nsfw, implied relationship, bisexual Loki so GN!reader and different F!reader and M!reader for certain headcanons
masterlist
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
- He always does aftercare, it is very important to him that you feel his affection for you.
- You two will probably have sex after a bit of being in the relationship since he knows that’s how it usually works on Earth if you are looking for a long lasting relationship. So by then you two are already comfortable and intimate around each-other.
- If it’s needed he cleans you up with a warm towel without you even having the time to ask.
- He holds you close, usually he is the one holding you but he also likes being held, brushes your hair from your face and gives you a kiss. Always. More than one actually. It’s usually one on the mouth and one on the head or two on the head. If he is holding you from behind he buries his head in your hair or the crook of your neck.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
- On himself his chest or his hands and lower arms. He is nit obsessed with them but he thinks they look pretty good.
(F!specific) - Your breasts. It doesn’t matter the size really. He likes small breasts, perky, big, medium… He just likes them. He doesn’t always like them or see them as sexual. He can bathe with you and still think that you body is beautiful without immediately sexualizing them or you.
(M!specific) - Your back. This especially if you have some muscles, even just a little bit. He still likes it even if you don’t have any or if you’re lean, he just likes different aspects of it. He just thinks it’s hot.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
- He likes to cum in you. He wouldn’t pressure you to do that tho of course.
(F!specific) - He does not have a breeding kink tho. He would only ever mention something along those lines if you two were actively trying to convince.
- While he is giving you oral he likes if you cum in his mouth. He wouldn’t like it on his face tho.
(F!specific) - The exception to that would be it you are a woman or have a vagina and it’s dripping down his mouth or around it.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
- It is not too much of a secret, at least not really from you, but he does enjoy when his partner is the one taking the lead and even being a little dominant.
- He doesn’t enjoy being submitted too much or to the point of being degraded but he enjoys giving you the lead sometimes.
- He is gender fluid so sometimes he changes his physical aspect to his woman form. He prefers his male form and uses he/ him pronouns but it does occasionally happen. He still would want you to prefers his male form because that’s what he appears at basically all of the time (which doesn’t make him not gender fluid and also when I say male form and female form I mean ecstatically and physically).
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
- He is experienced. Like c’mon he’s like 1200 years old. Which in human years is quite young actually but still. He’s has both sexual experiences with men and women. That added to the fact that he pays attention to your body and your reactions makes him good.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
(F!specific) - He likes the missionary and variations of it. For example he likes when you hook one or both legs around his waist. He also enjoys to have your legs higher up, with your knees on his shoulders. In that position tho sometimes he is sitting up more than laying or hoovering over you.
- He likes if you ride him but prefers to be on top.
- He does enjoy doggy. Most of the time you have your chest and face against the pillows and he is leaning ever you kissing your shoulders or with his face near yours (not necessarily through all of the duration). Also yes you have worn his horns and he has used them as handles. He also used a spell to make them stay on and make sure either doesn’t feel heavy or uncomfortable on your head.
(M!specific) - If you’re the one penetrating him he enjoys being on all fours, especially if you lean over him and hold him or just lean over. You two also do it while he is facing you and laying with his back against the bed. He doesn’t have his legs all the way up to your shoulders tho, he is not that flexible or really interested in that, at least for now. If he’s the one penetrating you then same thing just vice versa. He likes if you’re doing doggy but he’s pretty much laying over you. He also enjoys facing you a “0lot.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
- He’s not really goofy but if he is a little it’s before before than during it.
- He’ll make a joke or act goofy but either to not make you feel bad about something “embarrassing” that you did more than anything else. He does make jokes sometimes but it’s more him teasing you than him being goofy.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
- He doesn’t shave completely but he grooms himself. He thrims and shaves (or waxes, I am not sure of the methods used at Asgard) behind for sure and his hinner thighs to make sure he stays clean. Also I think once he is in a relationship he probably starts completely shaving his balls much more often because he wants to be appealing to you.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
- Already mentioned it but he pays attention. He pays attention to your body, your breath, the sounds you make everything.
- He’s romantic and it is intimate. There is always quite a bit of foreplay and teasing beforehand.
- He often times whispers sweet things into your ear and bites your earlobe sometimes or kiss right below it. He also knows the spots where you like to he kissed and kisses you there.
- He’ll tease you and say stuff like “What did you say?”, “I couldn’t hear you”, “Use your words darling”.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
- It’s often.
- It is not often enough where it’s worrying but it’s pretty often. He does it minimum 4 times a week. He can go for longer without but why should he? He doesn’t need to.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
- Biting. Not hard enough to hurt you bad or leave a deep mark. He likes nibbling your neck or thighs after he kissed them. He enjoys nibbling on your nipples and on your clitoris (if you enjoy is and well if you have one).
- Bondage. Doesn’t want to degrade you or be degraded but he likes bondage. He likes both tying you up and being tied up.
- He makes sure you are comfortable and you two also have talked about it beforehand multiple times.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
- The bed is a classic of course, and I think it’s where it mostly happens. It’s confortable (also romantic, especially if you were in his room at Asgard) so u can just swich between positions or just be passionate.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
(F!specific) - His favourite colour is green, but I think he’d love to see you in black lingerie. And by lingerie I mean fairly simple underwear with some lace.
(kinda F!specific but also not really)- Babydolls and nightgowns. Especially silk ones.
- You wearing his horns. He likes it because it signals you two are close not just physically but emotionally. Also it may make him a little possessive (not in a toxic or heavy way).
- If you slapped him. Now I do not mean if you were to hot him really hard or be abusive towards him. I’m talking about when you slap someone cause you’re upset but do it light enough so it does not hurt. Also if you two are arguing and you put him in his place. He is not too into power play, so one of the two of you being really submissive and the other one being very dominant. That said he likes if you take the lead sometimes.
- If you’re smart and figure out or explain to him something he didn’t know.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
- Threesomes. If it’s a hookup then maybe yeah but otherwise absolutely not.
- Anything that hurts you or causes you pain. If we’re talking about: light chocking, nibbling your skin or your nipples or some spanking then yes. Biting hard enough to leave a red mark? No. Cutting you? Absolutely not. Also this includes BDSM. Bondage is one thing but actual BDSM- yeah no.
- Pet names. He likes some pet names like “darling”, “love” or “my love”, but he wouldn’t call you “pet”. He would not degrade you like that (which is why even if you were into degradation you’d have to really talk about it and convince him. It would also be pretty light). He also wouldn’t use “mommy”, “daddy” or “baby”. It’s a human thing and for someone from Asgard those are names you call your parents or an infant. It would make him uncomfortable and he wouldn’t get it. Also “master” or things of that sort since he is not that into power play and it’s always more of a who takes the lead.
- Anything non consensual. He would NOT take advantage of you. I’ve seen fanfictions of Loki doing that and he just would never. The things that he did that were evil all were for a reason which was wanting to be seen as great and accepted by his father mostly. Also he changed, I don’t think he is truly an evil person he would never do that.
- By that I mean he also wouldn’t just not stop after you ask “to tease you”. Absolutely not.
- If anything ifbyoh want to do something a bjt kinky you twi have a safeword and have talked about it beforehand. Also if he notices you’re uncomfortable he stops, he asks, and even if you say stop but not your safe word he will stop (which is why I also think he wouldn’t take part in cnc). This man has felt unloved, in his brother’s shadow, not cared for and all of th at for his whole life he would never hurt you in that way.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
- He likes both giving and recieving but he prefers giving.
(F! specific) - He really enjoys eating you out. He doesn’t do it every time but he does it often and won’t sah nonif you ask him to. He likes to take his sweet time with you. Kissing your inner thighs while he holds them with his hands, caressing your skin every once in a while with his finger. He likes to tease you. When he does actually eat you out he is either slow or keeps a steady pace.
(M! specific) - He enjoys giving you oral more than he likes receiving it. He always teases you, whisper in your ear and touches your thighs before he actually does it. He strokes and touches you a but first. When he is actually giving you oral he runs his lips on the sides pf your length from the base to the tip and then focuses on your tip for a little bit. He still teases you for a bit, then keeps either a slow or steady face.
(M! specific) - Also, this man may be a little into submission when giving you oral but he does not like gagging on it or being face fucked. He does not mind if you roll your hips a little bit tho because that way he knows you’re enjoying it.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
- Either slow and sensual or at a steady pace and sensual.
- He’ll go faster if you ask him, a couple of times, but he’s not rough with you. He makes sure he’s hitting all the right spots and that you are not even close to in pain. He’ll go faster and a big rougher but not rough, or at least it would be an exception.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
- He is down for a quickie but it’s not his preference. He’d much rather only pleasure you and not himself than have a quickie.
- Quickies with him are rare. What does happen more often is him teasing you and leaving you hangong for a bit.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
- Public sex? No. Semi public/ risky sex? Oh absolutely.
- His favourite place is still the bedroom. Also he doesn’t actually want to be seen by someone else while he’s with you in that way. That said, he’d love making out and touching you in the kitchen. Even if someone could walk in. He wouldn’t actually have sex in the kitchen or undress you there unless you two are alone in the house tho.
- He likes the idea of being risky and possibly getting caught but makes sure it never happens.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
- He can last a lot. He can go all night even, c’mon, he’s a god.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
- He doesn’t need them but once he is in a relationship he has a few. They are for your pleasure tho, not his. Even if he was to use them on himself I think it would be a rare thing.
- On Asgard they definetly have toys, and he for sure had an ex partner so he had (and probably still has) a few from then. Not many like literally 1 or 2, and he probably got them after his partner hinted at them.
- If you’re a human/ a Midgardian he’d wait before ever asking about toys. That’s because he is not from Earth and he doesn’t really know much about how courting works here (besides from what he learned around and, even tho he wasn’t too happy to ask, from his brother).
- After he learned that on Earth/ Midgard a partner who is way too ager to go to bad with someone is often seen as not fit, he waits until you initiate it. He’d do the same with toys. He’d probably have a vibrator for you, maybe a butt plug if you are into thay but I believe you’d have to ask for that.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
- He loves to tease you. It’s mostly berore sex than during it tho. He may edge you sonetimes but it’s not that long or that often that it happens, unless he knows you really are into it. In that case he’ll edge you more often.
- During sex if he’s teasing you kore than edging it’s saying stuff like “You like it huh? Mm?” or “Use your words darling. What is it that you want again?”, whole time he knows what you want he just wants you to say it.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
- He moans. He groans. He panths a little bit too.
- He’s not too loud tho. He’s loud enough for you ti hear but he doesn’t scream or yell. He is also not loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear him.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
- Clones. He is into this but more because he knows you like it more than for his own personal pleasure. Which is why he’d wait for you to ask him about it or just hint at it but not really propone it.
(F! specific) - I don’t think he’d use a clone of himself with you for doubke penetration, as in vaginal sex and anal. I really don’t thjnk he is intk anal. He could try jt a couple of times if you asked him but He doesn’t really like it. If you’re a man then yes ofc he’s into anal but with a woman he just prefers the other part.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
- If you are here you have seen the pictures. And rhe videos. He is definetly not small.
- He definetly has avarage to big balls, not huge but big enough. He has a medium girth, maybe leaning towards thick but pretty much in the middle. Uncut.
- He’s a grower abd his lenght is above avarage. When hard he’s around 20cm (which is around 7.8 inches)
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
- High. His sex drive is high.
- He doesn’t just yearn for your body of course, he years to be close to you. And even when he is horny and want to have sex with you, (or make love, which is how he calls is) it’s never just your body itself. He also wants to be close with you emotionallh and phisically, make you feel good, hold you close to him.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
- If it’s evening and you two are in bed he falls asleep kinda quickly (within like 10 minutes) but bot because he cannot stay awake anymore but because he just wahts to go to sleep.
- If it’s in the morning or the afternoon he has no issue staying awake.
I really hope I did not mischaracterize the hell out of him I did my best!! Be free to comment your opinion or correct me on stuff like grammar, english is not my first language.
Also I do accept requests or like suggestions (I have only written headcanons for now but I’m open to writing like a whole page).
Mouth of the Wolf. Eyes of the Lamb | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon
Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], consensual!, arranged marriage, slow burn romance, protective cregan, soft for her, touch-starved, grief and healing, forced proximity, marriage of convenience, the north, winterfell, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, consent-focused, fluff and angst
Summary: After losing your father, you are sent north to marry the feared Wolf of Winterfell. But beneath Cregan Stark’s cold, commanding exterior is a fiercely loyal man who gives you something very few have: a choice.
Word Count:
A/N: This is a dilly dally, a meander of a fanfic. Just got back into writing again and I knew how I wanted this to end but not really how I wanted to get there.
Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3
The first thing you noticed was the silence.
Your father’s chamber had never been quiet before. Even during the long winters, when snow buried the roads and kept the household indoors, there had always been something to hear beyond the thick wooden door: the low murmur of servants, the scrape of a chair, the rough cough that had followed him through the last year of his life.
Now there was only the crackle of the fire.
It burned low in the grate, staining the room with a dull red glow. The logs shifted with a soft collapse, sending a brief shower of sparks up the chimney. Shadows crowded the walls, gathering in the corners and beneath the heavy furniture. The shutters were closed against the dawn, but a thin line of grey light showed where they did not quite meet. It lay across the floor like a blade.
Your father lay beneath the heavy furs, his face turned toward the narrow window where the morning had begun to pale. The room smelled of smoke, bitter herbs, and the sharp vinegar the maester had used to clean his skin. A cup of untouched medicine sat on the table beside the bed.
You stood beside him with both hands folded before you, afraid to touch him.
You had touched him every day of your life. As a child, you had climbed into his lap without asking. You had held his hand when you learned to ride, when you were ill, when you returned from your first hunt with blood on your sleeve and tears burning behind your eyes. Even after you had grown too old to sit upon his knee, you had kissed his cheek before leaving the room.
Now your hands remained at your waist, useless and trembling.
He had grown smaller these past few months. The lord who had once seemed too large for any room now looked swallowed by the bedclothes. His shoulders had narrowed beneath the linen. The signet ring he had worn for as long as you could remember hung loose around one finger, its dark stone turning toward the window.
His silver hair clung damply to his brow. His skin had taken on the grey colour of the winter sky, and each breath seemed to cost him something. They came in thin, uneven pulls, separated by pauses long enough to make you wonder whether the next one would come at all.
You listened for it.
You held your breath while you waited.
When he finally drew air into his lungs, the sound was so faint that the fire nearly swallowed it.
“Father?”
His eyes opened.
For a moment, they were clear. Then recognition softened them.
“Come closer, little lamb.”
You hated the name today. It belonged to a time when he had lifted you onto his horse and called you gentle because you had wept over a wounded bird. You had been grown for years now, but he had never stopped using it.
You moved to the bedside.
His hand searched across the furs. You took it before he had to ask.
His fingers were cold.
“I am here.”
“I know.” His voice was scarcely more than breath.
You looked toward the door. No one had explained why he had summoned you before dawn, only that he had worsened during the night.
“You should rest.”
“I have rested enough.”
The words frightened you more than the cough ever had.
He turned his head toward you. “The raven will come today.”
Your throat tightened. “What raven?”
“From the North.”
The fire cracked between you.
You had heard the northern houses spoken of all your life, though never with ease. House Stark had been an ally of your family before you were born. An old oath bound your lands to Winterfell, sealed by blood and renewed by every lord who inherited your father’s seat.
But an oath was not the same as a marriage.
An oath could be honoured from a distance, across years and generations. It could be spoken over a seal, remembered at a feast, and left untouched until danger called for it.
A marriage would bring the North into your chambers.
It would put Cregan Stark at your side, not as an ally of your father’s house, but as your husband.
You knew that before he said it.
“No,” you whispered.
Your father closed his eyes. “You do not yet know what I mean.”
“I know enough.”
“The world is changing. The king is dead. Dragons are choosing sides. Men who have smiled at us for twenty years are counting our soldiers and measuring our walls.” His grip tightened weakly around your hand. “Your brothers are dead. Your uncle is a drunkard, disinherited. If I die without securing the house, everything we have kept will be taken.”
“And House Stark will protect us?”
“House Stark will honour their oath.”
The room seemed to grow colder.
You pulled your hand from his. “You promised me to them?”
“I promised our house.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He looked at you then, and the grief in his face was worse than the anger you expected.
“I am sorry.”
The apology struck cleanly. You stepped away from the bed, shaking your head.
“No.”
“Listen to me.”
“No. You cannot speak of this as if it is some account to be settled before you die.”
“It is not an account.” He struggled for breath. “It is the only shield I can place between you and the men who will come after me.”
“I do not need a shield.”
“You need a Lord, that is the way of the world, no matter how much I wish it were not.”
You stared at him.
He had always been a kind father. That was the cruelty of it. Had he been hard, you might have hated him. Had he been selfish, you might have refused him. But he had given you tenderness all your life, and now he was using the last of his strength to send you north to a man you had never met.
“Cregan Stark,” he said.
His name passed through the room like a draft beneath the door.
You had heard stories. Everyone had.
Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell. Cregan Stark, who judged men without raising his voice. Cregan Stark, who had inherited a cold castle, a hard land, and the temper of both.
“He is not a monster,” your father said.
It was as though you had spoken your thoughts out loud.
“No?” you replied. “Yet he is a man who is feared like one.”
A faint smile touched your father’s mouth. “Fear is not always the worst thing a Lord can inspire.”
Before you could answer, a sudden beating struck the window.
You turned.
A black raven clung to the outer sill, its wings beating against the glass. One of the servants hurried into the chamber and opened the latch. Cold air rushed inside. The bird flew to the table, scattering ash from the dying fire.
A strip of parchment was tied to its leg.
Your father looked toward it.
“The North,” he murmured. "It always remembers."
You could not move.
The servant crossed the room and removed the message. The seal was black wax, stamped with a direwolf.
House Stark.
He held it out to you.
Your father’s breathing had become shallow again. “Read it.”
You took the parchment.
The seal broke beneath your thumb.
There were only a few lines.
Your father had not exaggerated. Cregan Stark wrote as he ruled, with no wasted words and no room for misunderstanding.
By the blood owed to Winterfell, and by the oath sworn between our houses, you will come north as my wife before the first winter snow.
Below it was his name.
Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North.
You read the message twice.
Then your father fell once again into a dreamless slumber.
For a long moment, you remained where you stood, the parchment trembling in your hand.
Outside, the raven cried.
In your bitterness, it sounded like laughter.
***
The journey north took eighteen days.
By the time Winterfell appeared through the snow, you had stopped counting them.
The road had been hard beneath the wheels, frozen and uneven. Each night, the wind had found its way through the walls of whatever keep or village received your party, and each morning had brought you farther from the only home you had ever known.
Farther from your father.
He had written you a letter which You had carried inside your cloak, folded carefully against your heart. You had read it so often that you no longer needed to see the words.
Before the first winter snow.
Winterfell rose beyond the hills.
It was larger than you had imagined and less welcoming than any place you had ever seen. Its walls were grey beneath the early winter sky, their stones darkened by snow and age. Towers rose above them in uneven shapes, their battlements disappearing into mist and falling snow. Narrow windows pierced the walls like watchful eyes. Smoke drifted from the battlements, but no warmth seemed to escape with it.
The castle looked old enough to remember every oath ever sworn within its walls. Its towers leaned into the sky like the ribs of some enormous beast, and the walls seemed less built than grown from the frozen earth.
Like bones jutting out of the ground from something long dead. Yet, it was alive, men upon those walls moved with quiet purpose, carrying firewood, watching the road, and keeping their ancient home alive against the cold.
Your escort grew quiet as the gates drew nearer.
No one had spoken Cregan Stark’s name since leaving your father’s lands. They had not needed to. His presence had followed you north in every warning and half-finished sentence.
Do not anger him.
Do not mistake his silence for kindness.
Do not forget that you are going to Winterfell as his promised wife.
The carriage slowed.
Through the window, you saw men gathered beneath the gatehouse. Their cloaks were grey and white, their faces stern from years beneath northern skies. At their centre stood a man.
You knew him at once.
Cregan Stark was not dressed for a welcome. He wore black leather beneath a heavy fur cloak, with a sword at his back. You had heard of that sword during the journey north. It had belonged to his father before him, and to the Stark before that, passed from lord to heir with every oath sworn over its hilt. Men said Cregan had drawn it only when he meant to finish what had already been decided. Snow had gathered in his dark hair and along the broad line of his shoulders, but he did not seem to feel the cold, as many men of the north didn’t.
He stood as though it belonged to him.
Because it did.
The castle, the snow, the men gathered beneath the gatehouse, all of it answered to Cregan Stark. The knowledge settled over you more heavily than the cold. You were not approaching a man who merely lived within these walls.
You were approaching their lord.
Your hands tightened in your lap.
The carriage stopped.
A servant opened the door, and the cold entered before you could prepare for it.
“My Lady,” he said quietly. “We have arrived.”
You looked once more at the man beneath the gatehouse.
Cregan Stark’s grey eyes were already fixed upon you.
You stepped down from the carriage.
As your boots touched the frozen ground, the cold climbed through the soles at once, sharp enough to steal your breath. You gathered your cloak around yourself, though you knew it would do little against the northern air.
No one moved to greet you.
The men beneath the gatehouse watched in silence. Their eyes passed over your travelling dress, your gloves, the crest embroidered at your shoulder. They were measuring you, deciding what sort of woman had been sent north to become their lady.
Then Cregan Stark began to walk toward you.
He crossed the snow without haste. Each step was deliberate, his gaze never leaving your face. Up close, he was more imposing than he had appeared from the carriage. Broad through the shoulders, taller than any man in your escort, he carried the cold around him like another layer of armour.
You forced yourself not to step back, to press yourself against the carriage and cower.
His eyes lowered briefly to the parchment still clutched in your hand.
“My condolences,” he said.
His voice was deep, quieter than you expected.
You swallowed. “Your summons arrived before my father died.”
Cregan’s expression tightened, though his face remained otherwise unreadable.
“I know.”
The words unsettled you more than surprise would have.
“You knew?”
“The raven reached Winterfell before your father’s death was reported.”
You looked at him, the cold suddenly sharper against your skin.
“So you knew I was grieving before I crossed your gates.”
“I knew you had lost him.”
His voice held no pity. No attempt to soften what could not be softened.
You searched his face for some sign that he regretted sending the letter, or that he understood what it had cost you to obey it.
You found neither.
Only the quiet certainty of a man who had been waiting for you to arrive, even while knowing you had left your father dying.
“Did you write the letter?”
“I did.”
“You ordered me here.”
“I sent for you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Cregan said. “It is not.”
The wind moved between you, carrying snow across the stones.
Behind him, the gates of Winterfell stood open. Beyond them waited the castle, the marriage, and a life that had been decided while you were still holding your father’s hand.
Cregan offered you his arm.
The gesture was proper. Almost courteous.
You stared at it as though he had extended a blade. His sleeve was dark with melting snow, and beneath the wool you could see the strength of his forearm. That arm could guide you through the gates, or hold you there once you crossed them.
He did not move.
He did not tell you to take it. He did not reach for your hand.
He simply waited, leaving the choice where it had always been, even if every choice before this one had already been taken from you.
“Come inside, my lady,” he said. “You are freezing.”
You placed your hand against his arm.
He did not tighten his grip. He did not pull you closer. He simply turned toward the gates, giving you no choice but to walk beside him.
