty little arse and laughing with your equally asinine sister
Then you turned your head and your laughter died.
Rhaenyra followed your stare. For several moments, no one moved.
He expected you to rise and come to him with an apology. Youād wear that sweet, sheepish little smile you used whenever your behaviour crossed the thin line between troublesome and outright criminal. You would hug his upper arm, press it to your breast and look up at him with fluttering lashes, telling him it had only been a bit of fun, Gwayne. And, as usual, he'd melt for you.
Instead, you and Rhaenyra looked at one another.
Something silent passed between you. You bolted in opposite directions.
Rhaenyra threw herself through the back entrance, her single boot abandoned somewhere behind her. Her laughter vanishing behind a hanging curtain.
You made it a few steps before Gwayne caught you around the middle.
A startled cry escaped you his arm locked across your stomach, crushing your back against his chest while you kicked uselessly.
āWhat,ā he said against your ear, each word clipped with terrifying precision, āin the seven hells possessed you?ā
āUnhand me this instant!ā You struggled harder, trying to pry his arm from your waist.
Gwayne only tightened his grip. He had been imagining your throat opened because some Flea Bottom cunt had recognized the silver of your hair.
You drove your heel backward, narrowly missing his knee.
His patience ended.
He bent, caught you behind the knees and you shrieked as he threw you over his shoulder.
Blood rushed to your head. His shoulder dug beneath your ribs with every step as he walked out. You slapped both hands against his back and tried to force yourself upright, but the position gave you no leverage and you hung limp. Your cap slipped free and fell somewhere in the street white hair spilling nearly brushing his boots.
āGwayneā!ā
His hand struck the fat of your arse. It was not hard enough to truly hurt, but it stung even through your breeches, sharp enough to leave you frozen for one astonished breath.
Then outrage flooded you. āYou fucking beast!ā
Gwayneās hand remained splayed across the backs of your thighs, keeping your flailing hips pinned against his shoulder.
āCompose yourself,ā he said, voice dangerously calm, āIf you kick me again, I shall take it as confirmation that the first correction was insufficient.ā
āYou would not dare.ā
āTonight has already proven that you greatly overestimate my patience.ā
You kicked him again.
Gwayne halted. For one silent moment, his hand remained motionless against your thighs. Then he sighed through his nose. āAs you wish.ā
His palm cracked against your backside a second time. It landed harder than the first, not cruelly, but firmly enough that the sting bloomed hot beneath your breeches.
You gasped. āYouāā
āChoose your next words carefully.ā
āYou sanctimonious cunt!ā
You fought him the entire way back to the keep. You pounded your fists on his back and cursed his name, his House, and every Hightower ancestor unfortunate enough to have produced him. You threatened to have him dismissed, exiled, fed like a goat to dragons. When that failed, you informed him with crocodile tears that your ribs were breaking and he needed to put you down. He only huffed and shifted your hips higher upon his shoulder to take the pressure off, and you released a scream of pure frustration.
By the time he reached the hidden passage, his breathing had grown harsh, and sweat dampened the hair at his temples. Still, his hold never loosened. He endured your tantrum until you reached the concealed door behind the tapestry in your chambers. Gwayne shoved the panel open, strode inside, and threw you onto the bed.
You bounced on the mattress with a startled cry. He slammed the hidden door closed and turned upon you. You had never seen him so angry, never at you.
"What," he hissed, "possessed you?"
"It was only one evening."
"One evening in a brothel."
"A poppy den.ā You crossed your arms, climbing to your knees on the bed. "Rhaenyra was only trying to give me a night of freedom."
"I do not care if she took you to the Starry Sept.ā He looked at you with incredulous anger.
"The night before your wedding you went wandering Flea Bottom," he repeated, running his hand through his hair but saying the words slowly as if to make them sensible. "You could have been recognized. You could have been taken.ā He scoffed. āDo you understand what men do to women they find unguarded in places like that? Do you understand what they would have done to you?ā
āI do not belong to you yet, lord husband,ā You snarled, āYou forget to whom you speak, Ser.ā
His face hardened. "I have forgotten nothing."
"Then remember our vows are not spoken till tomorrow. Until then, where I go and what I do are of no concern of yours."
āNo concernāā His laugh was short and disbelieving. āI have spent the last hour searching Flea Bottom because you vanished from your bed, and you dare tell me you are no concern of mine?ā
āYou need not trouble yourself. By this time tomorrow, you will have all that was promised to you.ā
Something in his expression shifted, though his anger remained. āWhat is that supposed to mean?ā
āMy hand. My name. Dragonās blood for House Hightower.ā Your face was inches from his, voice growing colder. āI shall stand beside you before the court. I shall leave for Oldtown when you commanded. I shall spread my legs and give whatever heirs your father expects of me."
Gwayne went utterly still.
You should have stopped. Instead, wounded pride drove the blade deeper. āIs that not enough?ā
āEnough?ā he repeated.
āYou have never wanted anything more from me.ā
He looked as if you had slapped him. āYou believe that?ā he asked.
āI assure you, I will perform my duty as well as you preform yours.ā
Neither of you spoke. You only stared at one another, breathing hard. Then something in him seemed to crack, not into anger, but into exhaustion.
āYou have not looked at me in two weeks.ā His voice had gone quiet in a way that was worse than shouting. āIf you cannot bear this matchāif you cannot bear meāā He looked at you. āTell me. Tell me plainly and I will find a way to undo it. I will fall on my sword before I see you miserable.ā
Your throat tightened. Whatever anger had been there had quickly vanished. It hurt to look at the despair on his face.
"What would you have of me to ease this wretchedness I have must have done to you?ā
You wanted. God you wanted. Just once before everything changed between you. Just once before he ceased to be your Gwayne when he returned to her.