The people of Winterfell watched as their new lady entered beneath the walls.
And you wondered if the wolf knew he had brought a lamb into his den.
***
The great hall was warmer than the courtyard, but you did not feel it.
Heat pressed against your chilled face as the doors closed behind you. Fires burned in iron braziers along the walls, their smoke curling beneath the rafters. Banners hung above the long tables, grey and white, each marked with the direwolf of Winterfell. You had seen the sigil on the letter. Here, surrounded by stone and silence, it seemed less like a heraldic device and more like a warning.
Cregan released your arm only when you reached the foot of the table.
“My lord,” one of the men behind you said, “the lady’s chambers have been prepared.”
Cregan’s gaze remained on you. “She will dine first.”
You looked up at him. “I am not hungry.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“My lord,” one of the men behind you said, “the lady’s chambers have been prepared.”
Cregan’s gaze remained on you. “She will dine first.”
You looked up at him. “I am not hungry.”
His eyes lowered briefly to your face, then to the hands clenched in your cloak.
“You have travelled eighteen days,” he said. “You will eat before you are shown to your rooms.”
The answer should have angered you. Instead, it unsettled you. He spoke without cruelty, but there was little room in his voice for refusal.
Your father had commanded you because he was afraid of what would happen after he was gone. His fear had made him place your future in another man’s hands, but it had never made him careless with your heart.
Cregan Stark commanded because the world had taught him to expect obedience. The difference lay not in their kindness, but in the burdens they carried. Your father had been trying to protect you from the dangers beyond his walls.
Cregan was the man those dangers would have to face.
You glanced toward the tables. Several people had gathered there, though no one had begun eating. A woman with auburn hair watched you from beside the hearth. She was older than you, perhaps by a few years, and wore no jewels except a silver pin shaped like a wolf’s head. Near her sat a boy with the same dark hair as Cregan, his narrow face sharp with curiosity.
“Your family,” you said.
“My kin.”
The distinction was deliberate. You wondered how many such distinctions there were in this place, small as knife cuts and twice as difficult to notice.
Cregan turned toward the hall. “You will meet them before the meal is done.”
“And if I would rather meet them tomorrow?”
“Then tomorrow will be more difficult than today.”
You hated him for saying it because you knew he was right.
He led you toward the table. The hall grew quieter with every step. Servants lowered their eyes. Guards stood straighter. Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly in his presence.
At the high table, Cregan pulled out the chair beside his own.
You stopped.
His eyes moved to the empty seat, then returned to your face. “Is there a problem?”
“You expect me to sit beside you?”
“You are my promised wife.”
“I am a stranger.”
“So am I, to you.”
The words struck harder than they should have. Perhaps because they were the first thing he had said that sounded honest.
You sat.
Cregan took his place beside you, close enough that you could feel the cold still clinging to his clothes. Up close, he looked less like the monster the stories had made him and more like a man shaped by the land he ruled.
His face was severe, but not cruel. Strong cheekbones, a straight nose, and a hard line to his mouth gave him a rough northern handsomeness that did not depend on charm. His dark hair was still damp with melting snow, and a few strands had fallen across his brow. His eyes, grey and watchful, seemed even paler against the weathered skin of his face.
You had expected something savage.
Instead, you found yourself noticing the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his hands, and the way the firelight softened the angles of him when he was not looking directly at you.
That discovery unsettled you more than his reputation had. It would have been easier to hate him if he had been the fearsome monster people believed him to be. Easier to surrender to the stories, to keep him at a safe distance in your mind.
But Cregan Stark was not a monster.
He was handsome in a way that seemed shaped by the North itself. His features were strong and clean-cut, his cheekbones sharp beneath weathered skin, his dark hair falling untidily around a face made harder by the quiet severity of his expression. A faint shadow of stubble marked his jaw. It should have made him seem rougher, less polished.
Instead, it made him more compelling.
His eyes were grey, pale, and steady beneath dark brows, and when he looked at you, it felt as though he noticed everything you tried to hide. There was strength in the breadth of his shoulders and the long, lean but strong lines of his body, but nothing showy in the way he carried it. He did not need to display power. Winterfell already spoke for him.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and low, carrying the rough northern cadence of the land he ruled. The words were clipped, without ornament, but the sound of them moved through you before their meaning did.
The woman by the hearth rose and approached the table.
“Lady Stark,” she said.
You looked at her.
She smiled, it held a warmth that seemed strange for her face. “You should become accustomed to the title.”
Cregan’s expression changed by less than a breath. “That is enough, Marna.”
The woman’s smile vanished.
So this was the first lesson Winterfell offered you. The wolf did not bare his teeth often. He did not need to.
The meal began in silence.
You tried to lift your cup, but your fingers had stiffened around it. Before you could take a drink, Cregan reached across the table.
For one startled moment, you thought he meant to touch you.
He took the cup instead.
“This is cold.”
“I can drink it.”
“I know.”
He gave it to the servant standing behind him. “Bring her something hot.”
“You need not trouble yourself,” you said.
Cregan looked at you then. His eyes were grey, darker than the snow beyond the windows.
“It is no trouble.”
He said it as though that settled the matter. Perhaps, in Winterfell, it did.
The servant returned with mulled wine. Steam curled from the cup when Cregan placed it before you. You stared at it, suspicious of the gesture because suspicion was easier than gratitude.
“Do you always give orders for things no one has asked for?” you said.
“Only when people are too proud to ask.”
Marna made a quiet sound from across the hall. “The lady has survived eighteen days of travel without your care.”
Cregan did not look at her. “She should not have had to.”
The words silenced the table.
You lowered your eyes to the wine. The spice of it rose with the steam, sharp, and sweet. Your father had been dead for sixteen of those days. You had slept in strange rooms, eaten beside strangers, and listened to men discuss your marriage as though it were a treaty concerning land.
No one had said that you should not have had to endure it.
Cregan lifted his knife and began to eat.
When the servants had cleared the first course, Cregan rose.
“I will take you to your rooms.”
“I can find them.”
Cregan said nothing.
He turned and moved to an archway at the side of the great hall, walking ahead of you without checking whether you followed. Yet, his pace remained slow enough for you to keep beside him, and he never went so far that you felt abandoned among the unfamiliar passages.
Again, that silence. Never you cannot. Never you must. Only the quiet acknowledgment that he had noticed your resistance and would not mistake it for helplessness.
You followed him from the hall.
Winterfell’s corridors seemed to stretch without end. Torches burned in iron brackets, throwing light across old stone and older faces carved into the walls. Cregan walked ahead of you, not beside you this time. He did not reach for your hand or expect you to keep pace with him.
At last, he stopped before a heavy oak door.
“These are yours.”
You looked at the room beyond. A fire had already been lit. Furs covered the bed, and a copper basin stood near the hearth. Your trunks had been brought inside. Someone had even placed your father’s letter upon the table.
Your breath caught.
Cregan stepped back from the doorway. “You will have your servants. Choose them tomorrow. Until then, Marna will see that you have what you need.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight, you are to rest.”
“Is that another order?”
“No.”
He paused.
“It is a request.”
You looked at him properly then. Beneath the black leather and the hard lines of his face, there was exhaustion. Not the careless weariness of a man who had slept badly, but something older. Something he had carried for so long that it had settled into the lines of his face.
He had sent for you. He had taken you from your home and brought you into his castle. He had called you his wife before you knew the sound of his voice, before you had learned what sort of man waited behind the name Cregan Stark.
Yet, he stood outside your room as though he were the trespasser.
“Why did you bring me here?” you asked.
Cregan’s gaze moved to the letter on the table.
“Your father asked me to protect you.”
“He asked you to marry me.”
“He believed the two were necessary.”
“And do you?”
He did not answer. His gaze rested on you for a moment longer, unreadable in the firelight. Then he inclined his head.
“Good night, My Lady.”
***
The door closed behind him, leaving you alone with the fire and the unanswered question.
For several moments, you remained where he had left you. Then you crossed the room and took your father’s letter from your pocket. The parchment had been folded along the same creases you had made on the journey north, softened at the edges from how often you had held it.
You placed it on the table, but did not unfold it.
Instead, you thought of the way Cregan had noticed your cold hands. The way he had ordered hot wine without waiting for you to ask. The way he had walked ahead of you through the unfamiliar corridors without once looking back to see whether you followed.
He had known you would.
Not because he believed you obedient, but because there was nowhere else for you to go.
The thought should have made you resent him. Instead, you found yourself remembering how he had kept his pace slow enough for you to remain beside him, how he had stopped outside your chamber rather than entering without permission.
Perhaps he had not assumed you would follow him.
Perhaps he had simply trusted that, for the moment, you had chosen the only path left open to you.
You changed out of your travelling dress and dismissed the servant Marna had sent to help you. When you finally lay beneath the furs, sleep did not come easily.
Winterfell groaned around you.
Wind pressed against the shutters. Somewhere beyond the walls, a wolf howled, answered by another in the distance. You thought of Cregan’s face beneath the gatehouse, of the sword at his back and the black leather beneath his tunic.
You thought of his voice when he had said, She should not have had to.
It was an absurd thing to remember.
So you remembered it anyway.
***
Morning came without sunlight.
A knock sounded at your door. Before you could answer, it opened and Marna entered with two maids carrying folded clothes.
“His lordship sent these.”
You glanced at the garments. Thick wool. Soft fur at the collar. The colours of your house, not Stark grey.
“He sent them?”
“He did.”
“I have clothes.”
“Not for the North.”
You looked toward the fire. It had burned low during the night, though the room remained warm.
Marna placed the clothes across the bed. “His lordship also says you are not required in the hall this morning.”
You turned back to her. “Not required?”
“You may attend if you wish. Or eat here.”
You studied her face, searching for mockery. “And if I choose neither?”
“Then I suppose you will remain hungry.”
The answer was so dry that you almost smiled. Almost.
Marna noticed. Her expression softened before she could hide it.
“Lord Cregan has gone to the yard,” she said. “He will return before noon.”
You did not ask why she had told you.
You did not ask whether he expected you to wait for him.
But after Marna left, you found yourself looking toward the door each time footsteps passed beyond it.
At midday, Cregan returned.
You heard him before you saw him. Men’s voices carried through the corridor, followed by the heavy tread of boots. When the door opened, he stood on the threshold with snow melting into his dark hair.
His gaze moved over you, then to the untouched tray beside the fire.
“You have not eaten.”
You stiffened. “Good afternoon to you as well.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite amusement. Perhaps the memory of it.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “You have not eaten.”
“I was not hungry.”
“You were told to eat.”
“I was told I could eat here.”
“And you chose not to.”
“You see how well your orders are obeyed.”
Cregan stepped inside and shut the door. He did not come closer.
“No,” he said. “I see that grief has made you careless with yourself.”
The words struck too near the truth. Your anger rose to cover it.
“You know nothing about my grief.”
“I know my father died when I was young.”
That stopped you.
He removed his gloves, one finger at a time. His hands were scarred across the knuckles, roughened by cold and steel.
“I know everyone expects you to be grateful for missing the funeral,” he continued. “They expect you to sit at my table, wear my colours, and smile as though your life has not been taken apart.”
His eyes met yours.
“I will not ask you to smile.”
For the first time, you saw something beneath the wolf’s severity. Not softness. Something steadier.
Recognition.
Cregan looked toward the tray. “But you will eat.”
You should have argued.
Instead, you sat beside the fire and reached for the bread.
He said nothing more. He remained by the door while you ate, as though guarding the room rather than occupying it.
I can’t post the whole thing here its too long I got told off by tumblr and couldn't save the post. The rest of it is here at this link on ao3: Mouth of the Wolf. Eyes of the Lamb | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon
How would the men of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms react if they got hard every time they saw the reader? (She isn’t their wife—not yet, at least. Maybe, after realizing just how much of an effect she has on them—especially when simply seeing her or witnessing some completely innocent little gesture from her is enough to get them turned on—they’d start thinking that having her as their wife might actually be a very good idea.)
Minor explicit content. This was a very good idea, thank you so much anon for this request. I hope you liked it, and it was what you wanted. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and always welcomed with appreciation. My inbox is honestly getting filled and I absolutely love it so please keep filling, and I will get to them when I can💌 My tag list is always available so please don’t hesitate to ask to join. Also, if you would like me to change anything or do something differently I gladly welcome the advice or suggestion. Thank you all so much for the continued love and support I’ve gotten. Happy reading🌻💛 master list
Tag list for AKOTSK: @darylandbethfanforever9 @jsgskahwjqjgw
Aerion:
He had absolutely zero shame whenever he became hard when you were around him, or simply just walked into the room. His entire focus was on you, everyone in the kingdom could see that. He didn’t care if people noticed that he was turned on, he would just quickly adjust himself and keep focused on you. Walking into an empty room and touching himself with the image of you on his mind. He knew that in that moment he needed to have you as his wife, and he couldn’t wait to have you in his bed.
“You will not only be my beautiful wife, but a splendid lover as well.”
Baelor:
He tried to hide it as best he could, not wanting other people to see the slight tent in his pants. He couldn’t help it whenever he saw you wondering the halls, strutting around as if the gods themselves were envious. Face turning slight red if he felt like anybody saw his reaction to you. He couldn’t help it though, every time he felt your presence his entire body started vibrating. Thinking of you later that night only to touch himself imagining you beside him. He needed to have you all for himself, for that was the only solution.
“I’ve never felt this was before and know it’s real, and must have you as my wife.”
Daeron:
He wouldn’t be embarrassed but he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was incredibly hard. Not caring if anyone else saw, but not wanting you to see especially. Groaning when you would walk by him with a dazzling smile and nod. He never expected such an effect to take over him with something so simple. Trying to resist the urge to touch himself, but as soon as he saw your face in his head it took only seconds before he was cumming in his hands. You were going to be his wife, and that was the only option.
“I am mad for you, and the only thing I see is you. You will be mine forever.”
Duncan:
He became quite ashamed if he ever became hard when he saw you. Placing his hands in front of his groin hoping nobody saw, but of course some people did. He couldn’t help it when you walked in the room, and had this confidence about you. He never thought you would even give him the time of day. Later that night remembering how you touched his arm, and how he just wanted to take you right then and there. You were going to be his wife, and that was that.
“I don’t know what has taken over me, but I want you. Your mind, your soul and your body.”
Lyonel:
He didn’t try to hide it if others saw, he would just laugh it off, but he wanted it known to other women he wanted you alone. As soon as you stepped in front of him and grabbed his waist to dance his entire body became numb. He wondered if you felt it too, and judging by your sudden shyness he knew. Excusing himself quickly so he could relieve himself, and his only thought was of you. He’s never felt like this before, and the only thing he could think of was having you be his bride.
“Nothing else has made quite as happy as you have, and I want you to stand by me.”
Maekar:
He could care less if he became hard when you were around. Daring anyone to judge him or stare too long. Licking his lips and adjusting himself whenever you looked away. He’s never felt this way about a woman before, and felt as if you had powers to control him. He never touched himself though, he wanted to save all that whenever he took you for the first time. From the moment you charmed him was the moment he knew you would be the only one who could control him.
“I don’t know what has possessed me, but I know I cannot resist anymore and must have you.”
Valarr:
He didn’t want anyone to see, absolutely not. Trying to find anything to cover his hard in without making it obvious. Anytime your hand grazed along your collarbone, he wished he were that hand. Becoming jealous of any man that would talk to you, but could see their flirtation was unwanted. He would become restless thinking about you, and would touch himself imagining you beside him, and would quickly fall asleep. He couldn’t wait to make you his wife as soon as he could.
“There is nothing I want more than to have you beside me until our last breath.”
Description: Being in the middle of treachery and lies was fun, it was your job, not until the agent who was the head of the team that is fixated on finding you … crashes the party.
WC: 3.1k
CW: Mentions of poisoning and killing, classic Villanelle style. Reader is a psychopath per se. James is smitten. Teasing. SEX AND SEX AND SEX.
Note: Sooooo not proofread yet. Basically Killing Eve but WITH SPIDER AND READER HIHIHI IM OVER THE MOON RIGHT NOW CANNOT WAIT TO MAKE MORE OF THESE FOR THE LOVELY PAIRRRRR! + tagging the lovelies: @wintrynightz, @targ4ryens, and @anti-heroesanonymous (& @/river), I hope you guys enjoy!!
Cairo’s desert breeze gently moved past you, the crowds were loud and quiet, the people around you were either in great company or enjoying their own.
As soon as you had received the mission details you were more than happy to go to Egypt. You had a very simple agenda: arrive, kill the target, attempt to stay … a little longer, buy a cute rug for your flat, enjoy the pyramids, and leave. See? Simple.
You were by the bar, careful not to leave any traces as you played with your drink, your smudges calculated and measured. It was the silliest looking pornstar martini, yes, you needed to slip in and out of the scene of the crime unnoticed but you weren’t a savage with your choice of drink. You giggled at the lone passionfruit that was floating, but that was not the order of business tonight. You subtly gaze at the target that had been bothering his other group of friends—basically a know-it-all man with a high position in a company or something, you couldn’t be bothered to read the file. All you had to do was observe, kill, and leave, as simple as that, next thing you knew you’d be shipped off to another country in the next hour, depending on your handlers.
A blurry figure passes by you, sitting by the empty seat beside you.
You recognise that heady amber scent anywhere. Even underneath your designer disguise, you were thrown off by the smell.
“Whiskey, on the rocks.”
‘Fuck,’ you thought to yourself, that damned English accent had been following you around for so long you could vividly hear it in your sleep.
You look over to the person beside you, the blond agent whom you have crossed paths with numerous times in your career, purposefully and unintentionally, it is a fun on and off thing between you. He made you feel special but you would never tell him that, especially when you heard rumours of your superiors training another … you. You were irreplaceable, you were talented, you’d feel betrayed if he didn’t appreciate you anymore.
Your eyes meet, a groan leaving your lips as his smug and arrogant face fills your vision.
“Funny seeing you here, nice wig,” James snickers, from your standpoint, he was either off-duty or he made it look like he was off-duty. His Karl Unger tie is a little disheveled but still ugly.
“I thought they made you stop looking for me after Budapest, what are you doing in Cairo of all places? Don’t you have your devout attention on another assassin?”
In fake sympathy, he mockingly pouts at you, “don’t I deserve a vacation too? You’re jealous … it’s adorable.”
You hated it when he did that.
You scoffed at him, and mimicked ‘adorable’ right into his face like a sulking child. You rolled your eyes at him, you could possibly even reach behind your eyes—God, you needed a drink and alone time, unfortunately, the night wasn’t over. He chuckles at your reaction, mean and arrogant, the usual mix of what truly made James ‘Spider’ Webb… James.
Taking a small wad of cash, you slid it over the bar counter and left him. Maybe out of necessity for the mission or maybe out of pure spite.
The target still hasn’t moved, he was still gloating around his peers which annoyed you the moment you were within earshot of his whiny and drunk voice. You fix your dress, your hands right to yourself, and reluctantly go through whatever awaits you next.
Walking over to their large table, you slapped on a flirty smile along with a cute foreign accent of mysterious descent.
“Hi there, I’m not from around here but … is there space for one more in your group for tonight?”
You almost had recoiled from their group because of how strange their dynamics were, for such a big number of people all of them looked glum. But you chose to take the high road rather than playing the long game and lure your target someplace else. Instead, you bat your eyelashes at them, the old move working on them as they happily gave you a drink and a spot to sit, this was to your advantage because your target was sitting right beside you.
“I’m Marco, what brings you here to Egypt?” He slurred, a pompous grin and a drunken belief that his confidence will somehow win you over with one opening sentence.
Before you could even say a word, you were cut off by your target, Marco.
“I also own this big company that also brings in big top secret projects. I’m an engineer of some sorts and I think that would interest you, don’t you think?”
Engineer of some sorts, not enough.
His arm slides over to you, comfortably slung around your shoulder. You notice the disdain in the looks of his peers, as if that another word that he utters their brains would explode and that would have been such a satisfying end to their demise.
“I’m not really into those things,” you giggled carelessly, knowing damn well you had left your old life that had entailed you finishing your engineering degree before uprooting your life to … join your organisation, “ … what of it?”
“Well I am more than happy to tell you,” he says smugly, pulling you closer to his side, you showed him a fake smile and went with it.
“So basically what I do exactly is that we do surveying in some sort of method to pinpoint a location of interest, sensors and maps, yeah, that sort of thing—it is meticulous work, using new tech, that method.”
“Don’t you mean triangulation? You only need a little information, a pen, and a piece of paper, it’s easy, really, or does basic trigonometry scare you?” You mused, dumbing down your words for him to understand. You saw right through his act that crashed and burned right in front of you and his friends to see and you didn’t even need to revel in your triumph.
It was such a fulfilling experience to humble and toy with your prey … or your targets. You noticed him trying to make sense of what you had just said, wistfully retreating from your possible queries and quips. Your target sips on his drink solemnly, his gaze to the table full of booze and appetisers, you were losing his interest and you had to act quick.
One of his friends prompted to leave, the rest gave him half-assed excuses to use the bathroom or reasoning that they’ve an early morning ahead of them. In only a few minutes it was only the two of you left.
With little scrutiny, you could see the sadness on Marco’s face.
Poor Marco. Lonely Marco.
You almost felt something akin to empathy but it soon died down when your target sluggishly took a bottle of wine to refill his glass, offering you one, in which you turned down.
“They never take me seriously,” he admits, “it’s hard when all of them have their own bubbles and cliques … ”
Great, another sob story you had to listen to. You reminded yourself to ask for a little bonus from your handler, you weren’t trained to be a therapist. Nonchalance was your strong suit and having to act like you care was exhausting.
“How about you? Why are you alone?”
That was new. You awkwardly shielded yourself from his gaze, surely it looked … normal, right? The silence between you muddled out the jazz band in the background, the chatter and other noise fading into the distance. You thought about it, Marco waited, James waited.
The blond agent had you both within his radar, still nursing his drink and woes as he watched. He drank the last of the whiskey, the bitterness of his drink lacing into his own, the alcohol burning just as he expected it to.
He lingers, watching, waiting for you.
Which is why he was shocked when your body started to shake like a leaf as you began to rant to your target with your fake and exaggerated accent. It was uncanny how you were able to do that, you were exceptional, or just the mere fact that James knew you like the back of his hand.
“Someone I really liked … like really liked, left me for someone better. It’s like I don’t even even matter to him anymore and … and when I realised that I had no value to him, I left. I tried to buy the things that I liked because I deserve it. I tried to make myself happy but I don’t feel it,” you muttered, snot and tears, whichever worked for pathetic losers like him, “the next thing I knew I’m on a plane to Egypt.”
Marco hands you tissues to help dry your tears, he was about to tell you something before you stole the spotlight, again, “I just can’t believe I could be cast away like I’m garbage, I know my worth, I do exceptionally in all things … clearly he is blind.”
The emphasis on the last four words were pointed towards James, your eyes meeting only for a few seconds before you looked at your target. What a shame, you never really had the chance to vibe with your targets, this was a fun one to be with.
“I feel you, it’s hard to fit in, all the time,” Marco laughs, the hand that held his drink was comfortably close to you, shifting closer to him, your body completely hid his glass from the open. You discreetly laced the remnants of his drink with the poison, your target’s trust in you completely blindsided him.
“Thank you, Marco, for listening but I really have to go. Really nice talking to you though,” you smiled, one of your prettier ones at that, might as well give him a view he’d never forget before he met his demise.
You leave the booth, fleeing from the scene before the poison takes full effect, walking through the path that was away from the cameras and away from suspecting people. You had to add a drunken act to yourself as you walked, purposefully hiding your face and holding onto the barely hanging wig on your head.
Once the coast was clear, you started to walk normally. Hearing the gasps and screams from where you came from, it seemed that the poison had done its job. Your heels clicked on the marble floor of the hotel, heading for the exit of the bar and taking your leave.
But for you, the night is far from over.
Someone grabs you by the arm and tugs you into a secluded office room of some sorts.
“You barely have any consideration, don’t you?”
It was James. His stupid messy blond hair. His stupid blue eyes. His stupid face. You were sick of him. Maybe.
The act of yours stops right there as you scowled at him, wriggling your arm from his grip.
“Consideration for what exactly?”
“Me,” he spat, pinning you against the door, his forearm pressing to your throat.
“Oh … you heard all of that?” You breathed out, your hands gripping him away from you as he pressed toward you, closing you in.
You had the audacity to smirk at him, a taunt, “you’re … jealous, James, so adorable.”
The mockery of his words prior was not lost on James, a clench on his jaw was enough for you to understand the gravity of the situation. He was about to break everything he believed for an assassin he has been obsessing over for months on end … again. Your puzzled taunts in your crime scenes were now manifested into fruition as words, your gifts, as you’d say, would be sent to his flat as if you were some distant friend of his, James had never felt so alive that his stubbornness on the fact that it led him to you. His own fixations and naivety led him straight to you—that these clandestine meetings were his guilty pleasures.
He lets go of you, the air going back into your lungs as you coughed, slouched right in front of him. You were vulnerable with him and one else. You wheezed, a hand to your chest as you looked up at him as you took your tacky wig off as well as the itchy wig cap.
“Fuck you, Spider.”
“What happened to James all of a sudden, doll?”
He towered over you, the envy in him shadowing over his consciousness
“You rejected me,” you said bitterly, “you have your shiny new toy assassin now, six weeks of not seeing you.”
“You counted the days?”
“I felt it.”
You were visibly irritated by his obliviousness, wincing at the pain the hair pins in your hair were causing you as you pulled and pulled and pulled.
“Impossible, you don’t feel anything,” he replied, the rejection was right in front of you, you were helpless and hopeless. That had angered you, reduced to a wounded animal that bites.
“Why am I like this then?” You pleaded, had to add tears for the dramatic effect, to make him believe.
But he sees right through you.
“I know exactly who you are,” James whispers to you, “I know about your degree, your real name—hell, I know exactly about your stupid lunch orders, even to your allergies, the smallest of details, I know exactly who you are.”
That pins you back up against the wall but he doesn’t have to know that.
“You are a psychopath,” James emphasised, taking a step closer to you—to taunt you or to be closer to you? The lines started to blur and you couldn’t tell.
“You should never tell a psychopath they’re a psychopath. It upsets them,” you replied, genuine tears had glossed through your eyes, it had only pulled James in, into you, into your trap.
“Are you upset?” He asked, he turned cautious, he was smart and you liked that.
You only pout and nod at him.
It unnerved James and your tactic worked.
With the closeness, you placed a chaste kiss on his lips to spur him on.
He snaps.
James drags you towards the office desk and bent you over, just like what he always did in your previous meetings. He pushes your upper body towards the cold wood, your skirt riding up your thighs, exposing your pretty number right beneath it.
“Do you like it? I bought it thinking of you,” you teased, James would have been affected but he was pent up with weeks of stress from work, especially when he was moved to another department, away from you for a little while. Six weeks was an absurd amount of time for James.
You moaned as you felt him behind you, his visible frustration poking through his pants, the fabric between you annoying you both. James hiked your dress up to your hips, the lace fabric covering your sweet cunt nudging him on, inwardly groaning at the sight of the wetness that stained it.
He moves your panties to the side, your breath hitching as your naked cunt meets the cold air of the empty office.
“You’re wet.”
“I told you, I feel things.”
James faintly muses at your snark remark, lining the tip of his cock to your pussy, leaving you no warning when he stuffs you full. A feral and wanton whine left you as James stayed there, stretching you, reminding you, showing you what lost time could do to a person.
A pair of footsteps passed through the office door, both of your attention snapping at the impending exposure of your current position, you feel his hand cover your mouth. A moment passes, you feel James retract his hips, only leaving the tip of him in your abused cunt, he starts ramming into you to emphasise his point, “you belong to me, do you understand that, doll?”
You were overcome with pleasure by that point, his cock fitting snug in your cunt as he tried his hardest to be discreet with each push of his hips into you. He smirks as you try to respond to his question, your saliva smearing against his palm, your muffled moans and what could be interpreted as ‘yes’ getting louder as he changes the angle of his thrusts to hit the gummy spot inside of you, kissing your womb. He hears that specific sound that you do, which makes him do the motion again and again and again.
James hisses when he feels your teeth sink into his wet palm. You could feel the hand covering your lips shift, his two fingers taking its place as it enters your mouth.
“Suck, doll,” he orders and you do, almost immediately, your lips wrapping around his digits, the tips of his fingers reaching the back of your throat, making you gag.
James’ grunts and groans sent a warm feeling to your body, the sensations of his body right by yours was something you wanted to keep forever and ever. It was animalistic, never soft or gentle, it was raw and real. You never hid yourself from him because he knew you and accepted you as you are. He is smitten by you, fond of you.
His hand pressed on your shoulder, pushing you further down the desk, moaning wantonly as his cock twitched inside you. You revelled in the fleeting feeling, the warmth coiled right up your belly, your wetness making a mess between you.
Your knees gave up beneath you, buckling as James fucked you into the table. There was a familiar feeling right there and James was going to give it to you. Something coiled in your stomach, your teeth clenching around his fingers—you were close, James could feel it.
He takes his digits out of your mouth, both of his hands holding onto your hips as he drives his cock into you. Your head drops to the table, trying to stifle the most scandalous of moans that would be heard from anyone outside the door.
Your walls clamped down his cock as you came, James followed right after you, coating your pussy with his cum. A few seconds pass as you feel him pulling out of you. Relief washed over your bodies, you felt James’ lax body on top of yours as he caught his breath.
THE GODS DO NOT FAVOR A FRAUD / Ormund Hightower˚⟡˖ ࣪ ݁
Summary: Ormund wanted a quiet, obedient wife to keep his tidy southern life in order. He thought Alys Bolton would be that angel, but on their wedding night, she proved to be a cold, calculating wolf. She took total control of him in the dark. Deep down, Ormund knew she was dangerous, but every time she looked at him with those sharp blue eyes, he pushed the fear away and let himself be trapped.
Warnings: none!
Authors note: as we’ve noticed my writing has gotten much much better then before because I reread sharp bentos and gone girl sooo. Heavily inspired by that
one and dried kelp by the afternoon. Down on the wharves, the common folk were hauling barrels of salt cod and unloading crates of citrus, but up here in the citadel, things were kept tidy. Ormund Hightower liked things tidy. He liked his shirts ironed without a crease, his boots blacked until they shone like wet slate, and his days laid out by the bell.
He stood by the arched window of his solar, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his belt. He was wearing his favorite green velvet vest with the stiff leather sleeves that kept his posture straight whether he wanted it or not. Around his neck hung a thin silver chain. At the end of it rested a small, perforated silver box no larger than a hazelnut. Whenever the world smelled too strongly—whenever a wet dog crossed his path or the kitchens let out a greasy reek of mutton fat—he would flip open the little latch and take a quick sniff of the dried cloves and lavender stuffed inside. It kept his stomach settled.
Ormund was a man of strict habits. He went to the sept behind the gardens twice a day, once at dawn and once before the sun went down, to kneel on the cold stone flags and pray to the Seven. He wore a heavy silver star against his chest to show where his duty lay. He was twenty-four, with curly light brown hair that fell just past his ears, dark green eyes, and a mouth that people told him looked too soft for a man who commanded guards, but he didn't care much for what they said. He knew his duty. And today, his duty was getting married.
Or, rather, getting ready for the girl who was about to become his wife.
The feast wasn't until tomorrow, but today the whole castle was running like an ant hill kicked open with a boot. Maids in white aprons bustled through the corridors, carrying linen sheets embroidered with the Hightower beacon, silver trays piled high with fresh figs, and long bolts of silk for the high table. In the kitchens, the cooks were skinning hares and plucking pheasants, making sure everything was seasoned right.
Ormund rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a familiar tightness creeping up from his shoulders. His mind wandered back three years, and immediately his nose twitched in phantom disgust.
Three years ago, his uncle Otto had tried to arrange a match with the Starks of Winterfell. Lyanna Stark. Just thinking the name made his tongue feel dry and bitter. He could still see it clear as day: the great iron gates of Old Town swinging open, and that wild, hulking brute of a woman riding in on a massive, shaggy horse that looked like it had never seen a stable in its life. The beast hadn't just walked; it had kicked up half the courtyard gravel into a muddy soup and splattered a great, brown glob of wet manure right onto the hem of Ormund’s cream-colored silk tunic.
Ormund had gagged right there in front of the whole court. The smell of wet wool, horse sweat, and unwashed northern grease had stayed in his nose for a week. He had spent two whole days scrubbing his skin in a tub of hot water infused with rosemary until it was raw, praying to the Mother for forgiveness for the things he muttered under his breath about the North.
"Never again," Ormund muttered to the empty room. He reached down, flipped open his little silver pomander, took a sharp breath of cloves, and snapped it shut with a satisfying click.
The heavy oak door of his solar swung open without a knock.
"Ormund."
His uncle Otto walked in, looking as stiff and grey as an iron poker. His silver hair was combed flat, and his grey wool doublet was buttoned right up to his chin.
"The cooks are burning the garlic down in the lower kitchen," Otto said, his voice dry as old parchment. "I told the master of horse to move the merchant carts further down the road so the smell doesn't drift into the courtyard during the greeting."
"Good," Ormund said, turning from the window. "And the chapel?"
"The septon finished the incense an hour ago. Your private oratory is clean." Otto stopped a few feet away, his cold eyes scanning Ormund from head to toe. "You look stiff as a board. Relax your shoulders. A groom should look pleased, not like he's walking to the gallows."
"I am pleased, Uncle," Ormund said, though his jaw was tight. "I just want it done. A house needs a mistress. A quiet mistress. Someone with a soft voice who doesn't track mud through the halls."
"The Bolton girl is supposed to be quiet," Otto grunted, walking over to the table to inspect a silver pitcher. "They say she hardly speaks above a whisper in the Dreadfort. If she keeps her mouth shut and minds her sewing, she'll suit you fine."
"Obedient," Ormund said, nodding slowly. "That's all I ask. A quiet woman in the halls and a prayer on her lips."
"We'll see," Otto said, turning toward the door. "The outriders have just hit the southern ridge. They'll be at the gate in ten minutes. Get your sword straight and come down."
The courtyard of the High Port was packed with guards and servants standing at attention. Ormund stood at the very front, his heels planted on the clean grey flagstones. To his right stood his uncle Otto, arms crossed over his chest like a pair of iron bars. To his left stood his cousin Gwayne, young and fidgety, constantly adjusting the hilt of his short sword. Behind them, twenty men-at-arms in chainmail stood in a neat row, their spears held upright.
The heavy iron portcullis was hauled up, the chains squealing against the stone.
A moment later, the sound of horses reached them. It wasn't the heavy, clumsy thunder of northern cart-horses that Ormund remembered with a shudder. These were leaner beasts, their hooves striking the road with a sharp, rhythmic clack.
First came the outriders. They wore black wool coats stiffened with salt and leather, carrying shields painted with the flayed man of House Bolton. Their horses were dark-coated and clean, their mannes braided neatly.
Then came the lords
The lead horseman pulled his mount to a stop right under the arch of the gate. It was an older man with thick, iron-grey hair and a heavy beard that hid most of his neck. He wore boiled black leather and a heavy cloak the color of dried blood, pinned at the shoulder with an iron clasp shaped like fingers.
Behind him rode two younger men, identical in build and face, with lank black hair hanging over their foreheads and pale, flat eyes. Roose and Domeric. Twins. They wore red doublets and black cloaks, sitting their saddles with a stiff, unnatural stillness that made Ormund’s skin itch.
And behind them, half-hidden in the gloom of a great white carriage drawn by four heavy-set chestnuts, sat the prize.
Ormund craned his neck slightly, his eyes darting toward the narrow glass windows of the carriage. He tried to see inside, but the tinted glass and the heavy velvet curtains blocked out the light. He couldn't make out a single shadow.
Lord Rogar Bolton swung his leg over his saddle and dropped heavily to the ground, his boots clanking against the stones. He spat a wad of phlegm onto the clean flags, missing Ormund’s boot by an inch. Ormund’s fingers twitched toward his silver pomander, but he kept his hands flat against his belt.
"Hightower," Rogar grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of a leather-gloved hand. "Your town smells like flowers. Makes my horse's nose run."
"Lord Bolton," Otto stepped forward, his voice level and cold. "Welcome to Old Town. The Hightower greets you in the peace of the Seven."
The twin brothers dismounted with an eerie, practiced smoothness, their boots hitting the ground at the exact same second. They walked around to the side of the white carriage, their faces blank.
Ormund took a breath through his nose. Even over the smell of horse sweat and leather, something else drifted past him on the breeze. It wasn't grease or manure. It was cold and sharp—like crushed mint leaves and winter frost. It was strong, but it didn't turn his stomach. It just made him stand up a little straighter.
"Roose," Rogar barked. "Help your sister down before she freezes in this damn southern heat."
Roose Bolton stepped up to the carriage door. His pale, long fingers caught the brass handle and pulled it open.
A pale hand, thin and steady, reached out and rested on Roose’s forearm.
Ormund’s eyes widened. He leaned his head slightly to the side, trying to see past Roose’s broad shoulder as the figure inside moved.
Then she stepped out.
Her name was Alys Bolton. The stories in the Reach had called her an angel, whispering of a quiet girl from the Dreadfort who spent her days singing hymns and sewing by the hearth.
She stood on the flagstones, tall and straight, wearing a dark red velvet dress that dragged softly on the ground. The edges of the dress were trimmed with thick black lace and heavy gold thread. Her hair was ink-black, falling down her back in thick, straight sheets that caught the pale afternoon sun. Her skin was as white as skimmed milk, completely smooth, without a single freckle or blemish.
But it was her face that made Ormund stop breathing.
She had large, bright blue eyes—so light and clear they looked almost transparent. They weren't downcast the way a proper southern bride's eyes should be when meeting her groom for the first time. They were wide open, staring right at him with a flat, steady gaze that felt less like a greeting and more like she was measuring the length of his bones.
She wore a thick gold necklace around her throat, with a single, large ruby hanging right in the middle, resting against the pale skin of her chest.
The scent of her grew stronger as she took her first step toward him—that cold, sharp smell of mint and frost, mixed with something deep and earthy, like wet stone after a rain.
She walked toward him with slow, even steps, her red skirts whispering against the stone. No hesitation. No flutter in her walk.
Ormund stood frozen. His fingers drifted down to his belt, his thumb brushing the little silver box of cloves, but he forgot to open it. He just stared down into those bright blue eyes. They were entirely calm, yet there was something sharp behind them—something that felt less like a gentle girl from the north and more like a blade hidden under a wool blanket.
She stopped right in front of him. The courtyard around them went dead silent, save for the wind blowing through the high battlements of the tower.
She tilted her head up just a fraction. Her lips, soft and pink, curved into a very small, very faint smile that didn't reach her eyes at all.
"My lor," she said.
Her voice was soft—just as the rumors had promised—but it was completely level, carrying a cool, steady weight that settled right in the center of Ormund’s chest.
Ormund swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, and his heart gave a heavy, solid thump against his ribs. He was a man who liked order, a man who lived by the clock and the prayer book. He had wanted a quiet, obedient wife to keep his halls silent and his life simple.
Looking down into those piercing blue eyes, as the cold scent of her drifted into his lungs, he knew he was trapped. And worse—as he saw that tiny, ironic twist of her lips—he had a sudden, sinking feeling that she knew it too.
The heavy oak doors of the corner chamber groaned as they closed, shutting out the murmurs of the servants and the distant, dry clatter of the citadel.
Rogar Bolton dropped his heavy leather gloves onto a scarred oak table with a dull thud. His two sons, Roose and Domeric, moved through the room with the silent, fluid ease of shadows, checking the latches on the narrow arrow-slit windows and testing the sturdiness of the bedposts.
"The air in this place is too thick," Roose murmured, his pale eyes scanning the tapestries that lined the walls—bright, garish greens and golds depicting blooming flowers and sunlit fields. "It smells of damp lemons and old honey. A man could choke on it."
"Let them have their flowers," Rogar grunted, pulling the heavy wool cloak from his massive shoulders and tossing it over the back of a high-backed chair. "We are here for the salt-flats and the southern coin, not their gardens. Domeric, make sure the horses are bedded down in the lower stable where our men can keep an eye on them. I trust these Reach lords about as far as I can throw the Hightower itself."
Domeric gave a curt nod and slipped back out into the corridor, leaving his father and brother behind.
Alys stood motionless in the center of the room, her hands folded neatly over the front of her heavy red velvet travel gown. She did not look at the fine Myrish carpets or the polished silver ewers left by the housekeeping staff. Her gaze tracked the stone joints of the northern wall, noting where the mortar had been patched
"They gave us the high rooms," Roose observed, walking over to stand beside her. His voice dropped to a low, flat register. "You could jump from that window and break your neck before you hit the ground, or land in their prized fishponds."
"I have no intention of jumping, Roose," Alys replied, her voice soft as falling sleet. "Not yet, at least. Ormund Hightower is waiting downstairs, and a good wife does not keep her groom guessing for too long. Not if she wants him to think he has tamed her."
Roose let out a short, cold breath that passed for a laugh. "Tamed. The boy looks like he spends half his day praying and the other half polishing his boots. He smells of lavender water and holy oil. He won't know what to do with you when the sun goes down."
"He will learn," Alys said, her lips curving into a very small, very sharp smile. "He wants an obedient shadow. I intend to give him a very long, very dark one.”
Down the hall, in her own chamber set apart from the men, Alys began her preparations for the evening feast without interference.
She did not ring for the southern maids. She had no desire for giggling girls from the Reach fussing over her hair or trying to lace her into garments made of flimsy silk. Solitude was a luxury she preferred, especially when an empire of stone and salt was about to bend to her hand.
First, she unfastened the heavy iron-and-bone pins at her shoulders, letting the dark riding cloak slip from her back to pool on the floor like a dead thing. With methodical, unhurried fingers, she unhooked the brass fastenings of her traveling bodice, casting the dust of the Roseroad away.
She walked to the silver-footed washstand. A pitcher of warm water scented with bruised lemon verbena sat waiting, surrounded by soaps whipped into frothy pink mounds. Alys ignored the soap entirely. She poured plain, cold water from a second pitcher into a copper bowl, letting the icy liquid chill her fingertips until her skin went numb. She washed her face and throat with steady, deliberate strokes, wiping away every trace of southern dust, then took a rough linen cloth and scrubbed her skin until it flushed crimson beneath the surface.
Her hair required a different kind of patience. She unpinned the heavy braids that had kept it secured during the carriage ride, letting the thick, ink-black sheets fall loose down her spine. Taking a wide-toothed horn comb from her leather case, she drew it through the strands fifty times. Each stroke was smooth, even, and silent, pulling the tangles free until the dark locks shone like wet coal in the dim evening light.
When her skin was clean and her hair hung straight and heavy around her shoulders, she opened her largest leather trunk. She bypassed the bright, emerald silks and cream-colored linens the Hightowers had laid out for her convenience, reaching instead for the bottom fold.
She pulled out her own gown—a heavy, midnight-black velvet dress with long, dragging sleeves lined in blood-red satin. It was a garment forged in the cold halls of the Dreadfort, austere and severe, yet cut to cling to her narrow waist with terrifying precision.
She dressed herself without help, lacing the back tight with cold, steady fingers until her breath hitched just enough to give her posture an unnatural, rigid elegance. Around her throat, she fastened a heavy silver collar shaped like biting iron teeth, from which hung no bright southern ruby, but a dull, grey obsidian stone that caught the candlelight like a frozen eye. A touch of crushed charcoal darkened the edges of her eyelids, making her bright blue eyes look like chips of ice trapped in deep snow.
She stood before the looking glass for a long moment, studying her reflection. The girl in the mirror was pale, quiet, and impeccably composed—a picture of fragile northern beauty.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing, waiting for the bell to ring.
The Great Hall of the Hightower was a monument to southern excess. Hundreds of wax candles guttered in iron chandeliers overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of ancient sea-kings and starry heavens. Long trestle tables groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with roasted venison, glazed figs, spiced lampreys, and pyramids of golden grapes.
Minstrels plucked at lutes and harps from a raised gallery, their sweet, rolling melodies drifting over the murmurs of a hundred lords and ladies of the Reach dressed in silks of green, gold, and cream.
At the center of the high table, seated upon carved oaken chairs beneath a canopy of emerald velvet, sat Ormund and Alys.
Ormund wore a fresh doublet of dark green brocade, his curly light brown hair combed back from a high forehead, his dark green eyes clear and alert. Yet, despite the festive music and the rich scent of roasting meats and honeyed wine, a cold, persistent knot had formed deep in the pit of his stomach.
His gaze drifted sideways, past the curve of Alys’s pale, milk-white shoulder, down to where the Bolton men sat.
Rogar Bolton occupied the seat of honor beside Uncle Otto, his heavy iron-grey beard dipping toward a trencher of beef as he tore at a rib with yellowed teeth. To his left sat Roose and Domeric, identical in their ink-black doublets and grey-lined cloaks, eating with a terrifying, absolute silence. They did not laugh at the minstrel's jokes. They did not raise their cups to toast the Hightowers. They simply sat like carved stone, their flat, pale eyes tracking the movements of every servant who passed their bench.
Ormund felt a shiver crawl up the back of his neck, entirely unrelated to the cool draft coming off the harbor
A heavy, invisible foulness seemed to hang over the Bolton men like an unwashed shroud. It wasn't the smell of horses or mud—Ormund’s nose would have recognized that instantly, and his hand would have flown straight to the little silver pomander of cloves hanging beneath his vest. No, this was worse. It was the faint, phantom reek of old iron, salted blood, and damp dungeon moss. It was the scent of things kept hidden in the dark, skin peeled back from bone, and screams choked out behind heavy oaken doors.
The Boltons. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew what lived behind the high, gray walls of the Dreadfort. They were creatures of the dark north, flayers of men who wore the skins of their enemies like winter coats, cruel and soulless as the ice that choked the Weeping Water. They were no better than beasts—no better, perhaps, than the mad Targaryens who had once flown dragons over these very lands, burning men alive for sport.
Ormund’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, his thumb rubbing anxiously against the edge of his belt. How could the Seven allow such blood to mix with the light? he thought, a sudden wave of religious unease washing over him. He was a pious man. He knelt twice a day on cold stones to pray for his soul, yet here he sat, pledging his name and his house to a family whose ancestors carved runes into human flesh.
And beside him sat their crown jewel.
He turned his head slowly to look at Alys.