You leaned up and pressed your lips against his. He was as still as a statue. You moved your mouth against his clumsily, pursing your lips together and then rubbing your lips against his. Gwayne still didnāt move. Your heart pounded painfully in your chest and your face flushed with embarrassment. Tears came to your eyes at his lack of reaction. When you pulled away you tried to hide your face from him. āI am so sorry.ā
You still held him, your fingers buried in his hair, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. āI tried,ā you say. āI swear I tried to be better.ā
"I do not understand." You sobbed and tried to release him, but his hand caught your wrists keeping your palms pressed against his face though it was scrunched in confusion. "Sweetling, by the gods, what do you mean?ā
āI tried to stop humiliating you. To stop touching you when you did not want me to. I know I have been selfish. I know what your father made you give up for this marriage.ā
Ā His brow drew sharply together. āWhat did my father make me give up?ā
āThe woman in Oldtown.ā
Silence.
āThe what?ā
āThe ring,ā you forced out. āThe woman whose ring you carry. You said she was dearer to you than you could explain. You said you missed her constantly.ā
For one long moment, Gwayne only stared. The misery of the past weeks lay suddenly naked before him. You thoughtā
Seven fucking hells.
You thought he belonged to another woman.
Gwayneās fingers tightened around your wrist.
āI cannotā" your words dissolved around your broken breath. āI am not selfless. I cannot while you bed her. Gods watch her have your children. Please, Gwayneā pleaseā I know you do not love me but please I cannot bear thatāā
His mouth cut off your choked rambling.
The force of it bent you backward. His hands cupped your face, almost reverent in their gentleness, a startling contrast to the cruel hunger of his mouth. You made a suprised sound and he swallowed it.
For years he had imagined this.
Every night he stood outside your chambers, he imagined opening the door. He imagined finding you beneath the thin summer sheets, your nightgown rucked around your thighs, and finally taking what you had spent years offering him. Honour be damned, to hold you, press his lips to yours and finally bury himself in your slick, soft heat. Every indecent gown you wore he imagined throwing up your skirts and bending you over the nearest table until you forgot to laugh at him.
But you were his sweet princess. His beautiful love, innocent despite being a demon sent specifically to torment him. Despite what you believed, you did not truly understand the ugliness of men. He had spent years protecting you from his own indecency. He could not endure the thought of you looking upon him with fear or disgust if he acted.
But you were sobbing into his mouth because he had been so restrained that you actually believed he loved another, and Gwayne simply couldn't fucking bear it.
He had loved you since he was a squire visiting, unnoticed at the edge of your fatherās yard. You had run right past him, silver hair amess, using your ruffled dress as a pouch for your stolen lemon cakes, your sister hot on your heel, not even noticing he existed. He still remembered the sound of your laughter.
Now you dared apologise for keeping him?
You cried harder.
Gwayne shushed you against your mouth, the sound low and ragged as he tried to soothe you but he did not stop. Each sob was cut short by another kiss. His tongue pushed between your lips with none of his usual courtesy, invading you so thoroughly that your fingers tightened painfully in his hair.
You whimpered.
The sound nearly ruined him. He dragged you closer until your thighs struck his, one hand sliding behind your neck to keep you where he wanted you. His tongue moved against yours with vulgar hunger, licking into your mouth. You only opened for him, trembling while he took and took.
When you finally choked on a breath, Gwayne tore his mouth away. Only an inch. Barely enough to let you gasp.
āThe woman,ā he whispered, kissing the corner of your lips. āYour supposed rivalāā Another kiss. āMy mother.ā
You froze but Gwayne kissed again before you could reply.
āThe ring belonged to my mother.ā
His mouth moved over yours between each broken word, as though he could not force himself to leave you long enough to explain.
āShe died when I was eight,ā a kiss to your upper lip. āI loved her.ā
You could not stop sobbing, whether from the wine or the relief or violent exhilaration of having his hands finally upon you.
Gwayne muttered an apology against your mouth, though nothing in the way he kissed you was sorry.
You coughed when his tongue pushed too deep. He drew back just enough for you to breathe, lips still brushing yours in small, feverish kisses, unwilling to surrender even that scrap of contact.
āI am sorry,ā he whispered.
Kiss.
āSweetling, breathe.ā
Kiss.
You sniffled and turned your face away, overwhelmed by the rough scrape of his mouth tasing of salt from the humiliating tears covering you both.
Gwayne caught your chin. His fingers forced your face back toward him. Then he kissed your tightly pursed mouth again.
āI love you,ā he said between kisses, āI love you. I love you.ā
You laughed now against his mouth, still trying to kiss him back each time, still with wet cheeks.
"I should go," He said in between kisses, but he made no move to stand.Ā
You didnāt answer, just tugged him by his collar. You couldnāt let him go. Not now, not after this. The only thing you wanted was to spend this night together, in love. You press yourself against his body with frantic, clawing need to be closer, so that you could cut him open and bury yourself inside his skin. Maybe that would finally relieve that ache you felt within you every day. You rolled your hips, desperate and Gwayne immediately offered his leg without thinking.
Acting on instinct, you hitch your legs around him,Ā and gasp at the sensation. His leg against your thighs and your clit rubbing him through the rough material of your trousers. The friction was exquisite and brutal all at once. You rocked against him, unsteady and wild, while his mouth gentled on yoursā his hunger seemingly somewhat satiated by the sensation of you against his leg.
But soon the fabric began to burn, chafing your sensitive skin raw. āGwayne,ā you begged, voice fraying. āPleaseāitās too rough.ā You tightened your legs around him, holding on like you might drown. āI needāā
He understood, ever your valiant knight. He pulled back just enough to lay you down on the mattress, your body pliant beneath his hands. He tugged at your trousers, the burlap scraping one last time as he dragged them down your thighs.
He looked at you and the intensity of it nearly burned. His eyes raked over your slick, flushed cunt, the faint trembling of your naked thighs, the way your knees tried to edge together in reflexive shyness. His mouth fell open as if heād never seen a woman before. He groaned as if wounded, āGods be good.ā
You giggled, face hot with the embarrassment of being seen for the first time. It was unbearable. You tried to cross your legs, but his palms eased them apart again with effortless strength.
āDonāt stare,ā you whispered, throwing your arm over your eyes.
āYouāre so beautiful.ā Gwayne's gaze was on your face, dark at the cheeks and vulnerable for him.
He settled down between your legs. He kissed your thigh, then turned his head and kissed the other. He ventured higher and gave a soft bite to the sensitive skin and nosed at the spot before running his tongue over it.Ā
He didn't let you set the pace. When you tried to grind closer, he held you still, forcing you to let him savor. He sucked, he licked, he bit gently at your inner thighs, making sure every inch of soft flesh was marked before he even considered giving you what you desired.