She was eating nothing. A single silver goblet of pale arbor gold sat untouched before her. She sat with her spine straight as a lance, her hands resting calmly in her lap over the folds of her midnight-black velvet gown. The heavy silver collar of iron teeth gleamed against her pale throat, framing her face like an executioner's noose.
She turned her head, meeting his dark green gaze with those bright, luminous blue eyes. They were as cold and deep as a frozen winter lake. There was no warmth in her, no shy flutter of eyelashes, no nervous bride's smile. Just an ancient, predatory stillness.
"You are not eating, my lady," Ormund said, his voice dropping low beneath the swell of the lutes, trying to steady the sudden hammering of his heart.
Alys’s pink lips curved into a very small, very sharp smile.
"I have no appetite for southern sweets, my lord," she murmured, her voice soft as falling sleet, cutting cleanly through the noise of the hall. "I prefer fare that has a bit more iron in it."
Ormund stared at her, the phantom reek of the Dreadfort seeming to wrap around them both, and for the first time that evening, he realized that the monster in the hall wasn't sitting across the room with the men. She was sitting right beside him, wearing velvet and smiling like a prayer.
The heavy oak door of the bridal chamber had barely clicked shut behind the last of the lingering servants before the air in the room shifted.
The frantic, discordant noise of the wedding feast—the clatter of silver trenchers, the booming laughter of drunken knights from the Reach, and the relentless scraping of the minstrel’s fiddles—faded into a dull, rhythmic thud against the thick stone walls. Inside the chamber, a profound, heavy silence rushed in to fill the space.
It smelled entirely different than it had that afternoon. The maids had labored for hours, burning heavy bundles of dried lavender and sweet jasmine in copper braziers, filling every corner of the high-ceilinged room with a rich, cloying floral perfume that hung thick and sweet in the stagnant air. Yet, beneath the smothering wave of southern blossoms, Ormund could still catch that faint, chilling ghost of winter frost and damp iron that seemed to cling eternally to his bride's skin
Ormund stood rigidly near the hearth, his fingers fumbling awkwardly with the golden clasp of his heavy green velvet cloak. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid jerks. He was a man accustomed to order, to the predictable rhythm of matins and vespers, to leading prayers and commanding obedience from those around him. But as he looked across the candlelit chamber, every drop of authority he thought he possessed seemed to drain straight out of his boots.
Alys stood by the edge of the massive, canopied bed.
She had not waited for him to come to her. She had not stood trembling or waiting with downcast eyes like the traditional brides of Old Town. Instead, her hands were already at work.
With slow, unhurried, and terrifyingly deliberate movements, she began to unfasten the heavy silver collar of iron teeth at her throat. The metal scraped softly against her pale skin before she laid it down upon the wooden bedside table with a dull, heavy clink.
Then her fingers moved to the fastenings of her wedding dress.
Ormund’s breath caught hard in his throat. He watched, transfixed and utterly paralyzed, as she unhooked the back of her gown. The heavy white samite silk and silver briars parted slowly, sliding down her slender shoulders with a soft, whispering hiss against the floor. She stepped out of the pool of white fabric as effortlessly as a snake shedding its winter skin, standing before him clad only in a sheer, charcoal-grey linen shift that clung like mist to the pale curves of her body.
Her ink-black hair tumbled loose down her back, a stark, ink-dark contrast against the pale milk of her skin and the excessive sweetness of the jasmine-scented air.
She turned her face toward him. Those bright, luminous blue eyes caught the amber flicker of the bedside candles, shining with a cold, absolute clarity that cut straight through the fog in his mind.
She did not wait for him to approach. She did not ask his permission, nor did she lower her gaze in submission. She simply raised one pale, slender hand, her long index finger curling into a small, undeniable summons.
"Come here, my dear husband," she whispered.
The softness of her voice carried a strange, heavy gravity that seemed to anchor his feet to the Persian carpet. Every instinct in Ormund’s body—every whispered prayer he had ever muttered in the damp quiet of the sept, every defensive wall he had built around his rigid, pious life—screamed at him to step back, to reach for his little silver pomander of cloves, to run. Deep down in the hollow core of his soul, a cold dread whispered that a man did not lie with a wolf and remain whole.
He pushed the thought down. He forced it away with a desperate, trembling swallow, burying the warning beneath the sudden, rushing heat in his veins.
He took a step forward. Then another.
As he reached the side of the towering mahogany bed, Alys did not wait for him to take the lead. She reached out, her fingers catching the front of his fine green doublet with a grip as unyielding as iron bands, and pulled him down.
The breath rushed out of Ormund’s lungs in a sharp gasp as he tumbled onto the mattress beneath her. The heavy, sweet smell of jasmine suddenly turned suffocating, entirely swallowed by the sharp, biting scent of winter mint that radiated from her skin.
She leaned over him, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain to shut out the rest of the world, her cold fingers trailing down the soft curve of his cheek and resting heavily against the frantically beating pulse in his throat.
Looking up into those vast, bottomless blue eyes, as she straddled his hips with a terrifying, absolute stillness, a dizzying realization crashed over Ormund. For all his pride, for all his clean clothes and his rigid prayers, he was not the master here. He was not the one leading.
She looked down at him with the calm, possessive gaze of a victor inspecting her prize, and in that breathless, suffocating moment, Ormund felt as though he was the bride—completely unmade, entirely cornered, and utterly at her mercy.
PAIRING — Lord Ormund Hightower x fem!Reader // Princess Daenyra Targaryen (OC)
SUMMARY — The Hightower army is trapped on the banks of the Honeywine between the enemy forces. You participate in your first real battle with Daeron by your side when an unexpected guest joins the fight.
AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you everyone leaving comments on Tumblr and on AO3. 💚 WE WILL FINALLY BE IN SEASON THREE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! 🥳 In this one I decided to follow the books so Daeron is being knighted after The Battle of The Honeywine. 🍯
WARNINGS — battle, Reader and Daeron use their dragons (💀)
WORD COUNT — 4,180
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
THE SECOND DAUGHTER (XI)
The Hightower army was trapped on the banks of the river between the forces of Lord Thaddeus Rowan and Tom Flowers on one side and the two Alans on the other. There was no way to escape the trap but most importantly none of you even considered the possibility of fleeing. You knew you had to face those traitors and only after that you would be able to move south towards King’s Landing.
The Tyrells would not come. Lady Estella had kindly reminded you in the letter that according to your agreement with her, she would send her troops once your army reaches Highgarden.
“The bitch is testing us,” you crumbled the letter in your hand and threw it away.
“The armies are approaching. Save the anger for the traitors,” Ormund walked up to you to put his hands on your shoulders. He was already wearing full armour, which was making him look so wide and big. So steady.
But no armour could make a man immortal.
You swallowed thickly when your eyes locked with his. For the first time since you had gotten married, you faced the possibility of losing him.
“I-I must go then,” you stuttered out.
Ormund did not let go of your shoulders, though. He moved one of his hands up to caress your cheek.
“Must you go? Perhaps you should stay,” he said and you furrowed your brows.
“Is it not the moment you have been waiting for over ten years now?” You inquired.
Your husband shook his head as he chuckled sarcastically.
“You think me so cruel but no. I have not imagined… this,” he looked around the tent. “Whatever it is.”
“It is happening, however. I must go,” you clenched your jaw and reached out to cup his cheeks. “To watch over you and ensure your safety,” you explained.
“They have no dragons. Tessarion should be enough to scare them,” Ormund sighed.
“Daeron is inexperienced. Besides, I will not let him ride into battle alone. I am his protector,” you protested. “How can you even suggest something like this?”
“He is a young squire who needs to prove himself whether I like it or not. He must participate in the battle. But you… You are a woman. A Princess. You should have stayed in Oldtown,” Ormund confessed.
Even though you knew that he loved you, it still felt odd to see him so scared about you. Last time it had happened, you had been barely alive after your miscarriage, therefore you had barely registered it.
“Just…” You hesitated as you slowly moved away from his arms. “Just be careful, Lord Husband,” you reached up to peck his lips. “None of this will make sense to me if I lose you.”
With one more glance, you left the tent in a hurry, trying very hard to contain your nervousness. You did not want Daeron to see your trembling hands. He had to see you as brave and willing to encourage him.
You saw him caressing Tessarion and soothing her before the battle. He hadn’t spotted you yet and you stood still for a moment while you took a deep breath.
“Ready, brother?” You asked him lightheartedly.
He turned his head around and your heart broke at the sight of the terror on his face.
“Y-yes, sister,” he nodded and hid his shaking hands behind his back.
“Come here,” you hugged him quickly. “Come here, my boy,” you kissed his temple. “It will be alright. I am with you,” you assured him.
Daeron relaxed a bit. The amount of trust he was putting in you was sometimes above your understanding but you could only be grateful that your little brother considered you to be his safe space.
To the point he would follow you into a battle.
To the point he would follow you towards his own death if you required.
“Now, my sweet Prince,” you cupped his cheeks as you looked deep into his blue eyes, “it is time for you to show everyone who you truly are. A Dragon Lord of mighty Tessarion, The Blue Queen,” you said in High Valyrian.
“Yes, Princess Commander,” he straightened his back and you patted his cheek.
You mounted Vyrmora and watched over Daeron getting on top of Tessarion. You made sure he was strapped properly to the saddle before you nodded and gave an order to fly.
You were circling together in the sky for some time, watching the situation unfold below. Vyrmora was roaring quietly and Tessarion followed her like a little blue shadow. You wondered if the young dragoness was as afraid as her rider. Probably yes.
Meanwhile, Vyrmora seemed to be impatient in a way. You had to remind her to stay still several times.
“Daeron,” you called for your brother, “fly closer and check if they have scorpions,” you said and the boy nodded.
You wanted to give him a task and make him feel important. Tessarion was also much smaller and swifter so it would be easier.
You waited for his return. When he did, you glanced at him questioningly.
“A few,” he admitted.
“Fuck,” you hissed out and your brother’s eyes widened. “I hoped they would not be there… But it is alright, my boy. We will deal with them. The Dragon Guard will destroy them.”
Daeron nodded, trusting you completely.
The loud noise from below snapped you back to reality. It seemed the armies clashed. From above it did not look well – your army perhaps was not outnumbered but it was absolutely trapped by two others.
You took a quick look at your brother. You could just… Fly away with him. You could take him away from this mess, gather your children and their dragons and then flee to Essos.
But you could not abandon your responsibilities and duties. No matter the sacrifice.
“It is time for us,” you ordered. “Fly behind me.”
Vyrmora groaned happily as she descended, spreading her huge wings to show off her whole enormous size. The lower she was, the louder she groaned, causing the enemy knights to look up with fear in their eyes.
The scorpions were immediately aimed at her but just like you had suspected – your troops were busy shooting the people behind the dragon killing war machines.
“Dracarys!” You shouted. You did not have to tell your dragon anything else. She happily obliged, knowing very well which people to burn and which to leave in peace.
From above, you could barely see them as people. They were nothing but ants who stood in your way as if they refused to acknowledge the fact that not only you were their Princess and overlord but also your cause was the righteous one.
You looked up at your brother. You had never seen his face so pale.
But Ormund was right. It was time for him to become a man.
“Daeron!” You addressed him. “Order her!”
He opened his mouth but no words left his lips.
“Order her, you must!” You insisted.
Then, from between the clouds behind Daeron, another dragon emerged and your heart dropped all the way down to your stomach.
It was… Moonfyre with Aelora on top of it.
You had to blink a few times to make sure you were not imagining it.
“Aelora!” You immediately moved closer to her.
Gods, her whole dragon was smaller than Vyrmora’s one single wing.
“What in the Seven Hells are you doing, you foolish girl?!” You snapped at her.
Daeron was staring at her with big eyes, too.
“I came to help, mummy!” Aelora straightened her back.
You felt dizzy at her words as you looked down and searched for Ormund. You spotted him, staring up with huge eyes.
“Aelora, you are crazy!” Daeron agreed with you. “Moonfyre can barely burn a sheep!”
“From what I’ve seen so far, Tessarion is not burning much either,” Aelora shrugged.
“Aim at the smaller ones!” You heard from below as the men behind scorpions now moved them to shoot at Moonfyre and Tessarion.
“You foolish girl! I should be covering your father and now I must cover you!” You raised your voice at her.
For the first time, Aelora realised how serious the situation was. Daeron moved in front of her as well.
“Daeron, you know that you must,” you told him. “I know you can do it. You’re my brother,” you encouraged. “If not for me, think of Aelora!”
He nodded hesitantly.
“D-Dracarys,” he ordered and Tessarion breathed fire against the enemies.
“Dracarys, Vyrmora, Dracarys!” You shouted, too.
Two dragons let out fiery breaths that crossed each other as they moved their heads around and burnt knights surrounding them. Aelora was hiding behind you two on Moonfyre.
“D-D-Dracarys!” She ordered but her dragoness only coughed a bit of fire and that was it.
“Just stay behind and say nothing!” You turned your head around as you gave her a scolding look.
You were furious. Worried sick, yes, but also furious.
Below, Ormund was fighting Lords from the opposing armies. You circled above him to make sure he was safe while Tessarion helped your guards to destroy the scorpions of the enemy.
You were burning some troops but the rest you crashed with Vyrmora’s huge legs as you told her to land and walk across the field after the scorpions had been defeated. Her steps were heavy and slow, meanwhile the arrows they were shooting at her could not get through her thick scales.
Tessarion was above you now with Moonfyre behind her.
As you looked around, the enemies’ armies were in defeat now. From afar you could spot the most cowardly knights deserting.
Vyrmora roared so loudly, causing everyone to freeze.
“You are defeated,” you announced. “Bend your knee to King Aegon of House Targaryen, Second of His Name. Join our troops and you shall be spared,” you added.
After a long silence, about half of the men dropped their swords and kneeled down, anxiously looking up at Vyrmora.
“Those of you who stubbornly wish to die for the Usurper Queen shall receive death so much anticipated by them,” you added.
Ormund and his men fought back those who still wielded their swords but your husband was in the majority. You did not intervene with your dragon but you watched over him just in case.
For the first time you observed him in actual combat instead of a training yard or a tourney. You were proud of him, you had to admit. You did not want to use your dragon against his enemies so he could have his own moment of glory.
Once the last enemy fell dead, the knights cheered. You slid off of Vyrmora’s back and ran to Ormund who opened his arms. Your chest piece clashed with his armour while you cupped his cheeks. They were covered with blood but other than that he was alright.
Behind you, Tessarion and Moonfyre landed. You two exchanged a look before approaching Daeron and Aelora.
They were both scared, especially your daughter. She hid herself behind her betrothed meanwhile your brother was clearly in a state of shock after the battle.
“You stupid girl!” Ormund raised his voice and Aelora hid behind Daeron even further. “Come out and look me in the eyes! You were so brave to face two armies but you cannot even face your father?!” He took his helmet off and threw it angrily at the ground.
“S-Sire, please… She knows she’s done wrong,” Daeron defended her.
“Stay out of it, boy! She deserves a scolding!” You snapped and put your hands on Aelora’s shoulders to walk her out.
You were absolutely relieved that she was alright but the foolishness and recklessness of her act was beyond your understanding.
“What were you even thinking?!” You asked her, shaking her a little.
“I overheard the maesters saying that the army was trapped… I wanted to help daddy…” She looked down with her mismatched eyes full of tears.
“For fuck’s sake!” Ormund shouted. “You could have died, Aelora! You could have fucking died!”
“I… I know…” She stuttered out, her voice so little.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid girl!” You crouched down and wrapped your arms around her. She clung to you immediately and buried her face in the crook of your neck as she sobbed.
Ormund caressed her head although his jaw remained clenched.
“There now, my girl…” He said, calmly. “You are alright. I believe you have learnt your lesson.”
“I have, daddy, I promise,” she looked up at him with wet eyes.
You kissed her forehead and laughed once all the stress left your body. The battle was won and your daughter was safe.
“Have I… Have I done well?” Daeron interrupted you as he cleared his throat.
You turned your head around and looked at him. Even though the fighting was over, he looked as nervous as right before it. He was pale and his hands were clasped behind him to hide how shaky they were. He looked down the moment your gaze met his.
“Of course you have, my boy,” you assured him. “Come here,” you opened your arms and offered him a hug.
The knights who had bent their knees were now busy burying the bodies of their former friends while the rest celebrated in the big green pavilion. Aelora was there with you because she was supposed to go back to Oldtown the next day with Ser Nestor.
“I know you wanted to accompany me but I need you more in Oldtown, Ser,” you told him. “I need you to watch over my children like you once watched over me.”
“Yes, Princess,” he nodded with a smile as he gave Aelora a funny look that made her giggle.
She was still shook up after the battle but for some reason the terrors she had seen did not affect her that much. Unlike her betrothed who was exceptionally silent as he was sitting by the table next to your husband.
The feast was not long because everyone was tired. Ormund dismissed everyone around midnight and only the closest and most loyal men stayed with you to discuss next steps.
You left your brother with Aelora as she was telling him of how much she was missing him while you joined your husband by the map of Westeros.
“We should be able to march throughout the Reach without a problem now. I doubt that the Stormlands will be a threat,” he said.
“Baratheons are trying to remain neutral but as far as I’m concerned one of their young Ladies is betrothed to my brother Aemond,” you added. “They will not bother us and if they do, I shall pay them a visit on my dragon.”
“Will Tyrells join us?” Bold Jon asked.
“They should now,” you nodded. “But they remain overlords of this region. They will probably want one of their men to be included in this council. We must all agree now that we should be careful about that man, whoever he is,” you pointed out as the men agreed.
“The closer we’ll get to the Crownlands, the more problems we will face but until then we should march without any bigger trouble,” Ormund put his arm around you and then he looked behind to glance at Daeron and Aelora. “My Lords, you are dismissed. Get a well deserved rest.”
They nodded and wished you a good night as they walked out of the pavilion one after another. In the end it was only you, Ormund, Daeron and Aelora left inside.
“My boy,” Ormund approached the children. Daeron stood up when he saw his Uncle coming. “Come here, you have shown great bravery earlier today,” he admitted with a proud smile.
Daeron swallowed thickly and nodded as he walked over to your husband. You stood behind Aelora’s chair and watched your brother lovingly. You were as proud of him as your husband.
If not more.
“Kneel, my Prince,” Ormund said and you smiled widely, already knowing what was about to happen.
Aelora did not as she looked up at you with big eyes.
“Stand up now,” you whispered to her and she nodded before doing so.
Daeron hesitated but he looked over his shoulder and your reassuring smile caused him to relax. He kneeled with his back straightened, trying his best to look dignified. His Uncle always paid attention to details.
“You have proven yourself, Daeron. It is time for you to be made a knight,” Ormund announced as he took out his sword made of Valyrian steel – Vigilance.
Your brother looked up with big blue eyes full of devotion and reverence but you spotted his fingers were still trembling slightly. You remembered the little boy who had come to Oldtown all those years ago as you shed a tear or two. Aelora was delighted once she understood her betrothed would be crowned now, probably already imagining all the tourneys he would win for her in the future.
“Daeron Targaryen,” Ormund began his speech, “do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captain and your liege lord…”
You furrowed your brow when you realised Ormund was changing the words of the oath but you were wise enough to say nothing.
“...to fight bravely whenever needed and to do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?” Ormund finished.
“I…” Daeron hesitated but only because he found it difficult to breathe and utter words. “I swear it,” he whispered.
Ormund took a step back and lifted his sword to place it on your little brother’s shoulder. Your heart clenched inside your chest, nearly bursting out with pride. Aelora clapped her hands excitedly.
“Then, raise a knight,” Ormund announced after placing the sword upon the other shoulder. He glanced at you with pride and love in his eyes before looking back at your brother. “Ser Daeron the Daring,” he named him.
You approached your brother and put your hand on his chest where his heart was. He grabbed your hand immediately, nearly desperately. His fingers were not only trembling but also cold.
“Light the way,” you told him, “with fire and blood,” you added in High Valyrian.
Daeron nodded at you but before he was able to say anything, Aelora ran up to him. You allowed her to hug him because she was very excited as she threw her arms around her betrothed.
“Oh Daeron! I am so proud of you!” She exclaimed. “And to think I witnessed you in the battle and now being knighted! It was worth it to come here after all!”
Ormund cleared his throat at those words as he gave her a scolding glance.
You fell asleep quickly on that night. Even though your ears were still ringing and your head was spinning, you were utterly exhausted.
It was around three in the morning when you were awakened by a gentle whisper. You opened your eyes and nearly jumped at the sight of the servant boy standing above you.
“Shhh, Princess,” he whispered. “Forgive me for waking you but it is about Prince Daeron,” he lowered his voice even more.
He was from Oldtown, therefore he knew about your brother’s identity. He was aware it was supposed to stay hidden for the rest. Most importantly, though, right now he was afraid of waking Ormund.
“What’s wrong?” You asked as your heart skipped a beat.
“He has a troublesome rest. I thought you might want to go and see him, my Princess,” the boy mumbled out.
You nodded and carefully removed yourself from under your husband’s arm. Then you stood up and put a robe over your nightgown alongside with the boots on your feet. You glanced quickly at him but he was asleep and so was Aelora who was sleeping on a sofa next to your bed.
After that, you followed the servant boy out of the tent as he led you towards Daeron’s one that was nearby.
“Thank you,” you nodded at the boy and he left you.
When you entered, you spotted your brother immediately. He was in his bed but tossing and turning as he winced at something that must have been a part of his nightmare.
“Daeron!” You hurried to his bed and sat on the edge of it while you placed your hand on his cheek to wake him up gently. “Daeron, my sweet, wake up,” you whispered.
His eyes shut open and he sat up while breathing heavily. He looked around in terror, not recognising the place yet. But then he saw you and his shoulders relaxed while tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Daeron, darling, what happened?” You asked and pressed his head to your chest like a mother would. You caressed his ginger strands to soothe him.
“Daenyra…” He whimpered and buried his face deeper into your chest while his hands tugged onto the fabric of your robe. “I am sorry… I did not mean to cry… I know I should not… I am so sorry…”
“Shhh, my boy, why are you sorry? It is alright,” you assured him and kissed the top of his head. “It is alright to cry. Everyone does sometimes.”
“Uncle does not.”
“He definitely does,” you chuckled and he looked up, surprised. “But you don’t know that from me,” you added and brushed his ruffled hair with your hand. “What is it? Do you have bad dreams?”
“Y-yes…” Daeron admitted and blushed. “About… About earlier.”
“What about it?” You furrowed your brows.
“When I… When I burned… p-people,” his voice was so low now that his words were nearly inaudible.
You froze for a moment but then you went back to caressing his hair.
You had been the one to encourage him to kill. But it had been necessary.
“You are a Targaryen dragonrider,” you reminded him.
“Each of these knights had their own lives, families, fears and dreams…”Daeron shook his head.
“No,” you protested and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look deep into your eyes. “No, my son, you must not see it this way. When you are on top of that dragon, the rest of the world… They’re… They’re ants. They’re dots,” you tried to explain. “We must remember who we are. We are the blood of Old Valyria. Descendants of Aegon the Conqueror. It is our birthright. A burdensome one but a privileged one, too.”
You could see that your words were scaring him so you sighed and started all over again.
“You can also try to look at this in a different light,” you let go of his cheeks to stop intimidating him further. “They are our enemies. Do you think they would think twice before hurting you, me, Uncle Ormund or Aelora? They would not. We must kill them so we can live and go back home as soon as possible,” you explained. “This is all I want. For us to go back home and to watch all my children being happy. And in a few years you will make me a very happy grandmother,” you booped his nose and he blushed. “Unfortunately, peace and safety are not guaranteed. Sometimes we must fight for them and earn them.”
“I am a knight now… Uncle called me The Daring… Yet I cry here like a little boy,” he sniffled.
“Yes, you are a knight. A very daring and brave one,” you assured him. “But every knight – even the strongest one – has a… a mother he can cry to. I assure you,” you smiled at him. “I know you are scared and that you have your doubts. But let me tell you this: it is going to be alright. I promise you because I’ll always be there with you. You don’t have to worry or overthink anything. Leave that to me and Uncle, alright?” You asked and Daeron nodded. “Good boy,” you kissed him on the forehead. “Do you want me to stay here? You need to sleep and rest.”
“I… I don’t know… I’m a knight now… If Uncle finds out I have to be cuddled to sleep…” Your brother looked down.
“Phew, leave him to me,” you shrugged with a chuckle. “I am staying here.”
“A-alright, thank you,” Daeron nodded and he laid down. You adjusted the pillow under his head and laid down next to him.
“Good night, my sweet boy,” you whispered.
“Good night, sister,” he mumbled out.
Daeron fell asleep quickly while cuddling your arm as you were laying there and staring at the ceiling of the tent. Thankfully, his nightmares did not come back.
“I am so sorry, my son…” you whispered in High Valyrian when you were sure he was already asleep while you caressed his head. You couldn’t stop thinking of the fact that you had been the reason for his heavy heart now.
You wanted to protect him from every danger in the world but you loved him too much to protect him from yourself.
Just a cute little Drabble with my husband and son 🥰
“Oh.” You say in shock when Daeron plops himself in your lap. You sat cross legged on the floor working on a project. Daeron passing you his dragon book that gwayne had made for him, it telling the tale of a good little dragon who gets taken in by his uncle and aunt. “Thank you sweetheart.”
Awhile later after having read the boy his favourite book twice, the boy is now full of energy and wanting to play. You able to tell as he starts squirming in your lap. “Mama I love you.”
“Awe thank you, I love you too sweetheart.” You smile kissing the side of his head, knowing your boy wants to play with Gwayne. “Why don’t you go tell papa.”
“papa, I love mama so much.” Daeron giggles running over to gwanye, the man sat on the sofa reading. The boy squealing when Gwayne picks him up and throws him slightly in the air. Daeron giggling even more, as Gwanye then kisses all over the boys face.
“What was that?” Gwayne asks playfully, loving moments like this. You watch them hoping you never forget this. “Who do you love?”
“Mama.” The boy squeals as Gwayne turns him upside down both unable to stop laughing. “No papa!”
“Who do you love?” Gwayne asks again, massive smile on his face when he flops back onto the sofa. Daeron in his arms.
“Papa! I love papa!” Daeron laughs loving when his papa is silly with him.
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x wife! Reader/ Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader
Word count: 8.9k
Synopsis: Daeron's dragon dreams push you away and into Lyonel's arms.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, Based on my series "Where's my Husband!", what if AU, Alternate ending where R married Daeron after the failed betrothal to Aerion and is still in love with Lyonel, CW suggestive, CW alcohol mention, love triangle, hurt/comfort/fluff.
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
Aerion's Alt Ending
The small folk part for you and your entourage, heads bowed so deeply they look like they are waiting for the sword to come down upon their necks. They know of your status, from the gilded armour of your horse, to the falcon and dragon sigils embroidered on your bodice, they know that you are the wife to the heir of Summerhall.
You haven’t forgotten your Arryn roots, and thankfully your husband lets you continue to wear Arryn blue and silver, as if he would have any say about what you wear anyway when he is too busy downing his cups to ever notice that you have taken a liking to the dragon heraldry that mingles with the falcons on your person. They dance together on your gown, a falcon mid flight, showing its talons to a dragon flying beside it. You are just glad that you did not end up marrying the other Targaryen prince, who is now far away across the Narrow Sea to be a bother to you. And yet despite your protests, you still ended up traded to another Targaryen prince, one who likes his wine more than the comfort of your arms.
Ser Andros rides beside you, his sword at his hip, armour clanking, and a scowl so deep his expression alone has the crowd around you scampering away into the tight alleyways. You always took him with you during these brief excursions, a knight from the Vale when your husband’s man of arms has given up on their prince, and it is left upon your shoulders to fetch him and grab him by the scruff of his neck away from the acrid smelling tavern.
Juniper looks at your frown, riding on your left as her brows furrow at your expression. When your betrothal was broken after Aerion dishonoured himself at the Ashford tourney, she thought that you were finally free to choose your own husband, for love this time and not out of duty, but they just passed you along to the prince’s elder brother instead, Daeron the drunken. Things could’ve been worse, your father would’ve married you off to worse men in the realm, but your handmaiden wanted to see you happy, for you to marry the one you love, and that man is all the way in Storm’s End whilst you gallop over to the nearest town from Summerhall every other day to pick up your drunk husband before he drinks himself to death.
Your hold on the reins are tight against the leathers of your glove that you could feel the rope dig into your palms. This has been a regular occurrence in your married life, he sneaks out in the dead of night as you slept and would ride into town to drink as much as he could until he smells of wine, until the blood in his veins is replaced by the drink. But you were never asleep as you heard him lumber around the chamber, mumbling to himself before you found yourself all alone in your marriage bed once again.
But Daeron isn’t the worst man you could marry, you could’ve been married off to an old man thrice your age or a horrid Lord who would strike you as he pleased. But Daeron does not mean to hurt you in any way, not really, it’s his drinking that hurts you. You may not love your husband as you love a certain Baratheon, but you hate it whenever he comes home smelling like a tavern, looking as if a horse trampled him over, looking like he’s near the stranger’s door.
During the first months of marriage he tried to stay sober, keeping his wits with him. Everything was fine, he would play Cyvasse with you even though you would always win. He would go on rides with you and stroll around the gardens under the sunshine. Daeron looked good under the light, his blonde hair shining under the light turning it even more golden. Then his smile that came so easy during those days that it would make your heart aflutter in your chest. He has numerous stories to tell, some funny, a story about a man he met at a Tavern in Dorne, or about a time he got lost in the Godswood and thought he was being followed by a woods witch. A few were the kind of stories he would tell with you beside him as you drew circles over his bare chest, the kind about his childhood, about his mother, and his siblings, back when times were much simpler. The softer stories that made you see him in a different light.
Slowly, you found yourself growing awfully fond of your husband, and loving him feels like some sort of betrayal. It’s not the kind of love you feel with Lyonel, this one is different, it’s not as intense or passionate but the love is still there. You care for Daeron, you have love for him, but your heart is already occupied by another so far away that your heart still longs for him no matter how soft Daeron kisses you, no matter how much he makes you feel wanted.
You tried to love him like you do with Lyonel, but your mind always went to him, every night in bed as you lay beside your husband, you think of him. You go outside and see rainclouds looming above you and you think of him, everything reminds you of Lyonel Baratheon. His laugh in the whispering breeze, his warmth in the early morning sunshine, and his touch in Daeron’s softer hand upon your waist.
You both tried.
Daeron really tried to be a good husband, to be better for you. Sharing a bed with him was light hearted, at first it was for duty, a transaction like your marriage to him. As time went on, it was more than duty. You wanted him, and he wanted you too. He would give everything to you, kiss you where you wanted, touch you where it makes you shiver, and whisper sweetened words in your ear, breathing you in, swallowing the groans from your lips. He was attentive, caring, and sometimes loving.
Daeron’s laugh was strained yet genuine, like he was afraid that the day would turn for the worse if he laughed too much, smiled too much, expressed too much joy. That if he did show it more than he should, the sunshine would fade away to rain. He always expected something to go wrong, that his awful dreams would come true. You’ve told him numerous times that it wouldn’t, that they’re nothing but dreams.
But sometimes, he would tell you something, his eyes would gloss over and he’d speak in riddles so casually that you start to believe him. He told you once that a mighty stag would take you away from him, that once it happens, when, not if, he would not stop you, that he would not try to when it’s been written in stone. That trying will make it come true faster. You think that you wouldn’t stop it from happening either, when your days are slowly being filled with you taking care of your husband, wiping the sweat off his brow as he gets sick all over you instead of the love you wanted.
You hate his dragon dreams. When he awoke in bed, sweaty, cotton tunic sticking to his skin as he gasps for breath, you would stir awake, take him in your arms and let him calm himself in your warmth. His face would bury into the crook of your neck, his trembling would slowly cease and his eyes would flutter close, exhausted from the awful dreams. You wouldn’t sleep that night, his words burying inside your mind as you wonder what his prophecy meant.
One day those dreams would be his undoing, and you’re afraid for your husband.
Slowly, you watched Daeron succumb to his dreams. Instead of turning to you for help and taken in your warmth, he turned to the warmth of a drink instead.
His skin turned sickly and blanched, stretched across his bones tightly. His scar from the trial is red and angry, raised once more upon his skin like the injury just happened yesterday. His hay coloured hair turned rough under your touch, stringy and oily whenever you held him, which are rare most days. He refuses to be touched, Daeron doesn’t like to be dressed by servants in the first place but he would let you put his doublet on into his arms, and tie it gently around him, not too tight, not too loose when you know he does not like either. But he hasn’t let you touch him in a long while, a year into marriage and half of it was spent in bliss, the other half spent in hollowness. Days spent alone in your chambers with a book your eyes refuses to read, always wondering about his wellbeing that you sooner got tired of waiting and instead took your horse and rode over to him.
You do not love the man as much as you’re supposed to be, but you refuse to let him die when you could’ve prevented it.
The first time you rode into town you half foresaw that he’ll be deep inside a brothel like the stories you were told about him before you two wed. But that was never the case with Daeron, he has kept his marriage vows as if the gods will strike him down where he stands if he even thinks about forsaking you.
When you first found him, you had your dagger by your side and an old weathered cloak over your shoulder. You’re no stranger to playing pretend and blending in with the common folk, no one took you as a princess by marriage when you were out looking for your husband, only to find his face planted right on the mud in front of a tavern. He thought he died and was seeing a ghost of you when you took him in your frantic arms. He promised you then that he won’t do it ever again, and you believed him, took him home and helped him clean his sorrows away from his body. It only took him a moon before he went back into his cups.
Now you have stopped pretending, you have embraced your title as the wife of Maekar’s first born son that everyone knows has gone mad from his unwanted dreams.
You don’t mind taking care of him, it’s your duty as his wife, but when it’s everyday, everyday you wiped the sick off his chin, everyday you smelt the wine in his breath, everyday seeing him in that awful state of half awake and half dreaming— you got tired, desensitized to his choices.
With every wipe of a damp cloth over his ivory skin, lips mumbling incoherently against your torso, you thought of Lyonel. Is he safe? Is he eating well? Or is he longing for you just like how you are longing for him? You miss him, you miss his touch, you miss his laugh. You miss his warmth. You missed the days where you’re the one being taken care of, not the other way around. You feel more alike to Daeron’s mother than his wife. You liked it most when he made you laugh, when he would tug you into a corner of the keep and hold you and press a heavy kiss upon your lips like he hasn’t seen you in many moons. You missed that version of your husband. Not the shell of a man you lie beside with every night.
Lyonel was one for drinking and merriment but when he is needed most, when the time calls for him to be of sound mind, he could always restrain himself from a cup. And Daeron really tried, you made him see differently, that the world isn’t about to crumble underneath his feet, that you won’t fade away from his arms. You helped him feel at ease, be more like himself, like the man his mother raised him to be. But the dreams are stronger, it came to haunt him again, not just in his sleep but also in his waking days.
You would find him staring into the flowers whenever you strolled around the gardens with him and his younger sisters. Something swims in his eyes, his mind going heavy with thoughts that you would always have to take his hand in yours, weave his fingers with your own and tug him back to reality.
You take care of him, understand his plights, you’ve even exchanged letters with a cousin of Juniper from the North who is a greenseer, asking for advice. You heeded everything she told you, gave him tinctures you made yourself that had your hands smelling like acrid herbs, giving your fingertips an odd tinge to them. You tried everything, and yet he still fell deeper and deeper. You never gave up on Daeron while he was crumbling in front of you. But it didn’t help when he started pushing you away.
You should let him be, let him succumb to his drinking because if he dies then you are free to marry anyone, to be free of the Targaryen name, but whenever you look at Daeron, you see a man who was ignored and left to fall into his vices. He has no one but you. He needed someone, and you took on that mantle, even if it means remaining shackled to the title of princess, then so be it, if it means he stays alive.
Daeron doesn’t deserve to be left behind and to let wither and die, he deserves better, like the Daeron you saw during the first months of your marriage with him. Where he was happy, carefree and healthy. The Daeron that would crack jests, the Daeron that gets frustrated when you win over a game of Cyvasse, the Daeron that would kiss and hold you through the night sweetly. The Daeron you swore a vow with in front of the seven.
The Daeron you fell for.
The tavern is anything but fancy, a place where a prince of the blood shouldn’t wander in, nor a princess by marriage. It smells awful, as if you walked inside the stables instead of an establishment where they serve food and drinks. Your nose crinkles from the scent, a lump forming in your throat as Ser Andros helps you off of your horse.
“M’lady.” He mutters, head on a swivel, eyes raking around the crowd. “I shall fetch him this time. This isn’t a fine place for you.”
“No, I shall do it.” With a hand on his arm, you glare at the closed doors. Juniper shares a look with the knight, both showing their wariness through their expressions. “You needn’t worry, Ser Andros, no harm shall come to me or I’ll pluck out their eyes myself.” You utter the heavy words roughly, loud enough to be heard by the common folk before you to stop would be thieves.
“Yell for me if you need me, m’lady Arryn.” Even now when you are married he still calls you Lady Arryn, everyone from the Vale still calls you that as an affront to the Targaryens, showing that they do not agree to the match, much to their Lord Paramount’s anger.
The dagger on your hip glints under the early light of dawn, a warning to everyone else around you. That your threat wasn’t an empty one.
Hitching your dress, you grasp at the brass handle of the tavern, it’s warm to the touch and sticky that it adds to your irritation. The door opens to a full tavern despite the time of day. Although the lively feast has ended, there are still a lot of people lurking around the prince.
The voices inside quiet down once you enter, eyes immediately turning to you, taking you in their vision, raking all over your form. You don’t show them how uncomfortable you are because if you did, they will take it as fear, and these men will take every opportunity to strike once you show them that you are afraid. So you stand tall, head raised up, and a hand around the hilt of your dagger as you search for your husband’s familiar head of hair.
There, right on a table is Daeron, face planted right on the table, hair damp on his head that it’s almost dark underneath the dim flickering candle lights. But you’re more concerned about the strangers buzzing around him, perhaps trying to figure out how to pick his pockets without waking him up. They don’t seem to notice your presence by the door, and you’re just itching to unsheathe your dagger.
“M’lady!” A woman crosses the distance over to you, she seems to be the tavern owner by the looks of it as she gives you a nervous smile. “It is an honour to have you in our fine establishment.” Her hands wring a towel anxiously. “What do we owe this pleasure?”
“I’m here for my husband.” You answer curtly, already walking away as she lingers by your side. “What is it?”
“Um, he owes us a debt, m’lady.” She tries to get ahead of your quicker strides.
Sighing, your footsteps ceases, unsheathing your dagger and plunging it right into the table that sends the men around him to scatter away like flies. Daeron is unfazed, still asleep as the lady of the Tavern shakes in her boots.
“How much does he owe you?” You say softly, just for her ears.
“T–three silver stags, m’lady— my princess.” She bows, trembling.
You fish for the coins inside your velvet pouch, handing an extra stag for the damage to her table. “Do me a favour,” she listens intently, cradling the coins in her palms. “Do not let my husband in this place ever again.”
“M’lady?”
Your narrowed eyes flicks over to her. “Promise me,” You then take a golden dragon from your pouch, one that has the unmistakable sigil of stag antlers embroidered on it. If she noticed it, she doesn’t question the nature of it. “A coin for your troubles, mistress.”
“Of—of course.” She bows her head, backing away as you go around the table and over to Daeron.
You take your dagger back, and sit beside him, his warmth bleeding from him and over to you. “Wake up, Daeron.” Leaning close to his ear, you tuck away strands of his hair into the shell of his scarred ear. “We must break fast. Gods, would you wish me to be a widow so early in my life?”
He stirs in his sleep, fingers twitching, groaning into the table under him. He mumbles something incoherent before stilling.
“Husband, you must wake, your father is coming home.”
“I do not care…” he mutters, head tilting to the side, showing you his red rimmed eye through his fallen hair and arm under his head. “Why should I care?”
“Because I care, and you are only proving him right by staying here languishing in your own filth.”
Daeron laughs, lifting himself up, head tipping back as you grasp onto his nape before he falls backwards into the muddy ground. “Gods, I must’ve been Baelor the blessed himself in my previous life to have gotten you as my wife.”
You crack a smile, faltering when you see the wine soaked doublet on him. “My love,” taking his cheek, you gently turn him towards you until his head falls unceremoniously upon your shoulder, nuzzling into your warmth. He gets like this when he is tired, when the drinking catches up to him in the morning. Once the haze wears off, he’ll be back to dodging your touch again. “Come home, please.” Whispering above his head, your hand kneads over the length of his back, ignoring how his sweat drenched doublet sticks to you. “We must show them that we are united. We must greet him when he gets home.”
“What is the point?” His finger traces the swirling pattern on your skirt. “He’ll still find something to be disappointed about.”
“He’s your father, he’ll always find something to be disappointed about.” He scoffs out a humourless chuckle as your hand tries to move his damp hair away from his clammy cheeks. “My own father is the same, and so is his father before him, and so on. Every father in the realm has disappointment hammered into their thick skin.”
“So I am not unique in that matter?” Lifting his head, he looks at you through the fog of alcohol.
“No,” you manage a smile, cradling his face in your hands. “But you do stink.”
Daeron laughs then, a real laugh, reminiscent of the days early in your marriage. “Take me home, wife.”
—
The lavender and peppermint wafts through the shared chambers as Daeron soaks into the tub. He has excused every servant from the room, even you but you refused to leave, and it’s evident that you will never leave while your hands are lathering up his hair in the citrus scented soap that you save for special occasions.
Your sleeves are folded to your elbows, hair tied as you gently knead your fingers into his scalp, cleaning all the oil and the smell of wine off of his hair.
“I have told you that I can do this myself.” He says, hands playing with the bottle of the same citrus soap. “Where did you even get this stuff?”
“From across the Narrow Sea.” You answer, ignoring the way he groans wistfully after you tug at his strands. “A friend recently went on a trip there.”
“Ah.” His shoulders visibly slouches, placing the ornate bottle back on the table, he sniffs at the sweet smelling air. “Now I know why you always smell good.”
You smile, fetching a basin of water to wash away the soap on his hair. “I like smelling nice for you.”
“Of course.” He utters with clenched teeth as the water drenches his head whilst your nails scrub at his scalp.
“What does that mean?” You notice the bite in his tone.
“This friend of yours…” twisting inside the tub, he looks at you fully as his damp blonde hair frames his handsome face and the water glistening on his bare chest as it catches the light. “Do I know him?”
“Daeron…”
“You need to be subtle, wife, or else people will find out.”
You look away briefly, sighing before gazing into his lilac eyes. “They are just gifts, nothing else.”
“I am sure Lord Lyonel doesn’t think like they are just gifts, my love.” His hand finds yours, thumb running along your life line. “I do not want your good name to be sullied by gifts from another man.”
“We are just friends, Daeron. Nothing more.” You carefully wipe away his strands from his scar with furrowed brows and a frown. “You are my husband, and I would never break my vow to you.”
It is true that you desire to be with the Laughing Storm, but you will never dishonour yourself and your house by breaking your marriage vows. Only letters and gifts have been exchanged between you two, nothing more.
“Even if you love him truly?” His eyes look right into your soul as you guiltily look away. “I have dreamed of you. A lot, far too much.” His hold tightens, breath hitching in his throat. “I love you, but… I have seen you die a hundred times over if you stay here—”
“Daeron, not this again, we have talked about this—”
He pulls your hand towards him abruptly as the water sloshes to the side. “You will die in a bed of fire and your death will bring war on the realm’s doorstep.”
“Daeron, that is enough—”
“Dragons will feast on your ashen bones,” his grasp tightens with every word, each word frantic and ominous than the last. “twin dragons, one red, one black, and I shall be your undoing, this house will be your undoing.”
“Daeron, enough!” You snatch your hand away, flinching from his touch and nursing the throbbing ache around your wrist. He wakes from his stupor, looking at you with horror. “I have told you that they are just dreams, nothing more.”
“Not my dreams,” shaking his head, there are tears falling on his flushed cheeks. “these dreams come true. Just like it did with Baelor, you have seen it yourself. I know you were there to witness it.”
Sitting back down, you cradle his face daintily in your hold, eyes stinging with unshed tears that you do not want to show him. “You must not listen to it, please, I beg of you, it is eating you alive.”
“Helaena Targaryen was a dreamer, did you know that?” His breath staggers, head tilting towards your palm. “No one listened to her either, but who could blame them? I beg that you heed to me just this once.”
“And forsake you? Break my vow to you?” Shaking your head, you lick your dry lips, pecking him once so he could listen, it worked a few times before. You see his eyes shimmer for a moment, you thought that would be the end of it, but then his pale eyes turned hazy again. “Daeron, I cannot, you know that I cannot. You can’t ask me that, I love you, or have you forgotten that fact?”
The water around him grows colder. “‘As high as honour.’ Your house words, it is like I’m asking a fish to stop swimming. But I can’t bear to see you wither here. You are my heart, but I want you to live, even if it means living far away from me.”
“Daeron, please—” He silences you with a kiss, sweetened, smelling like citrus and tasting the remnants of gold arbour on his tongue as his hands hold onto your cheek. “You want to get rid of me?” You ask in a broken tone in between kisses, jagged at the edges as he takes a deep breath atop your lips.
Once he pulls away, he rests his forehead on your own, eyes closed, breathing you in as if it’ll be the last time. “I don’t want to get rid of you, I want to be married to you for forever and a day, until I’m withered, until the stranger takes us both. But we cannot continue, lest you perish in my arms.”
“I won’t perish.” You cling to him tenderly, hands upon his slick arms as the lavender you poured into the bath wafts into your nose. Now that smell will forever remind you of this moment. “It won’t come true.”
Daeron doesn’t heed you. “We can petition for an annulment on the basis that there has been no consummation that happened. It’ll work.”
“But it’s a lie.” You answer painfully.
“I know.” He pecks you again, lingering a second longer as you kiss back, chasing his lips when he leans away. “But you must be far away from here, away from this house, away from me.”
“Maekar will—”
“He will be disappointed like all fathers are, hm? But he’ll get over it, he’ll find me another that will never be like you, one that I will—” he chokes on his own words, fingers curling around your sleeves, refusing to let you go. “will never see as you, or adore as much as I have adored you. But you must live, or else the realm is lost.”
“How could I be that significant?”
“My love, you are far more important than you’ll ever know.” Daeron utters lovingly over your lips. Eyes swirling with untold stories that you have tried to know and have stopped trying long ago.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that too.”