āHusband, pleaseā
As if to reward you for his new title, Gwayne brought his mouth to your center, until his nose was hovering above your clit. You felt him inhaling deeply and you yelped. His eyes were shut tight in bliss, as though committing the very scent of you to memory before he pressed a kiss to your mound. āGods youāre soaked.ā
The first swipe of his tongue was unlike anything you could have imagined. You gasped and slammed your hands down on the mattress. "Gwayne."
Gwayne moaned and pressed closer.
He took it slow at first, so slow you could have died from it. He licked at your entrance without ever quite dipping inside, just tasting the slick on his tongue. He kissed at your clit ever so gently, just to feel you shiver and moan under his lips. But when Gwayne finally, finally licked his way from your entrance up to your clit, the bastard avoided touching it directly with his tongue, instead swirling little circles around the pearl just for the sake of making you twitch and grab at his hair needily, practically humping his face the same way you had his thigh.
He didnāt allow you. One broad hand pinned your hips to your bed, still slowly licking up down and everywhere but where you needed him most. You were throbbing now, achingly empty, and Gwayne was only humming softly above your clit and slowly dancing his tongue in the spaces around it. Not content to let you get away from him without some form of punishment it seemed.
āGwayne,ā your fingers pulled at his auburn hair.
His green eyes opened looking up at youāa direct, flat stroke over your clit that made you gasp, your back bowing off the bed, your knees clamping around his ears as a shock of pure sensation ignited along your nerves.
The game was over. Now his tongue worked you in earnest, lavishing attention directly on your clit before straying from his patterns to trace the hooded flesh around it, only to return again with relentless, focused laps.
Obscene wet noises filled the room, making you shut eyes and turn your head away, body singing in pleasure, a delicious knot building fast in your belly.
But he pulled back and you practically sobbed, your fingers tightening in his hair as he said muffled and breathless against you, āEyes, wife. Eyes back on me.ā
He resumed again only after your eyes were locked on him, though your vision was watery.
His lips sealed around your clit, and he suckled on the bead with a careful mouth, not hard enough to bruise, but certainly hard enough to let the tight knot in your stomach peak and crash through you.
You screamed as you came, having to bite the flesh of your lip to keep from waking the entire keep. Your back arching tight and knees slamming shut around Gwayneās ears. You couldnāt speak but you whined and Gwayne knowingly went back to licking broad stripes with his tongue, soft enough not to overwhelm you.
He kept licking until you pushed his head away, panting as you came down from your release. Watching the debauched act of him licking his lips, wiping off the excess slick with the back of his hand before his cheek rested, haggard on your thigh.
For a moment all you could do was lay there.
Ā "Was that it?" You ask dumbly. "Was that all?"Ā
Gwayne turned his head and gave a bite against your thigh.
"No," you laugh, pushing his head back as he continued placing punishing bites on your delicate skin. "I meantā will you not let me tend you?"
Rhaenyra had explained to you, in graphic detail, every act she knew to preform and you had always been eager to have him in your mouth, but right now, you could hardly remember how to articulate your own name.
Gwayne laughed and lifted his head. "I do know what you mean." He climbed up over your body and collapsed beside you.
Your fingers toyed with the lace of his breeches, but his hand lifted your knuckles to his lips. "Not tonight, sweetling." He took you into his arms and pulled you close.
You huffed at him and he laughed. āPatience.ā
āI have waited far too long already,ā you whined but were content enough to turn in his arms and tuck your head into his neck. "Can we not just find someone to marry us now?"Ā
He laughed. Gwayne wondered how you would react if he told you that he would take himself in hand and murmur your name, spilling over himself nearly every night for four year.
"I will marry you tomorrow, in the light of the Seven so all may know I didnāt steal you away in the night.ā
He pet your hair and you preened. āFine... but if you refuse to finally bed me afterwards, I shall lock you in with Dreamfyre and let her have her way with you instead."
Gwayne bit back a laugh. "I am at your service, my princess."Ā
You laughed again and as your eyes slowly closed to sleep, you felt him shift out from beneath you, and your hands fisted to his shirt.
"I must go," he said, gently unfurling your hands. "Before anyone wakes."Ā
"No, stay with me," you whined.Ā
He laughed softly. "Soon, my love, I promise."Ā
He kissed you once, twice, four times, before he pulled away from your grip and slid out of bed.Ā
And when tomorrow came, you two stood together before the altar of the Seven, dressed in white and green, the scent of beeswax and fresh flowers filling the sept. Sunlight poured through colored glass, bathing the marble in pools of ruby and sapphire. You cut one another's lips and were one with him, exactly as you had always been meant to be.
HOTD masterlist
š²Ö¼š¢ šš§: if you stayed this long, thank you thank you thank you!! this is my first fic iām posting after a very, very long slump. I have more queued up and more in the works MWAH!
if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)
first off, I fully agree with this take. house targaryen signed their own death warrant by seeking power over the seven kingdoms. they doomed their culture, their freedoms, their magic, and their very dragons to an ignominous fate, all because of a prophecy that may or may not have come true without said annexation regardless.
the targaryens were the literal last dragonriders left alive after the doom - they were alone in their culture, their customs, their manner of dress, their religion, even their language. and when a community gets displaced like that, assimilation almost always carries the risk of losing all of the above.
and it started small.
visenya had to share the crown with her brother, even though valyrians practiced absolute primogeniture, where birth order carried weight, not sex. but she had to do it, because the andals and westerosis wouldn't agree to their rule otherwise.
they had to hide their religious practices behind closed doors, and visenya was later condemned for practicing blood magic - something that was very standard practice in their culture, and was actually key to them being bonded to dragons.
aegon, visenya and rhaenys had to essentially eschew their faith, upbringing and culture in public for appeasement, and even aegon's bigamy was frowned upon, even though it was, once again, very much standard in his culture.
the downward spiral continued with the succession crisis, with maegor being demonised not for his harsh ruling practices, but for his cultural and religious ones. he was called "mad" for his blood magic and his polygamy, which once again is just... their heritage.
but jaeherys was the one who truly sentenced them to death.
he sidelined alyssane and reduced her to consort, not an equal, and leaned further into the patriarchal practices of westeros, shaming - and even punishing - his daughters for sexual freedoms that were otherwise allowed in their culture. he made his sons heirs over their elder sisters, continuing to break their own familial tradition and valyrian laws.
their weddings were not conducted in valyrian religious customs and practices, and one could almost argue that it weakened the magic in their blood and their bonds with their dragons.
it is no surprise that daemon and rhaenyra, who practiced valyrian customs, married in a valyrian religious ceremony, spoke high valyrian as their mother tongue, had the strongest bonds with their dragons.
and that rhaenyra's death marked the end of the dragons.
i have more thoughts, but they are not coherent at the moment, so there may be another thinkpiece.