—
The supper is awkward, as quiet as a sept as the flickering candlelights dance on the expansive table. Despite its size, it only has a few occupants. Maekar sits at the head of the table, shoulders taut and straight, taking small bites of his quail. Whilst your husband is sitting on his right, slouched, eyes dimmed more than usual as you sit beside him. He looks presentable, handsome in his black and red Targaryen doublet. His hair is tied away from his face, courtesy of you and your expert hands.
His little sisters sit on Maekar’s left, occupying the seats that used to be for his other sons, who have either escaped from this family or banished because of his transgressions. The older princess, Daella, looks glum, perhaps missing her brother, or just the usual doom and gloom of being a young noble girl that you know all too well. Whilst the youngest, Rhae, is still far too young to understand what happened to her brothers and uncle. You and Daeron have talked about the girls before, wanting to shield them from the truth as long as you both could, but alas, the servants talk, and all you could do now is shield the youngest as best as you could when you have taken on the role as their older sister and guardian. You adore the girls, and from what Daeron told you just this morning, you hate to leave them all alone here. They’re far too young for court, still impressionable, still learning how the world works, so innocent. The world will eat them alive.
“So, my prince,” clearing your throat, you try to lighten the mood as your finger scratches at the surface of the ornate goblet. “How was King’s Landing?”
His intense dark purple eyes remind you of Aerion. “Quiet.” For a moment you thought that he was commanding you to be silent. “It seems that my brother took all the conversations along with him.”
It has only been a year since the Ashford tourney, the wound that Baelor left still hasn’t healed, and you think it will never heal. The realm would be far worse without him.
Your mouth fills with cotton as you clamp it shut. Daeron’s hand finds your own underneath the table, grasping at your fingers gently and reassuringly. You give him a soft look amidst the candle light that turns his hair red, almost like fire.
“Your father was asking about your well-being.” Maekar adds, although seemingly it was a reluctant addition. “You should send him a raven.”
You still harbour anger towards your Lord father when he bartered you over to the Targaryens like a brood mare so he could be in the small council. Your hand flies to the ends of your braid, fingers tugging and pulling at it lightly on instinct.
“I should, my prince.” You answer with clenched teeth.
“When will Egg come home, father?” Rhae asks, still far too small to be at the table. You had to ask the carpenter to make her a stool so she could sit at the table with you and Daeron, the poor girl has latched onto you like you are her mother ever since you wed her brother.
The tension is thick enough to cut with Valyrian steel. Maekar swallows thickly, his spoon clanging on his plate. “I do not know, sweetling.”
“I’m sure he will come visit.” Daeron adds, trying to reassure the youngest Targaryen.
“He won’t.” Daella mutters to herself as she stabs at her quail.
“Daella.” Daeron warns in a whisper tone. The girl just rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink.
“Mayhaps we can send him letters.” You help the two men in reassuring the little princess. “It’ll be quite fun, don’t you think?” The girl perks up, nodding fervently. “We should write before bed, and then we can head to the rookery in the morning.”
“Really?” Rhae’s eyes sparkles.
The two stubborn men thank you with a small smile, whilst Daeron squeezes your hand.
“You don’t even know where he is.” Daella snidely remarks above the rim of her goblet. It garners a glare from her father and brother, and yet she doesn’t falter under their gaze.
“It doesn’t matter!” Rhae squeaks out, hands thumping against the table. “The raven will find him!”
“Ravens aren’t magical creatures, Rhae. They can’t smell him or know where he is.” The older princess says with a bite to her tone.
“That is enough, Daella.” Maekar warns, and the girl quietens down.
“We’ll still write a letter tonight, sister?” Rhae gives you her puppy dog eyes, she looks more like Egg than her other siblings.
“We will, I promise you—”
“Pardon the interruption, a letter from the Grand Sept, my prince.” The clang of armour and a voice from a Targaryen man of arms interrupts you. You’re silently grateful for the interruption as you take gulps of your honeyed wine.
Beside you, Daeron stiffens, breath turning shallow as he pours himself some more wine.
Maekar receives the letter with a curt nod, brows furrowed deeply, eyes swimming with confusion. “What does the High Septon want now?”
“Maybe he wants to bleed us dry with another charitable donation to the faith.” Daella scoffs. “As if their sept isn’t almost as grand as the Red Keep nowadays.”
As Maekar reads silently, you watch his expression turn sour with every word he glances over. Then it contorts into raging fury, you brace yourself.
“Rhae, come, how about we write that letter now—?” You try to get the girls out of the room, but Maekar’s fist hits the table with a resounding crack. You flinch, just as you make it to the girls’ side. Rhae grips onto your skirt, whilst Daella twists her body towards you, hiding behind you.
“Septa, take the children to their chambers.” The prince commands with his stifled anger, fists shaking around the crumpled letter. “You,” his eyes turn to you, sending shivers down your spine. “Stay.”
Rhae calls your name as she’s carried out of the hall, while her sister follows closely behind. She looks over her shoulder to you, looking at you with worry. To which you reassure her with a small smile and a nod.
When the door shuts behind them, Maekar vaults from his seat, footsteps reverberating through the grand hall as he tosses the letter into the roaring fireplace.
You feel as though the anticipation is cleaving you, breathing hard as you turn to Daeron for support when you have no idea what the letter contains. It couldn’t possibly be—
“Daeron, what have you done?” Your words are carried across the table as your husband takes a swig of his wine. “Daeron—”
“What I should’ve done before.” Is all he could say as he pours himself another cup, the wine pouring over the rim as it drenches the table cloth.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” Maekar looms over Daeron, heaving, purposely leaving space between them lest he does something unthinkable. “An annulment?!” His voice booms around the room, roaring as it probably carries around the castle. “You just married her! I thought you harbour affection for her!”
You don’t keel over with how loud his words are, nor how Daeron sits silently in his seat.
“This will ruin you even more! Have you lost your wits about you that you would annul a perfectly good marriage, Daeron?!”
“As the letter states, father.” Daeron winces when Maekar tosses his goblet into the wall, sending it crashing into a wall of tapestry depicting the fall of Valyria. “We haven’t consummated the marriage—”
“You are an idiot!” The veins in Maekar’s neck pop with anger. “It’s all this fucking drinking! You have lost your functions and now you cannot even bed your own wife!”
“My prince,” you bravely step between them. “That is enough.”
“Did you ask him to do this?” His nose flares, taking a step back before his fists could do something that he doesn’t want to do. “Did you put him up to this?”
“No, I do not want the separation—”
“I want it, father.” Daeron stands from his seat, eyes dull yet he doesn’t stand down from his father’s glare. “I already lost a wife before, what’s another?”
Maekar falters from his words, because in truth, he knows his son better than anyone. And you, despite wanting to know your husband through and through, there are still some pages you have not read yet.
“You need to think this through, Daeron,” the prince takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair that has turned into a mess through his yelling. “this is an affront to house Arryn, this will cause a war—”
“Frankly it’ll do the opposite, father. We all know that house Arryn, or at least except for its Lord, doesn’t stand for the union. They will be glad of the news.” Despite the wine in his veins, Daeron talks eloquently, a proper prince. “They will be glad that I’ve let go of their falcon.”
“You have thought this through.” Backing away from Daeron, hurt flashes on his face as you say the words in a broken tone.
Daeron faces away from you, despite wanting to come to your side and hold you in his arms. But he has to show his father that his reasoning is sound, that he doesn’t love you, that he doesn’t even care for you to stay married to you. But he has to save you, even if it means that he can’t hold you as your heart lays broken at his feet.
“What did the Septon say, father?” The flames from the fireplace flicker in Daeron’s eyes.
Maekar glances at you with pity, before looking at his son with disappointment. “That he is considering the petition, and that there would be a Septon that will come and visit us to assess the marriage.”
“He will ask for coin, surely.” They talk as if you are not in the room.
“He will. Or he might…” both men turn to you. “Or he might see if she is still intact.”
“I’ll fucking pay him myself.” You say with clenched teeth, fists shaking beside you that your nails leave crescent moons on your palms. Tears form unwillingly in your eyes before you can’t help it anymore, storming away from the hall.
Your name falls from Daeron’s lips, his familiar footsteps following closely behind.
“Fuck off, Daeron! I did not agree to this!” Stomping away, you beeline towards the shared chambers, planning to lock the doors behind you.
“I have no choice!”
“Yes, you do! You could just stop listening to your dreams and be a fucking man—” Turning a corner, you collide with two princesses. “Rhae, Daella…” Holding onto Daella’s shoulders, the girls look at you with concern.
“What is going on?” The older princess asks, she has the same look on her face on the day you told her what happened at the tourney, why her father stayed in King’s Landing alone, why her letters were left unanswered.
“I—”
“My love—” Daeron catches up to you, panting as sweat clings to his forehead. His eyes widen at the sight of his little sisters.
“What is happening, Daeron?” The princess commands him, anger and confusion marring her face.
Rhae tugs at your skirt, brows furrowed as she frowns. “Are we still writing the letters for Egg?”
You take a deep breath, calming yourself despite the rage running through your veins. “Yes, of course we will. Come, we shall use my sigil so that Egg will know it’s from us.” Taking her hand, you lead her away into your chamber, “Daella, come write with us.” You call for her over your shoulder as she glares daggers at her brother. “Aegon will be glad to hear from you too.” You act brave for them.
“Coming.” Daella chooses you, holding onto your sleeve as the three of you leave Daeron standing in the middle of the corridor.
—
You have moved to another chamber, separate from Daeron whilst you wait for the High Septon’s representative. You have written to your family back at the Eyrie, explaining the situation, your brothers and mother are glad for it when they opposed the union. Whilst your father’s letter sits untouched on the vanity.
News has spread all over the realm, and it has reached Storm’s End when Lyonel sent word to you. They weren’t words asking of your well-being nor asking if you are free to take another husband when the petition is approved. It’s just one sentence, and a bag of coin wrapped in Baratheon yellow velvet. He wrote, ‘For the perverted septon.’ Frankly it made you chuckle to yourself, almost forgetting that your own husband has forsaken you.
You’re awfully conflicted, two halves cleaved open. One wants to stay married to Daeron and fulfill your duty that you have sworn in front of the seven. The other is happy for what happened, that you can finally be free of the title of princess, be free of this gilded cage brought on by your own father’s decisions. Be free to marry who you please like how it’s supposed to be. If only you could be in two places at once, one that will bring you honour to your name, while the other is free to live life as you want to, to marry Lyonel if he will still have you. If not, you always wanted to see the lands beyond the Narrow Sea.
The door rasps in the familiar rhythm that you and Juniper established in case Daeron tries to talk to you when you have been ignoring him for days.
“Enter.” You exclaim, wiping the tears in your eyes that threatened to spill as you look at the looking glass.
Through the mirror, the door opens, and Daeron slithers inside, closing the door shut before you could protest.
“What are you doing here?” Standing up, you keep space between you and him. “I do not want to speak to you.”
“Unfortunately, we are still married.” He chuckles without humour, hands tucked to his sides. He looks awful, as if he found himself in the wine cellars and emptied its contents. “So I still have the right to speak to you.”
“Oh, fuck you, Daeron.”
“Can you please just listen—”
“There is naught to talk about when you have made it perfectly clear that you wish to not be married to me anymore.” You throw a pillow at him and he lets it land on his chest with a thump. “Leave my chambers before I call Andros.”
“You and I both know that you can cut me as well as your knight could.” Taking a step forward, his hands are in front of him, gravitating towards you. “Just listen to me, the septon has arrived, he is devouring our supper as we speak, and when he is done he will come visit you—”
“I have the coin to pay him.” You gesture towards the vanity where the blaringly Baratheon yellow pouch sits. “You needn’t worry, he shall not see me like that.”
“I have the means to—” shaking his head, he takes a step back. “I already paid him off.”
“Now why would you do that, Daeron?” Your voice softens.
“Because I needed to convince him that I do not love you.” Sighing, his eyes shines underneath the sunlight through the windows. “It worked, you just need to tell him that I have not touched you and he will leave us alone and the petition will be approved once the High Septon sees it. My father is writing the petition now under his own name. Mayhaps the only good thing he has ever done for my own benefit.”
“It’s a lie, Daeron…”
“I know.”
“What of your sisters?” You cross the small distance, a hand upon his clammy cheek as he leans against your warmth. “What of you?”
“We w–will be fine.” His tone breaks in the middle. “Mayhaps you could take them to ward with you in Storm’s End, take them far away from this cursed family.”
“You sound so certain that I will end up there.”
“I saw you once, during the tourney at the Baratheon tent.” He licks his dry lips, eyes looking right into your own. “I wanted to sneak in for a drink when I heard they had better wine, I saw you dancing, carefree, happy. I saw how you looked at him, and how he looked at you. That’s how I know.”
“This will ruin you further.” A tear escapes from your eye. “We were happy once, Daeron.”
“I know,” he kneels before you, hugging you tightly, his face pressed against your stomach, as if he is an acolyte praying to his goddess. “If I could just prevent one catastrophe I would be saved for it. You would be too.” He looks up at you with shining eyes. “Don’t you want to be happy?”
“I do. But there has to be another way.” You cradle his face. “Your dreams—”
“It will come true. I know it will.” He mutters above your skirt, holding you in his arms, a hand on the small of your back, the other gripping at the silk, keeping you rooted in place as if you are about to fade away. “You have been taking care of me when that should’ve been my duty to you. I can’t give you the life you deserve. My name will be your end, my house will be your doom, and you have more to live for than be shackled to me. This is for your own good. It’s either this or my own death. And I’d rather not die, not yet.”
“Daeron…”
“Do me one last favour, my love.” Leaning away, he gazes up at you with reverence, hands upon your hips as his neck tilts back. Your hands are in his hair, keeping him from falling. “Go send a raven to Lyonel, tell him of our annulment. Ask him if he could marry you before the vultures come and descend upon you. I do not care if this ruins me further, but I do not want this to ruin you.” Your thumb gently wipes away the tear on his cheek, as he savours your warmth, how you feel against him because it’ll be his last.
“I–I have loved you, you know.” Your tone cracks at the edges, looking at him like you are about to lose him.
“I know.” His forehead leans atop your stomach, eyes closed, nose right on your skirt, inhaling you in as he etches the moment in his mind.
“Do me a favour, husband, one last thing before we are no longer wed.” Your hands find the back of his neck, holding him close, muttering a small prayer to the mother to protect him.
“Tell me.”
“Stop letting your dreams haunt you.”
Daeron knows that he cannot promise that, but he will promise to ease your mind, so you could start anew without ever worrying about him when he knows what you’re asking is impossible.
“I promise.”
—
The moment the annulment was finalized, you were shipped off back to the Eyrie with Ser Andros and Juniper as your escort. Saying goodbye to Summerhall was bitter sweet, you wanted an out too, but you cared far too much for Daeron to leave. Mayhaps this is what the gods planned for you, even if it still hurts.
You had to leave the girls behind too, you cried then, let the tears fall as you embraced them in your arms as if they were your own. You promised them both that they can visit you, or perhaps take them both as wards when the time comes.
Daeron couldn’t look you in the eyes when you said your goodbyes to him, as if a simple glance in your direction would cause him to fall to his knees and ask for you to stay. He’s guilty, and he regrets his decision, and so he would forever more as the carriage rides away from Summerhall, leaving him behind.
As promised to Daeron in hopes that he will keep his, you have sent word to Lyonel about your status, withdrawing the fact that you want to marry him when it still feels callous and a betrayal, but you haven’t heard anything from him. Your heart is already broken to pieces, and that worsens the persistent ache in your chest.
You fear that you will forever be alone.
Juniper hasn’t said a word through the whole ride, she is embroidering you a new cloak, eyes glancing at you every now and then. “Something new to mark a new life.” She had said, to which you just grunted a reply.
“Marriage petitions are flooding the Eyrie.” She finally says, cutting through the silence as she inserts the needle into the fabric. “Or that’s what your mother says in her letter.”
“My mother exaggerates.” The carriage wobbles on the uneven road. “Has there been any word from my father?”
Her lips clamps shut, “I’m sorry, m’lady, there hasn’t been one.”
“I just hope he’s not inciting a rebellion for the slight house Targaryen did.”
She scoffs, “knowing your father, he would march to King Daeron himself. Or he might’ve already—”
“Halt, who goes there!” Andros exclaims outside as the carriage stops on the bumpy road abruptly, you and Juniper lurch inside from the sudden stop. There is an unmistakable sound of swords unsheathing, and your heart beat picks up, a hand immediately flying to the dagger at your hip.
“I heard of a tale that the Lady Arryn would ride along this road.” A familiar voice says, one that you haven’t heard of in a year, one you have only dreamed of, one that you could tell is smiling right now.
“Lord Baratheon, I’m afraid that I must ask you to move your men—”
“Lyonel?” You poke your head out of the carriage window, a smile breaking onto your face like dawn as the wind kisses your cheeks.
The Laughing Storm billows out a loud guffaw the moment he hears you call his name out.
There, right in the middle of the road, is Lyonel Baratheon himself. His grin widens from the sight of you, he’s dressed in his Baratheon garb, drenched in yellow gold, but his smile is the best part of him as he practically runs over to the side of the carriage. His men remains on the road, carrying his banners, and watching the interaction unfold with knowing grins.
“My doe…” he’s already opening the door, hands upon your waist as he hoists you up and out of the carriage.
You can’t help the smile on your face from appearing when his happiness is contagious. “My Lord Lyonel.” Hands still on his shoulders, the rest of the world melts away. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” Leaning to the side, he shows you a campsite in Baratheon heraldry, his banners fly overhead, and it seems as though he and his men have been waiting here for days. “Obviously.”
“You are mad. You rode all the way here for me?” A laugh settles in your throat, an easy laugh that you haven’t let out in months. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few days. And yes, I did.” He shrugs.
“Four days of waiting and five days of riding to get here, m’lady!” Someone from his side yells out, followed by a cackle of laughter.
“What possessed you into waiting that long?” Giggling, your hands thump softly against his chest.
“Love,” Lyonel makes the face, the scrunched look, the shrug that makes you laugh even more. “And a recently annulled maiden looking for a new husband.”
“Who said that I’m already looking for one?” You ask with a raised brow. “I didn’t specify that in my letter.”
“I did.” Juniper pipes up from the carriage, unbothered as she didn’t even raise her head from her embroidery. “I’m making your maiden cloak as we speak.”
You laugh, a warmth spreading from your chest. Craning your neck to look at Lyonel, you see him gaze at you in the affectionate lovingly way Daeron told you about. Something in you shifts, as if fate is correcting the path that you are on.
“You still have to court me, you know.” Hands sliding from his broad shoulders to his jaw, your thumbs rub along his salt and pepper beard, feeling how warm he is, how his breath hitches in his throat from your touch alone.
“Easy, I’ll have your favorite flowers and sweets prepared for you. Seven hells, I’ll even write poetry for you.”
“You have to ask my mother and brothers for my hand.”
“They’ll like me, everyone likes me.”
“And I have to say yes to you.”
Lyonel’s smile turns tender, forehead resting above your own as he takes a deep breath, as if he has been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for this reunion right in the middle of a field with wild flowers. His earring catches the light, and his hands cradles your face daintily, as if he is dreaming, and afraid that you’ll turn to dust in front of him if he holds onto you tighter.
“I will wait forever for you.”
“It seems that you already have, my stag.” Nuzzling his nose, you embrace him, head placed right in the crook of his neck, his curls brushing atop your head, letting his warmth and stormy scent cradle you.
I left a comment on your headcanon about the sensitive reader and how the men of AKOTSK would react to hurting her or making her cry. Sometimes I hate how easily I get overwhelmed during confrontations—I try to hold back the tears, but my eyes start watering, I get shaky, and my mind just goes blank (and unfortunately, when that happens, I end up feeling weak and pathetic!).
So I wondered: how would they react if the sensitive reader were being insulted, humiliated, disrespected, and verbally berated, and simply froze, going quiet and visibly overwhelmed, too nervous to defend herself or even find the words to respond?
Same here I get emotional very easily, and I absolutely cannot stand confrontation I literally get so uncomfortable! Thank you so much for this request though I hope that it’s what you wanted and that you enjoyed it! Don’t forget to leave comments and hit that reblog button, it would be greatly appreciated, and it’s always encouraged! My inbox is always open and available so please fill it, and I’ll get to everybody when I can💌 My tag list is always open as well so don’t hesitate to ask. Thanks everyone again so much love you all! Happy reading🌻💛 master list
Tag list for AKOTSK: @darylandbethfanforever9
Aerion:
All it took was a simple stare at whoever dared to insult you right in front of him. Clenching his jaw so tightly you thought it would crack a tooth.
He didn't need to say words to the unlucky person, all he had to do was glare in their direction and they would cower in fear. Nobody wanted to face the wrath of him what so ever.
A part of you felt bad that he caused so much terror, but you also loved how quickly he would come to your defense, and never let anyone insult you like that.
"I will cut the tongue out of whoever insults my love like that again."
Baelor:
He would quickly turn to the person and demand that they apologize for their hurtful and disrespectful words. There was zero tolerance for that kind of behavior towards you.
He never raised his voice or threatened anyone. All he would say is 'apologize', and when they did he would gather you in his arms and kiss the top of your head.
It meant so much to have someone like him to come to your defense. Knowing you would never speak up for yourself, and you had him to do that.
"My flame, I will always come to your defense, and make sure nobody humiliates you."
Daeron:
He absolutely loathed if anyone ever berated you in front of him. Quickly raising his voice and lecturing the person for their spiteful words.
Sometimes getting in their face and screaming for them to take back their words. Even threatening for them to be executed, and you quickly changing his mind not wanting anyone to die.
It didn't take much for him to become angry if someone used hurtful words, but once he had you in his arms he would calm down and just hold you.
"Nobody will ever disrespect you as long as I live my darling I promise you."
Duncan:
The moment he saw you freeze after being insulted, he would quickly step in and stand in front of whoever made the stupid decision to make you upset.
He usually wasn't the type of person to incite a confrontation, but when it came to you he didn't hesitate to come to your defense.
Everyone realized very quickly that you were the last person to ever offend or disrespect. You were just thankful you had somebody like him to speak for you when you couldn't."
"The whole kingdom will know if they hurt you in any way they will have to deal with me first."
Lyonel:
He would laugh at first causing confusion, and then he would step up right in front of their face with a stern look. To him it was more fun to mess with them like that.
He never raised his voice he just liked intimidating with silence. That was even worse than screaming and cursing.
A part of you felt embarrassed with what he did, but then you found it a major turn on, and quickly gave him a reward for standing up for your honor.
"Everyone will learn that you are not to be disrespected like that ever again."
Maekar:
He was silent making a grunting noise silencing whoever insulted you. He never had to use words or anything, everyone already feared him anyway.
At first you were upset he didn't say anything to defend you, but then one day you caught him in the hall holding the person by the collar, face all red and his entire body language was pure anger.
He really wanted you to stand up for yourself, but at the same time he knew he had to come to your defense. He couldn't let anyone think they could ever humiliate you like that.
"The last thing they'll ever see on this earth is my smiling face as I remove their head from their body."
Valarr:
He didn't take it lightly at all if anyone ever verbally attacked you. Pounding his hand on the table and telling so loud everyone in the room stopped.
Demanding they apologize for what they said or they would be thrown into the dungeon for the rest of their life. Grabbing your hand and kissing it letting them and you know he wouldn't tolerate that.
If anyone did say anything to you it was respectful and courteous from then on, if they would say anything at all.
"I will always come to your defense until my last breath no matter what my love."
݈݇—Pairings: Ser Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess!Reader.
݈݇—Themes/Warning: This is a love story with a tragic ending. Smut [18+]: wedding night, first time, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected pnv (wrap it up!), missionary, cowgirl/riding, manhandling, pinning, dirty talk, body worship, size kink? creampie, gwayne you hungry man, intimate/passionate sex with feelings. Chapter contains characters struggling to conceive. Courtly romance. Strangers to lovers to forced-enemies. S1–S3 HOTD canon divergence. Inspired by "DAYLIGHT" by Taylor Swift & "PROVIDER" by Sleep Token.
Masterlist - Part Three
Author’s Note: Say goodbye to the last happy chapter, because it's a downward spiral after this. I am so sorry.....kind of.
The Great Sept of Baelor was filled with light.
Sunlight poured through the high crystal windows in long golden shafts, catching on incense smoke and the pale stone of the pillars until the air itself seemed to shimmer. The court stood in hushed ranks but the sound of them felt distant, as though the world had drawn back to give the two of you this one unbroken moment.
You stood at the centre of it all, heart beating hard against the bodice of your gown.
Gwayne stood opposite you.
He was dressed in deep Hightower green, the fabric rich and severe against the strong lines of his frame. His auburn hair had been neatly combed, though a single stubborn strand had already fallen across his brow. And his clear blue eyes had not left yours since the moment you stepped into the sept.
The septon’s voice rose, solemn and clear, carrying easily through the vast space.
“…the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Stranger… keep them until their final days.”
You barely heard the words. Gwayne’s gaze held you captive, and everything else fell away.
“Join hands.”
Gwayne stepped forward and took your hands in his. The septon bound a length of ribbon loosely around your joined hands.
“Then by the grace of the Seven, I declare you Gwayne of House Hightower and you, princess of House Targaryen, as one. Both of you may speak the words.”
Gwayne’s voice came first, meant for you alone even as the entire court listened. “I am yours… and you are mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
You repeated the vow, your own voice softer and slightly trembling. The words felt heavier than any oath you had ever sworn—final, irreversible, and somehow still not enough.
“You may seal this union with a kiss.”
Gwayne smiled as stepped closer, one hand still bound to yours, the other rising to cradle the side of your face with infinite care. His thumb traced the bottom of your lips before he leaned down and claimed it.
You felt the world narrow to the soft press of his lips, the gentle tug of the binding ribbon, the shared breath between you. He brushed his lips across yours in a slow, gentle, sweet little kiss that you nevertheless felt all the way to your toes. The tenderness of it undid you more thoroughly than any desperate hunger ever could. You parted your lips for more, already reaching for the deeper claim you knew he could give, but he withdrew.
His mouth curved into a sly, almost boyish smile that did not belong on the face of so restrained a knight. He pressed a lighter kiss to your cheek, then leaned close enough that his breath stirred the fine hair at your temple.
“That is quite enough for now, princess,” he murmured, warm with private amusement. “There are far too many eyes upon us, and I would rather not give the entire court cause to gossip about how thoroughly I intend to keep you.”
Heat bloomed across your skin at the promise in his words. Outside the sept the bells began to ring, bright and joyous, carrying the news of the union across the city. Inside, the court erupted into polite applause.
None of it truly reached you because There was only Gwayne Hightower, your husband.
× × × ×
The feast had been loud with music and laughter and the clink of cups raised in your honor. Yet when the traditional calls for the bedding began to rise, you and Gwayne were drawn apart by smiling, insistent hands. The ladies of the court swept you away down quieter corridors, their voices soft with knowing amusement, while the men led your husband in the opposite direction.
In the privacy of the bridal chamber, they bathed you in water steeped with rose and lemon balm and the faint, clean scent of lavender. The heated water loosened the last of the day’s tension from your shoulders. They dried your skin with soft linen, then drew a nightgown of fine white silk over your head. A matching robe followed, light enough that it did little to conceal the shape of you beneath. Finally they unpinned and unbound your hair, letting the long silver strands fall free down your back in a soft cascade.
When they were finished, they left you alone.
The heavy door closed with finality. The chamber was warm from the fire burning in the hearth, the great canopied bed already turned down, the air still carrying the faint perfume of the floral water. You stood in the center of the room and took a deep breath, then another, trying to ease the tight coil of nerves in your chest.
Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.Any moment now the door would open again. And this time it would be Gwayne who enters.
You pressed a hand lightly against your sternum, as if you could calm the frantic rhythm by touch alone. The waiting stretched, making every sound beyond the door seem amplified—the distant music from the feast, the soft tread of a servant somewhere down the corridor, the crackle of the fire. You closed your eyes and exhaled once more, trying to calm yourself.
Then, behind you, the door opene...and closed.
You suddenly felt like you could not move. You could sense him without turning—his presence filling the space. The air itself felt different now that he was in it. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Slowly, gathering every scrap of courage you possessed, you turned.
Gwayne stood just by the door.
Gone were the rich velvets and ceremonial cloak he had worn before the court. He had changed into a simple white chemise, its plainness doing nothing to lessen him. If anything, it made him seem more himself. His auburn hair, still faintly damp from his bath, had escaped its careful order.
He looked at you as though he had forgotten the world could contain anything else. Wonder softened every line of his face. “...My wife.”
He began to cross the chamber slowly. Never once did his gaze leave you. It drifted from the silver of your unbound hair, to the silk that shimmered softly in the candlelight, to your trembling hands folded before you, before climbing once more to meet your eyes. He came to a stop only when one step remained between you.
“You look..." His voice failed him.
A soft, incredulous laugh escaped his lips as he searched your face again. His eyes shone with such open admiration that your own heart threatened to surrender entirely.
“You are breathtaking.”
Your gaze dropped, suddenly finding the embroidered hem of your sleeve vastly more interesting than meeting his eyes.
“You should not say such things,” you murmured, a timid smile tugged at your lips. “...oe else I shall forget how to answer.”
His smile deepened. “I fear I have already forgotten how to breathe.”
You dared another glance upward. It proved a mistake. He was still looking at you with that same impossible tenderness.
Your throat tightened.
“You…” You swallowed, gathering what little courage remained to you. “You look exceedingly handsome yourself, Ser.”
The old title slipped free before you could catch it. His brows lifted in amusement. “Ser?”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “...Old habits are stubborn.”
“I should hope my wife finds them easy enough to break.”
You smiled despite yourself. “And what should I call you instead?”
He considered the question with all the gravity of a knight weighing matters of state. “Husband has a certain appeal.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Does it?”
“Very much so.”
His gaze wandered over your face. It lingered upon your eyes, traced the curve of your cheek, caught upon the smile you were trying so valiantly to hide.
“Though…” he said thoughtfully, “I confess I should not object to my love.”
You laughed, unable to stop yourself. “You ask for much, Ser.”
“Husband.”
“Husband,” you corrected, the word feeling strange and wonderful on your tongue.
“There,” he murmured, sounding pleased. “Already an improvement.”
Silence settled between you once more.
“And what,” you whispered, “shall I call you when you vex me?”
His smile turned boyish. “Gwayne, I suspect—only then, though. The rest of the time... I should very much like to remain your husband.”
Gwayne reached down and tilted your chin up until your eyes met. His lips quirked as he smoothed the wet strands from your face, gaze dark with something soft and hungry all at once.
“Do you trust me?” he whispered.
“Of course I do.” The words were barely breath. “I trust you.”
Your arms rose of their own accord, sliding around his neck. He lowered his head and your mouths met, moulding together without restraint. Slow at first, savouring, teasing with the lightest graze of teeth before sinking into a deep, luxurious rhythm that pulled the strength from your knees.
You broke apart only long enough to drag in air, foreheads still touching, before he claimed your mouth once more. His hand left the nape of your neck and traced a slow path down your body; cupping the soft weight of your breast, then rounding lower to settle firmly over the curve of your rear, pulling you flush against him.
Then, without warning, he lifted you clean off your feet.
Strong arms locked around your waist, his mouth never parting yours as he carried you the short distance to the bed. He sat heavily, drawing you down so you straddled his lap, your hands already buried in the thick auburn of his hair. Loose strands of your own hair spilled around him, and you felt the curve of his smile against your mouth.
There was a decadence in it that stole the breath from your lungs. To cup the hard line of his jaw. To lower yourself to his waiting lips. To feel him answer without hesitation, a low, rough sound of pure pleasure vibrating through his chest as you teased his mouth open and slid your tongue against his in one long, sensual stroke.
He surprised you then.
One moment you were astride him—the next he had fallen backward and turned, settling you beneath him with sudden, focused urgency. He moved you both farther up the bed and braced his weight carefully, hips settling between yours. One hand came up to stroke the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he gazed down at you with eyes gone dark and heated.
You lay beneath him in pure wonder, hands finding the hem of his shirt and slipping beneath the fabric. You ran your palms slowly up the taut planes of his chest, pushing the linen higher until he reached back, pulled the shirt over his head, and cast it aside. The lean, muscled expanse of him was hot and solid beneath your fingers. His muscles tensed at your touch, the hard lines of his stomach contracting as your hands moved over him.
You had wanted this a hundred times in secret. Now the hour was finally here. You lifted your head, chasing his mouth, hungry for another kiss. Only for him to turn his head and his lips found your neck instead.
“You thought I was going for your lips, did you not?” he smiled against your skin as he settled his hips between your spread thighs.
He rolled forward, letting you feel the hard ridge through his still-laced breeches. The pressure dragged against your sex and pulled a soft, startled sound from your throat. He did it again, grinding against you just enough to make the heat between your legs throb, and chuckled directly into your ear.
“You know this place here?” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, then another, lower. “It runs straight down to every place that aches for me.”
Your breath hitched hard, eyes fluttering closed.
Gwayne licked a slow, wet path up the side of your throat until he reached the sensitive skin just beneath your earlobe. He closed his teeth there gently, then soothed the bite with his tongue.
“I was told,” he murmured, voice rough with heat, “that a woman’s mouth is tied to her mind. It makes her think.”
His hand slid down the centre of your torso, palm open, fingers trailing between your breasts, over your stomach, dragging your nightgown up and gathering it to your waist, stopping just short of where you ached for him.
“But her neck…” He kissed the hinge of your jaw, then the soft place beneath it. “Her neck is connected to all the right places.”
His lips brushed across your jaw and trailed a slow line of hot, open-mouthed kisses up to your ear. He curved one arm over your head and held you gently in place, looming above you, and drew your neck into his mouth, the pleasure was so sharp you thought you might come from that alone. Soft groans escaped him, and between your legs you felt the answering surges of his body, proof that he was drowning in the same tide.
Heavy-lidded, almost drunk with desire, he slid his hands beneath the hem of the nightgown and guided the fabric slowly upward. You curled and lifted your arms so he could draw it over your head and dropped it on the floor.
He settled over you, kissing his way down the side of your neck to your collarbone, then lower still to the soft tops of your breasts. You arched into him, seeking more of the liquid fire of his mouth moving across your skin.
“Gods, princess,” he breathed, gazing down the length of you. His hand skimmed over your side with aching gentleness, dipping into the curve of your waist and over the soft swell of your hip. “So beautiful.”
He moved lower, between your legs, and then his warm palms slid along the insides of your thighs and opened them, spreading you wide before him. You felt exposed in a way you never had before. A flush of shyness rose hot in your cheeks. No one had ever looked at you there. The thought made your thighs try to close on instinct.
Gwayne felt the tension and stilled.
“No one has ever…” you whispered, voice unsteady.
Gwayne looked up the length of your body, eyes nearly black. He turned his head and pressed a slow kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh, then another, trying to calm the nerves he could see in you.
“I know,” he murmured against your skin. He dragged his lips higher, so close that you felt the heat of his breath against your most intimate place. He stayed there a moment longer, simply breathing you in.
“You are lovely,” he continued quietly. “Every part of you. There is nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing I do not already want.” His thumbs stroked slow circles against the soft skin of your thighs. “We both have waited a long time to be allowed this. Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel how good it can be.”
Only when the tension in your thighs eased a fraction did he hook his arms under your legs, open you further, and lower his mouth to your core. The first stroke of his tongue dragged a gasping moan from your throat. He licked through your folds with solid pressure, tasting you, learning you. Then he found the small, aching nub at the top of you and sealed his mouth over it, sucking gently while his tongue flicked and circled.
Your back arched hard off the bed. “Gwayne—”
He licked and sucked and worked you with a sensuous rhythm, one hand splayed across your lower stomach to hold you in place while the other stroked the soft skin of your inner thigh.
Every pass of his tongue sent fresh sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. When he pressed the flat of it firmly against you and dragged upward, your thighs trembled around his head. When he suckled that sensitive bud between his lips, your hands flew to his hair, fingers tightening without thought.
He groaned against you at the contact, the vibration of it making your hips jerk. His sound was filthy and satisfied; the taste of you was something he had been starving for. He ate you like a man who had every intention of staying between your thighs until you came apart for him.
You gasped and whimpered. The wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the chamber. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter at your center, unfamiliar and almost frightening in its intensity. You had never felt anything like this. Never imagined a man’s mouth could feel so hot, so skilled, so utterlt focused on your pleasure alone.
Gwayne shifted slightly, and then two thick fingers stroked through your soaked folds before pressing carefully inside you. The stretch made you cry out. He curled them at once, rubbing against a place deep inside that made your eyes roll, all while his tongue continued its ruthless attention on that swollen, aching clit.
“Fuck—” The pained-sounding curse left you before you barely recognized it as your own.
He answered by sucking harder and suddenly that pressure became too much. Your body began to writhe in pleasure beneath him, thighs trembling violently around his head. That was when instinct took over and you tried to twist away from the overwhelming intensity, hips jerking in an attempt to escape.
Gwayne’s arm clamped down across hips.
“Where do you think you are going, huh Princess?” he growled against you, voice dark and rough. He dragged you straight back against his mouth. “Be still and let it take you. Come for me.”
He moved with every desperate shift of your hips, never allowing you even an inch of escape. You arched hard, then curled forward, soft whimpers spilling from your lips as the pleasure mounted higher and higher. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers sinking deep into the auburn strands, holding on as your legs began to shake uncontrollably.
Gwayne made a low, approving sound and pushed you back down. He flattened both palms against the backs of your thighs and spread you even wider, opening you completely to him. Then he bent fully over you and lavished your clit with the soft, silken heat of his tongue until the tension finally snapped.
A high pitch cry of pure ecstasy tore from your throat as the spasms ripped through you. Your body curled up toward him, trembling and clenching around his fingers, every muscle seizing with the force of it. Wave after wave crashed over you until you could do nothing but shake and gasp and take it.
When it finally began to ebb, you fell back against the sheets, completely breathless. Soft shivers still ran through you as Gwayne pressed gentle kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and slowly drew his mouth away.
You barely knew yourself at that moment. You could barely think. Your body tingled with a strange, glowing lightness, as though every bone had turned to honey.
Gwayne rose and stretched out beside you. His mouth still shone with you. He ran his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, tasting what he had just taken, and the sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through your spent body. You shook off the haze enough to sit up and kiss him.
He took your wrist and guided your hand down between your bodies. Your palm met the straining bulge still trapped behind his trousers. He was hard enough that the heat of him bled through the fabric. When your fingers closed around the shape of him, his hips gave an involuntary roll into your hand, a rough breath leaving him.
You fumbled at the laces with clumsy, trembling fingers. He was there in an instant, covering your hands with his own, guiding them with infinite care. Together you shoved the fabric down until he sprang free, thick and aching only for you. You wrapped your hand around him the way he had shown you, stroking slowly from root to tip. His expression tightened at once along with a soft groan catching in his throat every time you squeezed on the upward stroke. Each noise he made went straight to your core. You clenched around emptiness, your insides aching for something more.
You loved the weight of him in your palm; heavy, hot, and so perfectly proportioned it made your fingers look delicate by comparison. He might not have stood as tall as some of the other men at court, but this… this was something else entirely. You stroked him again, savouring the way he throbbed against your hand, the way the flushed head grew even darker when you tightened your grip just beneath it. A second, rougher groan spilled from him, and you felt a wicked little thrill that only made you stroke him firmer, savouring the way he filled your hand so completely.
“I want it inside me,” you whispered. “Now.”
Gwayne’s eyes opened, dark and glassy. He obeyed without hesitation. He moved over you, settling between your spread thighs, the head of him nudging against your soaked folds. He braced himself on one forearm and looked down at you as if the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist.
“If you want me to stop,” he said, voice rough with restraint, “you tell me to stop. I mean it.”
“I will, but I won’t.” You shook your head, hands already sliding up the warm muscle of his back. “We have been waiting for this. I want you.”
A low, warm chuckle left him. The look he gave you then was pure love wrapped in hunger. He rocked his hips, sliding the thick head of his cock up and down through your slickness, coating himself in you and then his mouth found yours, open and searching, drinking the soft sound that left you.
“I am going to push just the tip,” he murmured against your lips.
He pressed forward.
You felt yourself open around him with aching resistance, your body trying to keep him out even as it yearned for him. The stretch burned in the most intimate way. Gwayne’s breath left him in a tight, controlled sound as he worked himself deeper by careful degrees. Your walls clung to him, tight and unwilling to yield easily. You dug your nails into the muscle of his back and he didn’t even flinch; he only pressed a soft kiss to your temple in an attempt to comfort you.
He stopped halfway.
You lifted your head and looked down between your bodies. Half of his cock had disappeared inside you, the rest of him still thick and glistening outside. The sight was almost unreal.
Gwayne had his bottom lip caught between his teeth, breathing hard through his nose, eyes never leaving yours.
“I am going to need to push,” he said, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “It is going to hurt.”
“I know, I can take it.” you whispered.
Gwayne drew back slightly, then thrust forward, his hardness faltering before he seated himself to the hilt.
A groan tore from his chest at the same moment a sharp wince left yours. The sudden fullness stole your breath. He was so deep it felt as though he had rearranged something inside you, claimed a place that had always been waiting for him alone. The stretch burned and was overwhelming, but beneath it bloomed a thick, primitive satisfaction that made your toes curl. And the knowledge that it was Gwayne inside you made the burn almost sweet.
Gwayne stayed completely still, his forehead dropped to yours, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. Your insides fluttered around him, trying to adjust to him. You simply lay there, joined, trembling, breathing the same air, while your body slowly began to accept the hard, pulsing length of your husband buried deep inside you.
“Do you… want to move?” you asked tentatively, nails tracing lightly down the plane of his back.
Gwayne replied with a breathless, strained laugh against your mouth. “It has barely been a minute, and already you are trying to undo me.”
You turned your head just enough to speak against his jaw. “You know patience has never been one of my virtues.”
Another low chuckle rumbled through him, thick with emotion. He lifted his head enough to look down at you, eyes shining. “As you wish, my princess.”
He drew his hips back, the thick drag of him making your breath catch, then thrust forward again all the way. The stretch still ached, sore and new, but the pleasure began to rise slowly underneath it. You felt every inch of how hard he was, the heavy girth of him breaking you in, the faint ridge of veins sliding against your inner walls. His mouth crashed onto yours, drinking the soft sounds right from your tongue; swallowing every whimper, every gasp, every broken little cry as if he needed them to live. His tongue stroking against yours in the same rhythm as his hips.
Gwayne hooked one arm beneath your knee and wrapped your leg around his waist, then the other, locking you open for him. The new angle made him sink even deeper. A broken moan tore from your throat and he swallowed it whole again, biting gently at your lower lip before soothing the sting with his tongue.
Then he gathered both of your hands with his hands and pinned them above your head, holding you there as he began to move in earnest. Long, measured strokes that dragged over every sensitive inch inside you, each one slower and deeper than the last. Every time he bottomed out he stayed there a beat longer, grinding against that perfect spot until your back arched and soft, helpless sounds spilled from your lips straight into his.
“Gods, look at you…,” he rasped against your throat. His hips snapped forward harder to test, still careful even in his hunger.
He couldn’t keep his mouth off of you.
When he wasn’t devouring your mouth he was attacking your neck, open-mouthed and desperate; sucking, biting, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin just beneath your ear while his hips rolled and thrust and claimed. The wet, filthy sound of your body taking him filled the room between your shared moans. His free hand slid under your lower back, lifting you into every stroke so he could bury himself impossibly deeper.
You could only moan in answer, wrists still pinned, legs locked around his waist as he fucked you with a rhythm that was growing wilder by the second. This pleasure was different from what his mouth had given you—this was rooted deep where he kept striking that spot inside you, and every time he did he whispered your name against your skin.
Gwayne’s rhythm suddenly faltered. A rough, pained growl tore from him as he forced himself to stop. He pulled out of you with a wet drag that made both of you gasp, his cock heavy and glistening between your bodies. He was breathing hard, jaw clenched, clearly close… yet still he reached for you with infinite care.
“Not yet,” he rasped, breathing hard. “I need to feel you come first. I need to see it.”
He sat up against the headboard and reached for you. Strong hands guided you over his lap until you straddled him. His cock stood thick and glistening between you, flushed dark from use.
“Take your pleasure from me. Let me watch you come apart on what is yours.” he said, voice low and wrecked.
Your arms wrap around his shoulders. You kiss him slow and deep as you sink down, taking him inch by careful inch. The stretch is exquisite. You both moan into each other’s mouths, the sound muffled and shared, vibrating where your lips meet.
You don’t move at first. You simply stay there, joined completely, letting yourself feel the fullness of him inside you again—the heat, the pulse, the way he throbs with every beat of his heart. You look down at him, faces inches apart, breath mingling. Your hands ghost over his features—tracing the arch of his brow, the faint scar that cuts through it, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the soft bow of his mouth. He watches you with awe, eyes glassy and tender.
Gwayne catches your hand gently, bringing it to his lips. He presses open-mouthed kiss to your palm, then to the delicate pulse point of your wrist—lips lingering there, feeling the frantic flutter of your heartbeat against his mouth. All while keeping that eye contact: raw, unguarded, intimate beyond words.
You slowly rock your hips languidly; circling, grinding, each motion filling the air with the sounds of your shared pleasure: breathy gasps, low groans, the wet slide of skin against skin. His hands roam your back—cradling, caressing, holding you close as he can’t get enough of you.
You lean forward, forehead resting against his, mouths brushing with every roll of your hips. You build the rhythm gradually—deeper, harder, but still unhurried, savoring every second. His hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding you without rushing you, while his other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you again.
He feels like home—like every dream you ever chased, every longing you ever buried, finally answered. Your breath catches, sharp and high, when you drop harder, chasing that perfect friction. Your nails bite crescent moons into the meat of his shoulders; his name leaves you in a broken, trembling whisper.
He answers it with your name.
You’re seated deep, thighs trembling where they bracket his, and every grind drags him against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. His hands are anchored on your waist, fingers splayed wide, not guiding so much as holding on.
You shift your rhythm to less grind, more bounce. His face contorts, head tips back against the headboard with a dull thud. Blue eyes squeeze shut, brows knit, mouth falling open—every line of him pulled tight.
“Slow—fuck—slow down, princess.” he rasps, the words jagged. “I won’t be able to hold it…you—have—”
His moans only feeds more on the fire already licking up your spine. You lean in, breasts brushing his chest, lips grazing the shell of his ear.