Repressed Love. Or: Derrick Eckhart and deconstructing the "Duke of the North."
Apologies if you're used to Apothecary Diaries content from me, but I'm currently reading "Villains Are Destined To Die" and Derrick Eckhart has me in a bit of a chokehold.
Because he's such a trainwreck. And he's allowed to self-destruct in a perfectly logical way that follows from his character archetype - an archetype that is usually portrayed as someone to be Healed By Love. Instead, Derrick Eckhart's story is a classic tragedy. He is doomed by the qualities that define him.
(image credit; Ep. 38)
Here's a 30 second recap of the setup for Villains Are Destined To Die. The main premise is that our heroine is suddenly thrust into the world of the romance dating game she was playing on hard mode as the villainess, Penelope Eckhart, who is the adopted daughter of Duke Eckhart after his biological daughter tragically disappeared. The goal? Get one of the five male leads to 100% affection score and achieve an ending before the true daughter reappears at Penelope's coming of age ceremony and the regular game begins with the Duke's True Daughter as the heroine. Because the villainess always dies in the end.
Our five male leads are as follows:
Derrick Eckhart - the eldest son and heir of Duke Eckhart.
Reynold Eckhart - the younger son of Duke Eckhart and a knight.
Callisto Regulus - the Crown Prince and a war hero.
Winter Verdandi - a mysterious nobleman and sorcerer.
Eckles - a fallen noble of a conquered nation, now enslaved, but secretly a swordmaster.
If this looks like a list of tropes, congratulations! That's the point. Each romance-able character fits into a neatly defined trope, but since we're focusing on Derrick Eckhart, we're looking specifically at the following archetype:
"The Duke Of The North."
(image credit: Ep. 37)
Derrick Eckhart hits almost every single bullet point on a list of this trope. Colored in cold tones; black hair and blue eyes, with an angular, cutting beauty that is indicative of his matching aloof and logical demeanor? Check!
While their duchy is not physically in the north, it is isolated in that the Eckhart duchy is neutral, not throwing their support to either candidate in the succession struggle between the Crown Prince and his younger brother. Check!
He's the captain of the Eckhart duchy's knights (20,000 strong), so his military prowess and power is acknowledged. Check!
He is the heir of the duchy and is very aware of it's responsibilities, fettering many of his actions through the lens of those duties. Check!
Traumatic past? Check, check and check!
If Derrick were the male lead of this story, his story would likely follow the typical tsundere path of learning that there is strength in the trust that accompanies vulnerability and intimacy - that the balance between the duties of his position and the desires of his heart is not only possible, but desirable. The female lead's love would either be a redemptive object or, in better written stories, an example that propels him to better himself in order to be worthy of her.
But the author did something interesting. They broke the trope down and deconstructed it. What might actually happen when that traumatized, emotionally stunted man falls in love for the first time? Is this something he is able to handle with grace and maturity or is he motivated by his underdeveloped emotional ego? (I'll let you guess...)
Let's look at the two primary emotions that represent Derrick's two "sisters" and drive his actions: guilt and shame.
Guilt
So, the backstory behind Derrick's trauma is both very simple and heartrendingly realistic. The three original siblings, Derrick, Reynold and Ivonne sneak out to a large festival one night. Derrick, being the oldest, has Ivonne's hand in his, but the parade begins and as the crowd swells, his little sister is swept away.
Ivonne is never seen again.
His little sister's disappearance proceeds to tear the already grieving family apart (the mother has succumbed to Dead Mom Syndrome). It's now only the male members left - and while Reynold is allowed to act out and grieve openly to a degree, Derrick is not. He is the heir and he is already expected to control his emotions and conduct himself appropriately. Because his actions reflect on his name.
It doesn't matter that his little sister is just gone, with no leads or even the closure of finding her body.
It doesn't matter that it's his fault; for taking them to the festival without asking permission or guards, for letting Ivonne's hand slip out of his, for failing to find her.
In that crucible of pain, sorrow and guilt, Derrick learns that there is no possible justification for losing control. Because to do so is to make everything even worse. Ivonne and his mother are both gone. If he shames their name and proves himself to be an unworthy successor, Derrick will lose his father too. Everything in his life must now revolve around being the perfect heir - because it's all he has left.
(image credit, Ep. 152)
Callisto makes a similar observation about the weight of being an heir. "The Emperor must be flawless." (Ch 73). We'll actually circle back around to this, because Derrick and Callisto are narrative foils for each other.
Neither Callisto nor Derrick are allowed to show emotions such as fear or grief - because those are potential weaknesses that people could use to try to take advantage of their family's power to advance agendas that likely do not have the best interest of either the imperial family or the Eckharts in mind. Indeed, Callisto's position is weakened because of his brutal reputation, which he encourages in order to express his anger.
Derrick doesn't have that outlet. Anger isn't something he's allowed to feel; rage will only compromise his judgment and threaten the only identity he has left. The most he is allowed to express is irritation and contempt.
Penelope vs Ivonne
And then the Duke does the most insane thing possible - he adopts a street beggar that has a passing resemblance to Ivonne and makes her the new daughter of the house.
**cough** Does anybody see a problem here?!
Oh, here's one. Penelope is so much more vibrant a character than Ivonne. You can see the surface similarities, but that's where they end. Ivonne, is described as "angelic" and painted in the same pastel tones as Reynold (pale pink hair and light blue eyes that link her to Derrick, Reynold and the Duke). Gentle, kind, quiet. An "easy" child.
Penelope is not easy. She's tempestuous and emotional before abruptly going silent after hitting a certain point. She's painted in jewel tones, her eyes "turquoise" or "emerald", her hair a deeper magenta with wild curls. She demands attention (and justice) through bad behavior and no matter how many times she's knocked down, she keeps fighting back. In short, she is uncontrollable.
(image credit, Ep. 134)
Because Derrick cannot allow himself the luxury of anger or disgust at his father for bringing this strange girl into their home, he deals with her presence by simply ignoring her and shutting away his emotions per the status quo. Or, at least, he attempts to.
But Penelope forces her her way into Derrick's life because she is NOT like Ivonne.
She does everything that Derrick is never allowed, while his father seemingly indulges Penelope with material goods that she demands because it's the only way anyone in the house will actually acknowledge her existence. Except for one person- Derrick. Derrick, as the heir, has to clean up the aftermath of Penelope's tantrums. Messes that, in his mind, there is absolutely no justification for. If he can deal with Ivonne's disappearance with dignity befitting the Eckhart name, then by god this girl can stand to control her own behavior!
And it's good to remember that, until the story starts with our version of Penelope, Derrick's perception of her behavior is spot on. Penelope herself comments on it multiple times - how OG Penelope had turned everyone against her. Reynold may have started the household's ostracism by framing Penelope for theft of Ivonne's necklace, and Derrick and the Duke exacerbated it with their willful ignorance, but OG Penelope was her own worst enemy.
(As an aside, I can tell that some readers have never dealt with a 'problem child' in their own family. As someone who did have a sibling who acted out, sometimes in seemingly unforgivable ways at the time, I can say that both Derrick's resentment and the perpetual cycles of blame are rooted in emotional realism).
This is the static pattern until hard mode starts and OG Penelope is replaced with the current Penelope, who already escaped a eerily similar toxic family dynamic. She has no attachment to these men, therefore she is able to do what OG Penelope could never do - she lets go of them. Which is exactly what is needed to smash the current dynamic to smithereens and force Derrick to contend with Penelope's presence in his life.
Because here's the thing. Penelope's behavior forces Derrick to feel. Penelope evokes a response from Derrick - annoyance, resentment...
...and desire.
(image credit, Ep. 19)
Shame
Penelope is not Derrick's sister. He utterly rejects that role, even as the Duke forces him to play it in public. He repeats this rejection multiple times; "I have only one sister and her name is Ivonne," (ch. 75)
But when Derrick expressed cold contempt, Penelope responded with hot rage. Where Derrick is aloof, Penelope is passionate. Derrick must always be in control, whereas Penelope lets control go freely. It's very much an attraction of opposites. Penelope represents everything Derrick is not allowed to have or be - but desperately wants.
If Penelope had chosen Derrick's romance path, then there's an old trope at play here; Kissing Cousins. Depending on your perspective, the incest angle is eliminated due to the fact that Penelope is adopted and Derrick never once thinks of her as his sister. Penelope's primary game conflict is that she's not truly accepted as a daughter of the house. A way to resolve that is to step out of Ivonne's shadow, tempering her extreme emotional reactions with adult self-control that allows Derrick to see and accept her in a new light - not as a living embodiment of his guilt, but as her own person. That, in turn, could give him the opportunity to process his guilt and grief, while also allowing him a safe space to allow himself the emotions he was denied by his trauma. With this conflict resolved, it clears a path for Penelope's true acceptance by the Eckharts, not as a ghost of Ivonne, but as their daughter-in-law, becoming Duchess Eckhart.
(Look, you don't have to like it, but consanguinity is a romance trope that's alive and well. I'm looking at you, Cyrano de Bergerac, Eight Cousins, Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon...shall I go on? Honestly, Derrick and Penelope is pretty tame. Diet Consanguinity, shall we say?)
But Penelope rejects this path immediately, therefore opening up the chance to explore Derrick's first love in a much more realistic sense - this is not a relationship that brings him joy, but instead fills him with shame. I didn't need to read spoilers of the light novels to realize that he was attracted to her from the beginning- it's right there in his affection score; he doesn't want to be addressed as 'Brother.' Her earliest death event with Derrick is when she implies that he's sleeping with her maid.
It's baked in.
And that shame will propel Derrick to stay stuck in his old pattern with Penelope because he cannot reconcile duty and desire. He cannot even recognize what he is feeling consciously. The easiest thing for Derrick to do is live in denial, blaming Penelope for everything, to continue being the put-upon heir of the family who constantly bails her out of trouble. Because the alternative is to acknowledge the unthinkable.
Is it admirable? No.
Is it likely to get him what he wants? Absolutely not.
Is it realistic psychology? Yes.
He is so caught up in the old dynamic with Penelope that he's too slow to realize that it's gone - the new Penelope reflects his own coldness back at him. The more she retreats, the more he chases her, looking for that source of warmth, her unyielding, continuing affection that he thought he couldn't bear. But without it, his world has become utterly cold and full of nothing but his guilt, shame and duty.
And then Derrick destroys what little attachment Penelope had to him with the trial, when he repeats this pattern for the last time by refusing to hear her defense privately and trying to simply get her to plead guilty to an attempted assassination with the assumption that Derrick will simply be able to use the Eckhart name to help her escape the consequences. Season 2 ends with, 'I had no expectations."
That's a death blow to their relationship. Derrick is defined by the expectations of others, which is why he, in turn, defines Penelope by her reputation. For Penelope to tell him that she has no expectations of him is to tell Derrick the agonizing truth - that he is nothing to her.
Not her brother.
Not the future duke.
He's not even a man that she respects.
(image credit, Ep. 85)
This confrontation is different than the Season 1 conclusion, when Penelope's finally willing to risk Reynold's affection score dropping in order to confront him with the truth and consequences of his own actions. In the aftermath of that fight, Reynold realizes that he is the one who needs to reflect on his behavior, not Penelope.
But where Reynold is able to eventually confess the truth about Ivonne's necklace to his father, Derrick is so ashamed of himself that he spirals. The old relationship is gone, leaving him with only her ringing condemnation of his behavior and her justified indifference toward him.
And he does offer an apology - but it's an apology so steeped in the only identity he has left - the Heir - that even though Penelope recognizes it as a genuine attempt at apologizing, it fails to move her. He is not capable of simply saying "I was wrong - at least, not without a bunch of modifiers about why being wrong wasn't his fault.
The Prodigal Daughter Returns
And then, of course, Ivonne makes her inevitable return - not brought in by an outsider (Winter Verdandi) as in the original game, but by Eckles, Penelope's personal guard. A man whom Derrick is already jealous and suspicious of. And, when Penelope understandably starts to lose her shit, Derrick treats it as a return to the status quo - the absolute worst thing he could do.
Especially because he now appears to have a way to expunge his guilt. He can help restore Ivonne to the family.
Derrick is the easiest target for Ivonne to subvert away from the respect Penelope has been painstakingly building from the beginning of the story, because she yokes his conscious guilt and his unconscious shame into a team that drives his actions all the way to Penelope's critical coming-of-age ceremony and the start of the original game, where Penelope's role of villainess is to be cemented.
Derrick desperately wants his little sister back. He also wants to do right by Penelope in the wake of the hunting arc. This is his tragedy, because the two goals are at odds. There is no way to restore Ivonne and win Penelope's affection.
Especially not playing against this magnificent son of a bitch.
(image credit, Ep. 58)
Like all the best character foils, while Derrick has been wrestling with shame and guilt, Callisto Regulus has been busy actually listening to Penelope, thinking critically and making judgments about her based on facts, both old and current. Unlike Derrick, he learns about Penelope and isn't shackled by what people think of either him or her. Indeed, Callisto understands the power of a bad reputation and how it can be harnessed just as easily as a sterling one.
Winter and Callisto are the ones to spring to Penelope's aid at the ruined coming-of-age ceremony, while Derrick is frozen in brainwashed confusion. Even Reynold manages to be the voice of reason in the chaos of her poisoning, pointing out that if they don't let Winter treat Penelope, she's going to die before the doctor can get to her.
(As an aside, when Reynold Eckhart is your voice of reason, you know things have gone sideways!)
Finally, only after Derrick has temporarily broken free of Ivonne's manipulation, having thoroughly soiled his own reputation and the Eckhart name by bringing Ivonne to the ceremony against the orders of their head of house and causing a public spectacle (everything he's accused Penelope of doing), he is left wandering the halls of the estate, desperate to make sense of what's happened and his own feelings.
He can't even go into Penelope's room to check on her - because that spot by her side has already been claimed. He's too late.
(image credit: Ep. 159)
This panel encapsulates Derrick's character in one shot.
The cool tones and shadows, echoing Derrick's symbolism as he's shut away from the warm light representing Penelope. The longing, the jealousy, the self-hatred as he can only peer through the crack in the door. The eerie green light of Ivonne's control has faded from his pupils, leaving him clearheaded for the first time in days as he slowly pieces his fragmented memory together to view the consequences of what he has done.
Meanwhile, a rival Derrick cannot challenge - Callisto - has the right to ask about her condition from the doctor and sit by Penelope's beside, begging her to wake up, not to leave him alone in hell. A hell that Derrick has helped create.
Derrick has had every opportunity through the end of Season 4 to change course - and each time, he is tripped up by those archetypal qualities that define his trope.
The tragic past and hidden vulnerability? These are the qualities Ivonne uses to manipulate and brainwash Derrick into betraying not only Penelope, but himself.
The emotional coldness? It means that Derrick is unable to even understand what he feels, let alone express it coherently, whether to be accepted or rejected. Instead, he's trapped in a self-destructive cycle, alienating the very person he yearns for, unable to ease his loneliness and self-hatred.
The devotion to duty shackles Derrick to a role that is his only identity that outside forces shatter for him - and Ivonne cares nothing for Derrick's well being in the process.
Rather than either the male lead or even a positive force in the narrative, Derrick's traits destroy everything he cherishes, leaving him utterly alone.
The fate of the Duke of the North is to be on the outside looking in.
1) it was Arya Stark who sat at her father's table to listen to him talk and discuss matters with his people, it was her whom the smallfolk affectionally knew as Arya Underfoot
2) it was Arya Stark who was canonically better at her sums and running a household
3) it was Arya Stark who went with Ned Stark to White Harbor
4) it was Arya Stark who fred the Northern prisoners from Harrenhal, who lead this tiny group of orphans into fighting and surviving
5) it was Arya Stark who suffered with the riverlands smallfolk the true hardships of war the North was fighting
6) it was Arya Stark who was betrothed to a Frey and who witnessed their crimes at the Red Wedding first hand
7) it is Arya Stark who is our link to the BWB, who are activately avenging the Red Wedding and keeping the reanimated Catelyn Stark as their leader
8) it is Arya Stark who has a direwolf army waiting for her to use (cause she's a goddamn warg)
9) it is Arya Stark whom Ramsay falsely married to lay claim to Winterfell and the North
10) it is Arya Stark who the North is secretly plotting to get back, to rescue valiant Ned precious little girl
11) it is Arya Stark for whom Jon Snow is willing to bend the rules to rescue, letting a known Night's Watch deserter and wildling chief go to Winterfell as well as giving sound political advice to Stannis
12) it is Arya Stark that Stannis is planning on rescueing and finding a good match for
13) it is Arya Stark who is a polyglot, who is learning to spy and detect lies
Arya Stark has always had political weight in ASOIAF, always. She was never an isolationist who avoided celebrations or lurked in shadows and never shared a word with her people or the bannermen. She was and is a leader of a pack, with a strong and powerful name; strong and powerful connections; strong and powerful abilities. Never forget that, the show did not adapt it because they were unable to adapt her sister correctly so they had to give her this weird mashed up plot, but it was always ARYA STARK , who belonged in the North leading the wolves.
TWOW will prove me right, next year or in 7 more, I don't c a r e.
It's amusing how the relationship between Jonrya is treated as the most absurd and impossible hypothesis when it's a plot line written by George himself and explicitly characterized as romantic initially. Whether it remains in the story or not is the question. The point is that these characters were created to complement each other emotionally and have this absurd and intense connection from the beginning. The love they feel for each other is a big part of the characterization of these characters. They speak in union and have spent so much time together that they are able to guess what the other is thinking. Their souls are so intertwined that even their respective wolves (extensions of their souls) are in tune with each other (Wolves and women wed for life). And within the main characters, no other relationship is established as this indestructible force, being overly emphasized so many times, despite the time and vows or any forces that can separate them.
The first 13 chapters of AGOT were sent with the 1993 outline. Fans who have looked through the manuscripts have noticed few differences compared to the published version. All these iconic quotes and the relationship between Jon and Arya settling in between major narrative plots have always been here.
Girls get the arms, but not the swords. Bastards get the swords, but not the arms. Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. The memory of her laughter warmed him on the long ride north. Stick them with the pointy end. These passages were thought with them in a romantic relationship in mind :) Got a problem with that? Go take it up with George.
Plus, āYou,ā Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, āwill marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon.ā > Arya kissing the cat in the brow, who is the real king of the castle and the black bastard > Jon being called the black bastard in the wall in ADWD. Grrm subtly returning to old foreshadowing? Oh interesting I guess!
Textually, Jon and Arya are platonic soulmates. They are each other's heart, home and priority. Their bond defies death, is unique within asoiaf and is magnificently written as something no one else has. Trying to level down their relationship only reveals an inability to read the text and the narrative arc of these characters, who have been deeply connected since book 1. They yearn so much to be reunited, regardless of any factors, that it is painful. These are feral loves that simply shake the readers and imply visceral emotions and actions. Like Jon breaking his vows to rescue "Arya" and suffering the consequences for it. It is insane, but this is the true representation of love. An unstoppable force that can drag anyone down. The things we love destroy us every time. He, along with Nymeria, are the reasons that allow Arya's identity to be preserved and that's why she never loses herself. Her desire to reunite with him, even before all the tragedy, is the factor that motivates her to continue living. And she has such overwhelming faith in him (Jon will want me, even if no one else will.) that she knows she will be safe in his arms. Arya's physical home as it was... simply doesn't exist anymore, but JON is her home. And most of all, her pack. In Braaavos she never thinks of any other alternatives besides him. And she would never abandon him.
The abundance of love between them not only brings significant transformations to their internal and external worlds, but also resonates in the narrative. The forbidden love between them would defy logic, social and moral conventions. This is the kind of conflict that George loves to explore and enhance. George is not a conventional writer. His more vanilla romances are not overly explored by the text. He likes drama, complex and contradictory feelings, relationships that involve some degree of moral complexity and that torment his characters. That's why it's so funny to see fans so shocked by his initial ideas because his text itself reveals where he takes things, to the utmost of the heart in conflict with itself. He seeks to address these issues because he likes it. Asoiaf would be much less fun if he only cared about the readers' feelings.
In a scenario where the zombie apocalypse has wiped out everything and everyone, why wouldn't they be together? If, even when they're apart, they still yearn for each other? Why wouldn't they choose to live their lives together, if that's already a desire expressed by both of them? And share their pains and joys with each other. And grow old together? I'm not even talking in a ship sense. It's just that these two characters explicitly inform readers that they love each other above all else and unconditionally. If they have no hope because they've changed so much and nothing will ever be the same, what relationship does asoiaf have a chance of thriving? No one else? If 90% of the relationships established in the books don't have even half of this devotion, loyalty, and affection. How would they be in a better position to thrive?
I'm not saying it will happen exactly as he initially planned. There are obstacles, of course. However, I think those obstacles are magnified to the extreme even in hypothetical scenarios. If the lack of time skip is a hindrance (in a saga that is still ongoing and can last for years), then it is a problem for other relationships as well, in Arya's case perhaps except with Ned Dayne. "But, he can write off-page around the end or in an epilogue". In other words, this narrative device can also be used for Jonrya? Right? "Oh, it's so controversial". Since when did this stop George from writing anything? I find it funny when people say they can't see her reciprocating the feelings. When GRRM totally can and wrote it that way initially š He is a writer fully aware of the universe he created, you don't need to tell him. Platonic soulmates falling in love after a reunion and being horrified by it is exactly the kind of emotional mess that GRRM likes to explore. Regardless of whether they end up together or not.
I am of the radical opinion that, if George wants to write something, he will simply find a way and do it. If Jon and Arya somehow end up together in the end, it's part of the endings he's been dreaming up since 1991 and he won't change them, so it's going to happen. We can only wait for the end of the saga to know for sure. I'm not very creative, but maybe Arya looking for Jon north of the wall, spending some time with him, an open ending with the two of them together or maybe implying that the Stark bloodline continued with them and that they had several Stark looking children. Maybe she could be like the Mormont women, claiming that the fathers of her children are bears, in Arya's case, a wolf. Or, for magical reasons, Jon making a pact with The Heart of Winter and being able to meet her only in the spring. If he wants, there are so many narrative paths that can be presented.
It's very obvious to me how much George loves and values āātheir relationship. His favorite quote is something between them. And he constantly elevates and builds on. He revisits old ideas, makes these characters think about each other all the time. He puts extra emphasis on their bond. Like Jon was supposed to die at Hardhome, but he went there and wrote the Pink Letter, just to put more focus on the relationship between him and Arya once again. Idk, but it doesn't seem like he's written off Jon Arya the way ppl think and I think their fates are more intertwined than fans believe. The guy has tripled down on their relationship. So it's going to be very impactful and relevant.
Arya is the most important and beloved person to Jon. While he is the most important and beloved person to her. And that is why it is difficult to visualize them voluntarily separating. Regardless of the direction their relationship takes, they are undeniably made for each other and are the true soulmates of asoiaf.
Granny:Ā Are you trying to say something to the reader by drilling into us how much Arya and Jon love each other?
George RR Martin:Ā āSay something to the reader?ā No, Iām just reporting how the characters feel. Of course, everything in the book says something to the reader. -GRRM
You know, it's probably ridiculous to assume that Viktor is being somehow mind controlled by the Hexcore in S2 of Arcane. Obviously his actions are entirely his own, right?
After all, mind control plotlines can be a tricky to pull off and when it's employed, creators tend to put a lot of signposts in to let you know what's really happening and how the character isn't themselves anymore.
For example, creators might do things like... having the character's eye color suddenly change, since eyes are the windows to the soul.
Or... creators might indicate that the character's voice has changed somehow, to indicate that another will is acting through them and they're not entirely themselves anymore.
Certainly one really common trope in mind control plotlines is the mind-controlled character is hearing some kind of voice in their head telling them what to do, or seeing someone that isn't there who guides them or controls them.
Certainly in a pinch, if you really want to drive home that a character has been mind controlled and hasn't been themselves, you'd make it pretty obvious by having them be horrified by what they've done once the mind control wears off!
Bonus points if their eyes revert back to their natural color and any other signs of a different voice or appearance go away once the mind control is finally lifted! That way it's definitely clear that they've been set free from whatever influence was upon them.
But seriously, without these sorts of really glaring signposts we can't really be sure if a mind control plotline was intended at all!
(Tongue-in-cheek aside, I actually love the subtlety of how Arcane executed the Hexcorized Viktor plotline, and I love how much ambiguity remains. But for anyone who thinks he was totally in control, I mean, come on guys. When I started going down the list of all the things film and tv usually does to signal a mind control plot I literally burst out laughing when I realized how many of them Arcane had hidden in plain sight.)
The last time I saw a magical mind control arced handled with this mix of "oh it's definitely fucking people up" and "it's really hard to say where the bad impulses end and the active possession begins" was Lord of the Rings.
The One Ring doesn't really control people, at least not in the conventional sense, and it doesn't force them to do things like a demon taking possession of their body might. But it corrupts them, and influences their mind in ways that they can't always recognize, and provokes and stirs up their worst impulses. If it gets enough sway over someone, they will do things that they would have never done otherwise, often to their own horror in the aftermath. It is especially hard for the characters to handle in part because even they can't always identify what was the ring and what was them.
It's just that in Lord of the Rings we are very plainly told that the One Ring is manipulative and has a will of its own. In Arcane, we get pretty much all the same clues that this is going on (more, in fact) but nobody says so. Probably because nobody in-universe is even all that sure of it!
Still, a lot of the same narrative tricks are employed to tell the audience that this mysterious object is a sinister character in and of itself.
Oh, I LOVE this point, because I was just noting to my partner the other day that one of the many influences on Arcane is clearly Lord of the Rings and one of the places you see it most is in the way people look at Hexgems and Hextech items for the first time.
It's not just Powder who gets the glint in her eyes the first time she sees a Hextech gemstone.
The first time Vi picks up the Atlas Gauntlets, she gets the blue glint in her eyes as if it hypnotizes her. Later, Cait notes how Vi seems to believe Jayce's gauntlets will solve everything for her, to perhaps a worrying degree.
Jayce is unwilling to put down his Hextech hammer in the Anomaly future to the point where dragging it around is actively endangering his chance of survival AND permanently maims him.
Even Heimerdinger gets the glint in his eyes the first time he sees the Hextech gemstones, it's this very particular blue shine, and if I was less lazy, I'd go hunting down all the gifs and images but SUFFICE TO SAY, every single time a characters sees Hextech up close for the first time, they get a very particular glow in their eyes.
Personally, I think the metaphor here is simply: power.
Hextech gives you the power to do the thing you want to do. I'd argue the sense of power the gemstone gives Powder is what eggs her on to make her monkey bomb in the first place that brings such destruction to everyone she loves in 1.03.
Viktor becomes obsessed with the Hexcore to the point where he's ignoring the living people in his life who want to spend time with him while he's alive, like Sky and Jayce, so even if Viktor manages to stay alive he's demonstrated that he's not living.
As noted, Vi becomes reliant on the gauntlets, Jayce's mother notes with fear how obsessed Jayce has become with magic and Hextech (arguably, he's Patient Zero in all this) to the point where he's ready to die if he can't have Hextech in his life, it's so beautiful he can't imagine wanting to live in a world without it, and arguably his moment of demonstrated growth and healing at the end of the show is when Viktor and human connection replaces the value he once put on Hextech as the center of his life.
Heimerdinger also makes an interesting note when he says he thought the danger of magic came from humanity's, "Turbulent relationship with power." Which is very in line with the One Ring.
However, he goes on to say that the Arcane itself might be responsible in part for the destruction that springs forth from its use, which implies a will beyond that of the mage wielding it.
So I think on one level, Hextech and its intoxicating influence works as a simple and beautiful metaphor for power, exactly the way the One Ring does.
But, because we're in a fantasy world too, there is a deeper implication with both Hextech and the One Ring that arguably inspired it that there is a will at work, and it's a will that is seductive and a will that bends towards destruction.
From the moment people get that shine of Hextech in their eyes, they begin to act differently unless they wrench themselves from its influence. Already unbalanced people, like Powder, fall very quickly and spiral into destructive uses from it almost from the start. Stronger personalities disavow it, like Cait saying that Hextech will keep us alive but it won't save us, only for her to fall prey to its siren call after the attack on the Memorial unbalances her emotions further as well.
The lure of power is particuarly appealing to those who feel they've lost control but there is a sense that Hextech and magic by extension also preys upon those who are attracted to it.
And with the Hexcore representing the Apex form of Hextech, well, let's just say I'm not sure Viktor stood a chance at all, with how much he felt out of control of his own life (for very understandable reasons) and how it took a reaffirmation of connection with others to restabilize him and make him see the damage this pursuit of power had caused.
I think itās interesting to note that Echo is basically the only main character that never falls for the arcane and flat out distrusts the hexcore.
Very much like Bilbo keeping an acorn to remind him of home, he never loses sight of his community, his under city, his tree, his cause. Just as Bilbo was unable to strike down the pitiful Gollum, Echo couldnāt bring himself to end the twisted life of his childhood friend.
And when the ring /hex tech falls into their hands, though they wish it never did, both Frodo and Echo are key instruments in the fall of the evil brought into their lives. And both of them ultimately had to work with Gollum/ Jinx to do it. The cost however, is immense and heartbreaking.
Never again can they live as they should have, had the ring/hex tech never fallen into their hands.
titsay
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