“You need not hold it.” you breathed.
A raw and helpless whimper tears out of him. His hands flex on your hips, trying to still you, but you roll deeper instead, clenching tight around him on the upstroke just to hear that sound again.
“Seven hells—fuck—I will not last,” he groans, voice fracturing. “Ugh—you’re going to make me come…if you don’t slow yourself—”
You cut him off with your mouth, swallowing the rest of the warning. You keep grinding your hips faster and hungrier—riding him like you’re trying to fuse your souls together through skin. The pressure inside you coiled, sweet and almost unbearable, every pulse of his cock feeding the fire until you were trembling on the edge with him.
He mutters dirty things into your skin, about how good you feel, how he’s never going to last, making noises he can’t keep at bay and you feel him swell impossibly thicker inside you, pulsing, and then he finishes hard.
A sharp, keening cry left your throat the same moment a groan tore from his chest like his soul was splitting in two. Your walls clamped down hard around him, fluttering and pulsing the pleasure crashed through you, white-hot and endless. His arms snapped around you, crushing you to his chest so tightly you could barely draw breath, face buried in the crook of your neck. He shuddered violently beneath you, and you felt every pulse, every aftershock, the way he spilled and spilled deep inside you while your own climax milked him for every last drop.
Neither of you spoke. You simply stayed locked together while the last little aftershocks fluttered through both of you. His cock twitched softly inside you, the warmth of his release heavy and intimate in your core, and the only sound was the shared rhythm of two hearts trying to remember how to beat alone again.
—
The torches had long since burned out and the chamber was dark save for the faint silver light of the moon spilling through the tall windows. You slept deeply, naked and warm in Gwayne’s arms, your back fitted against his chest, one of his thighs draped over yours. His breathing was slow and even against the back of your neck.
Until a dream came for the first time.
A brief flash of auburn hair. The sudden, terrible bloom of dragonfire. A body consumed by the flames before it blackened and crumpled, the scream cut short as the heat took the rest.
You jolted awake with a sharp gasp, heart slamming against your ribs. Sweat cooled on your skin. Your breath came fast and uneven as the images clung to your mind.
Behind you, Gwayne stirred and he propped himself up on one elbow, blinking against the darkness, voice rough with sleep.
“What is wrong? Are you alright?”
You swallowed hard, still staring into the dark. “I… had a bad dream. That is all.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
You shook your head quickly, “No, I—I don’t want to bring life into it.”
Gwayne sat up properly without another word. Strong arms reached for you and pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. One hand came up to stroke slowly over your hair, the other settling firmly around your waist, holding you close.
× × × ×
In the first months of your marriage, you carried hope the way a woman carries a candle through a storm; cupped close and carefully guarded, its flame small enough that every change in the wind seemed capable of extinguishing it.
At first there was pleasure even in the waiting. You woke each morning beneath the weight of Gwayne’s arm, warm and pleasantly sore from the night before, and sometimes remained there long after waking, listening to his breathing while your thoughts wandered toward possibilities you were almost too superstitious to name.
You imagined a child with his auburn hair and your eyes, then decided that would look absurd and gave the babe his blue eyes instead; you wondered whether Gwayne would be stern with a son and knew at once that he would attempt it for perhaps half a day before being thoroughly conquered; once, while watching him dress, you found yourself wondering whether a daughter might inherit the little crease that appeared beside his mouth when he tried not to smile, and the tenderness of the thought followed you for the rest of the morning.
The maesters encouraged such hopes without quite promising them. They spoke gently of rest, of nourishing foods, of mild tonics to ease the night terrors that still stole your sleep, and of patience above all else, for women did not always conceive at once. You listened to every instruction with greater seriousness than you would later admit, surrendering your wine at supper, shortening your rides upon Vaelys, all because some foolish part of you had begun to believe that motherhood was a thing that might be earned through sufficient obedience.
When your courses came at the end of that first moon, the disappointment surprised you with its sharpness.
One moon was nothing, and you knew it. You were young, newly married, and surrounded by women who had waited far longer before carrying their first child, yet none of that prevented the small hollow that opened beneath your ribs when you saw the blood.
Gwayne found you sitting on the edge of the bed with your spine very straight and your eyes fixed upon the floor, and he needed only one look before understanding.
“Come here,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
You went to him without protest, allowing him to draw you against his chest and press his mouth to your temple.
“It has only been a few months.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You frowned against the linen of his shirt. “I have not suddenly forgotten how the turning of moons works.”
A soft huff of laughter stirred your hair. “Good. I had begun to fear marriage to me had addled you.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched, and Gwayne seemed to consider that victory enough, his hand moving lazily along your back as he murmured, “We have time, love.”
“What if—”
“No.”
You drew back to stare at him. “You do not even know what I meant to say.”
“I know precisely.” His thumb passed beneath your eye, though there were no tears there. “And I will not have you frightening yourself with miseries that have not come to pass.”
“If the gods grant us a child,” he continued when you remained unconvinced, “I shall count myself the most fortunate man in the Seven Kingdoms. If they grant us three, I shall become intolerably proud, and you will be obliged to humble me with that sharp tongue of yours. If they grant us none…” His palm settled against your cheek. “I shall still wake beside the woman who proposed to me before I ever found the courage to ask.”
That made you laugh, and for a while it was enough.
There were many good months after that, which you would remember later with some guilt for how easily grief tried to swallow them whole. Your marriage was happy. Gwayne made you laugh more often than you had expected when you married him, and you discovered that beneath all his courtly manners lived a man with an appalling tendency to steal the warmest side of the bed while insisting, against all available evidence, that you were the one who had pushed him there.
You rode Vaelys whenever the weather permitted, attended feasts you complained about afterward, stole Gwayne from tedious conversations with his father, and learned all the ordinary intimacies of belonging to another person. Some months your courses came and you merely sighed before continuing with your day. Some months Gwayne knew before you told him and said nothing at all, merely reaching for your hand beneath the supper table. Once they came late enough that neither of you dared mention it for three days, until you finally found him shaving one morning and said, far too casually, that perhaps he ought not make plans for the following spring.
The look he gave you through the mirror made your heart leap.
Two days later, you bled.
Neither of you spoke much that evening.
That was how hope changed, not all at once, but by degrees so small you did not recognize what was happening until the anticipation that had once made you smile began instead to frighten you. One year passed, and then another, and the calendar of your marriage quietly divided itself into days when you might be carrying a child and days when you knew that you were not.
Gwayne watched it happen with an unease he rarely put into words. He could comfort disappointment; what he could not seem to bear was the cruelty you began directing toward yourself.
Sometimes he found you angry, pacing your chamber and railing against maesters, gods, women who conceived after one careless night, and occasionally him when he was unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. Sometimes you were perfectly yourself, which frightened him less. On one particularly miserable morning, however, he entered the bedchamber to find you furiously stripping the linen from the mattress before the servants arrived.
He caught the sheet before you could wrench it free.
“Leave it.”
“I can manage a sheet.”
“I have no doubt. You can also command a dragon. Neither means you must.”
You tugged once more, but something in his expression robbed you of the will to continue, and your hands fell away.
You turned before he could see how your face crumples.
Too late.
“Do not,” you whispered when his hands settled upon your arms.
“Do not what?”
“Be kind to me.”
Gwayne stared at the back of your head. “What a monstrous request.”
You gave a wet, unwilling laugh, and he turned you carefully toward him. “Do you think I am disappointed in you?”
You looked away.
His fingers settled beneath your chin and brought your gaze back to his. “Never.”
“You wanted children.”
“With you,” he said. “There is a difference.”
“And I cannot—”
“You do not know that.”
“It has been two years, Gwayne.”
“Two years,” he agreed, with maddening composure. “Not a judgment from the Seven.”
Your lips trembled. “It begins to feel like one.”
For once, Gwayne seemed to have no sensible answer. He pressed his lips together, considered the matter with exaggerated gravity, and finally gave a helpless shrug.
“Then I shall have words with the Seven.”
A laugh escaped you through the tears that had finally begun to spill. “You cannot threaten the gods because your wife is barren.”
His expression changed so quickly that you wished the word back before the last syllable had left your mouth.
“Do not call yourself that.”
You lowered your eyes. “But after two years—”
“Why have you decided the fault must lie with you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“For all we know, I’m the barren one.” He gave a small, impatient shake of his head when you immediately began to protest. “Why not? I am half of this marriage, am I not? Yet every month you bleed, you put yourself upon trial while I am permitted to stand beside you blameless.”
You stared at him. “Gwayne—”
“It may be me.” His hands tightened gently around your arms. “I may be the reason we have no child, and yet I do not see you stripping my worth from me for it.”
Your face crumpled. “I would never.”
“No.” His expression softened. “You would not. So grant my wife the same kindness you would grant her husband.”
You swallowed hard.
“Whatever the reason,” he continued, “it belongs to us both. I will not stand here and watch you make an enemy of yourself because neither of us has an answer. Perhaps the gods are merely taking their damned time. I do not know, and neither do you.”
Gwayne waited until you looked at him again.
“So no more of that word,” he murmured. “Not to me. Not even in jest. I will not have you bear the blame for both of us simply because you are the one expected to carry the child.”
The trouble was that the Red Keep had never been designed for private sorrow. Other people's lives unfolded everywhere around you, loudly and publicly, and children seemed suddenly to be appearing in every chamber but yours. Alicent delivered another son, Aemond, small and fierce and silver-haired, and in time Rhaenyra bore her firstborn as well. You loved them; that was what made it difficult. There was no bitterness when Rhaenyra, pale and exhausted and glowing with pride, placed Jacaerys into your arms with the careless trust of a sister, only an immediate and terrible tenderness for the warm little weight settling against your breast.
His fist closed around your finger.
You smiled down at him.
Across the chamber, Gwayne watched you from beside Laenor, and when the babe was eventually taken away, you remained smiling as you ought, though your arms felt strangely light afterward.
That night, you sat before your mirror removing the pins from your hair one by one. Gwayne came behind you and took the last from your fingers.
“You need not hide it from me.”
Your eyes met his reflection. “Hide what?”
“That you wanted to keep Jacaerys.”
A crooked little smile betrayed you. “Only for a little while.”
You turned on the stool and studied him before asking the question that had been troubling you for months.
“Does it hurt you?”
Gwayne frowned.
“When you hold their children,” you clarified. “Does it hurt?”
He was silent long enough that you knew he had considered lying.
“Yes.”
The answer struck more deeply than you expected, but he was already crouching before you, gathering both your hands into his.
“Because I know how badly you want one, and I would give you one tomorrow if it were within my power, but mostly because every time your courses come, you look at me as though you are waiting for me to discover that I chose poorly.”
His jaw tightened.
“I am growing exceedingly tired of it.”
You stared at him. “You are angry with me?”
“I am furious with you.” There was not a scrap of fury in his voice.
A startled laugh escaped you.
“At least have the decency to look frightened.”
“I am trying.” you shook your head.
“You are doing a wretched job of it.”
Your laughter broke halfway through and became perilously close to a sob, and Gwayne rose without another word, drawing you against him and cradling the back of your head beneath his chin.
“I will keep reminding you until you are sick of the sound of my voice,” he murmured into your hair. “I chose you. Not your womb. I believe it is a matter of time. I can feel it.”
You wanted desperately to believe that love alone could make the matter bearable, and perhaps it might have done, had the disappointment remained solely between husband and wife.
It did not.
Your father meant well, which was perhaps the cruelest part of it. Viserys could not bear a sorrow he believed might be remedied, and the king possessed the unfortunate conviction that every difficulty in the realm would eventually yield if enough learned men were ordered to examine it. Thus the maesters became increasingly involved, first with suggestions, then examinations, then schedules and infusions and powders and careful instructions that made the private workings of your marriage feel less private with every passing moon.
One maester wished to know the precise frequency with which you and Gwayne shared a bed, and Gwayne stared at the unfortunate man with such glacial offense that the poor maester might’ve swallowed his tongue.
Still, you submitted to it.
That was the part Gwayne hated most.
You drank bitter teas that coated your tongue for hours, swallowed powders dissolved into goat's milk, endured questions about your courses and appetite and sleep, and learned to recognize the particular expression maesters wore when they wished to discuss your womb. One remedy upset your stomach for three days; another left you so tired you slept through half an afternoon. You complained about all of them, mocked most of them, and nevertheless drank every last drop because somewhere along the way hope had ceased to be something you carried and become something you serviced, dutifully and anxiously, lest failure to do so prove that you had not wanted a child badly enough.
One afternoon he found you sitting before another steaming cup in your chamber, staring at it with such concentration that the steam had nearly disappeared by the time he entered.
Gwayne slowed as he passed the table, eyeing the cup with immediate suspicion. “What fresh misery is that?”
“Another tonic.”
“Ah…I feared as much.”
“The maester says it may strengthen the womb.”
Gwayne looked at the cup, then at you, and finally toward the heavens as though appealing to whatever god had condemned him to this particular trial.
“Of course he does.”
You reached for it, but Gwayne was quicker. He caught the cup by its handle and lifted it beyond your reach.
“Gwayne.”
He sniffed the contents and recoiled. “Gods. What is in this?”
“I do not know.”
“You do not know?” He looked offended.
“He told me, I simply cannot remember. Some root, I think, and—give it back.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Gwayne.”
“No.” He carried the cup toward the open window.
Your chair scraped sharply against the floor as you stood. “What are you doing?”
“Strengthening the garden. Let us pray the roses will prove fertile.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Gwayne looked over his shoulder at you, then tipped the entire contents out the window. You stared at him. He watched the last dark drops disappear over the sill before inspecting the empty cup with grim satisfaction.
“There. I believe your womb is stronger already.”
Your mouth fell open. “Have you lost your wits!?”
“Quite possibly. Two years of listening to grey-robed men discuss my wife's courses has taken its toll.”
“That was medicine!”
“That was boiled shrubbery.”
You made an outraged sound and marched toward him, but Gwayne merely set the empty cup upon the sill and folded his arms. “The maester said it may help.”
“Yes, and the last one said goat's milk would help, the one before that prescribed a powder which made you ill for three days, and unless my memory fails me entirely, another informed us that you ought to spend less time upon Vaelys because apparently dragons are now responsible.”
“He did not say that.”
“He implied it.”
You sighed heavily.
“I have spent two years nodding politely while men old enough to be my grandsire prescribe you roots, powders, teas, baths, prayers, more sleep, less sleep, more food, less wine, fewer hours upon your dragon and”—his brows rose—“a remarkably precise number of times when to bed my wife.”
Heat rushed into your face. “Gwayne.”
“I have stood aside because you asked me to. I have endured their questions, their examinations, their schedules, their powders, their damned little cups appearing at our table because you believed they might help, and because I would have swallowed every one of them myself if it meant giving you what you wanted.” His jaw tightened. “But I will not watch them make you miserable and call it treatment—No more.”
“And what if it would’ve worked?”
That silenced him.
For several moments he merely looked at you, and when he finally crossed the room there was no argument left in his face. He took your cheeks between his hands, brushing his thumbs beneath your eyes.
“My love,” he said, “look what they've done to you.”
“No one has done anything to me.”
“You are afraid to refuse a cup of boiled weeds.”
Your gaze dropped to his chest.
The fight went out of you so thoroughly that your shoulders sagged. “What else is there, if not medicine?”
Gwayne's hands slipped from your face to yours, his fingers closing around them.
“I have been thinking,” he said. “I want to take you to Oldtown.”
You looked up. “Oldtown?”
“For a time.”
There was something cautious in his expression now, and you knew your husband well enough to recognize what it meant. Gwayne had never stumbled carelessly into decisions; if he was speaking of this now, he had already examined the matter from every direction, considered every objection you might raise, and probably argued against himself twice.
“The court presses you,” he said. “The maesters prod at you. Your father worries, your sister worries because your father worries, and half the ladies in the Red Keep appear to count the days between your courses more faithfully than you do.”
Your mouth tightened.
“There is a manse that belonged to my mother's kin,” he continued quickly, catching your expression, “before you accuse me of exchanging one nest of meddlers for another, I am not.”
“I was about to.”
“I know.”
His thumbs moved over your knuckles.
“We could go there, just us and a few servants. You could ride Vaelys without three people telling you how long you ought to remain in the saddle, eat breakfast without anyone inspecting what is upon your plate, and sleep without wondering whether some maester will appear the following morning with another damned cup in his hands. Perhaps nothing will change. Perhaps everything will. I do not care anymore.”
You searched his face. “You do not?”
“I care about having children with you.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I do not care enough to lose my wife to the pursuit of them.”
For the first time in longer than you could remember, the thought of another month passing did not immediately fill you with dread.
Oldtown.
You imagined waking without the Red Keep beyond your windows, without sympathetic looks, without tonics cooling beside your breakfast, without feeling that every person who looked at your belly was silently asking a question you could not answer.
Something inside you loosened. “Very well.”
For once, Gwayne's composure abandoned him entirely. His arms came around you with enough force to lift you halfway from the floor.
“Yes?”
You laughed against his shoulder, startled by the relief in his voice, and wound your arms around his neck.
“Yes.”
He held you tighter.
You closed your eyes and breathed him in. “Take me to Oldtown.”
× × × ×
Oldtown gave you back to yourself.
Gwayne saw it happening so gradually that he could not have named the day it began, only that somewhere between your arrival and the turning of the first moon, the woman who had come south with him from King’s Landing seemed to loosen from some invisible tether that had bound her for years.
The city was no sleepy country, for Oldtown had been ancient and its streets thronged each day with merchants and septons, sailors and scholars, with wagons rumbling over cobbled lanes and ships crowding the quays beneath the shadow of the Hightower. Bells rang from the Starry Sept, gulls wheeled shrieking above the harbor, as well as the ceaseless groan of masts and rope and timber as vessels sailed in from every corner of the known world.
Yet after King’s Landing, it seemed almost peaceful.
Perhaps it was the sea.
The wind came clean from the Sunset Sea and swept through Oldtown carrying salt rather than smoke, stirring the cypress and apple trees upon the hills and sending pale curtains billowing through open windows. There was no stink of Flea Bottom clinging to the summer heat, no press of the Red Keep around you, no endless clatter of courtiers beyond every door. Even the noise of the city seemed to remain below, softened by distance until the bells and harbor cries became little more than a murmur beneath the wind.
The manse belonged to Gwayne’s mother set high upon a green hill beyond the busiest quarters of the city, where terraces descended through gardens of lavender and rosemary and crooked olive trees toward the road below. From its western balconies, nearly all of Oldtown could be seen unfolding beneath the sun: red-tiled roofs crowded together along its banks, and beyond it all the glittering breadth of the sea, so vast and blue that upon clear mornings there seemed no place where water ended and sky began.
Sunlight lived differently there.
It spilled through every window and wandered unchallenged through chambers that had stood shuttered too long, warming old rugs and pale stone floors, catching upon silver cups and polished wood, turning dust into drifting specks of gold.
Gwayne had never realized how dark the Red Keep had been until he saw you standing in all that light.
In King’s Landing there had always been something finished about you before you stepped beyond your chambers. Your gowns arranged precisely, jewels chosen according to occasion, your silver hair divided and braided and pinned beneath nets of pearl or gold because princesses of House Targaryen were expected to look as though no wind had ever dared touch them.
In Oldtown, you ceased bothering with most of it.
The first few mornings your women came dutifully with combs and pins, and before long the pins remained untouched upon the dressing table. Your hair was brushed and left loose instead, a great pale river falling down your back, and whenever the sea wind came rushing through the open galleries it caught those silver strands and sent them streaming behind you.
Gwayne became absurdly fond of the sight.
He would sometimes find you upon the western terrace with your hair tossed hopelessly by the wind, your face turned toward the sea while the sun gilded one cheek, and something about you in those moments seemed younger than the princess he had married.
There were no ladies watching your belly, no maester appearing whenever you looked unwell, no well-meaning relative asking whether you had slept poorly, no whispers following you from chamber to chamber when your courses came. There was only the sea beneath the hill, the sun upon your skin, and Gwayne.
And Vaelys.
The dragon took to Oldtown with such obvious delight that Gwayne sometimes suspected she had hated King’s Landing nearly as much as you had.
The skies belonged to her here.
Vaelys would rise from the hills beyond the city in a thunder of wings and climb until even her immense body seemed little more than a pale gleam against the blue, circling higher and higher above the city while her shadow swept over vineyards, orchards and fields far below. In sunlight her scales became almost painfully beautiful, pearl and silver flashing with strange washes of rose and blue whenever she turned, until sailors upon the river stopped their work to stare upward and children ran into the lanes whenever her cry rolled across the city.
You always heard her before anyone else.
Gwayne would watch your face lift toward the sound, and the smile that followed was unlike the careful smiles you had worn at court, for there was nothing measured in it, nothing princessly or practiced, only pure affection for the great creature wheeling above you.
Perhaps Vaelys sensed the change in you as well. She became lazy in Oldtown. Gloriously, shamelessly lazy.
Beyond the manse lay a broad meadow where the hill descended toward a patchwork of vineyards and distant farms, its grass growing high enough in summer to brush your calves and crowded with little white stars of feverfew, purple bells, buttercups, cornflowers and red poppies trembling beneath the wind. You discovered it within your first fortnight and thereafter vanished toward it whenever the weather permitted, usually with a basket hooked over one arm and Vaelys following by air like the most excessive escort any woman in Westeros had ever possessed.
Gwayne accompanied you more often than not. He would remain mounted at the meadow’s edge while you wandered through the flowers, his horse cropping lazily at the grass beneath him as he watched you disappear and reappear among the taller blooms, silver hair streaming down your back and skirts gathered carelessly in one hand.
Vaelys invariably settled nearby. The first time Gwayne saw the dragon lower herself into the meadow, he expected half the hillside to disappear beneath her.
Instead, the enormous beast arranged herself with surprising delicacy among the flowers, folding pearl-bright wings against her sides and stretching her long neck through the grass until her head rested near where you knelt. Butterflies returned after a time. Bees drifted among the blossoms within a few feet of nostrils large enough to swallow a man whole. Once, a little yellow butterfly landed upon one of the ridges above her eye and remained there so long that Gwayne nearly laughed himself from where he sat with you.
Vaelys did not appear to mind. She minded even less when you began decorating her.
You had tucked a small white blossom between two of the ridges along her jaw, and Vaelys merely opened one great eye, regarded you with the ancient resignation of a creature accustomed to the foolishness of one particular mortal, and closed it again.
One flower became five.
Five became a crown.
By the end of that afternoon, one of the largest dragons alive bore a wreath of meadow flowers around the base of one horn, several cornflowers tucked between the pale scales above her brow, and a trailing chain of daisies draped along the ridges of her neck.
Gwayne had seen dragons in war.
He had seen them above King’s Landing, had felt the earth tremble beneath their landings and watched men shrink beneath their shadows. He understood perfectly well that Vaelys possessed teeth longer than his forearm and could turn a company of armored knights into smoking bones before any man among them had time to draw steel.
None of that prepared him for the indignity of watching a dragon of Old Valyria lie half asleep in a field wearing daisies. More astonishing still was how beautiful she looked.
Against her pearlescent scales, the flowers seemed almost jewels, little sparks of crimson and violet and gold scattered over something born of moonlight, and when you climbed carefully along one lowered foreleg to reach another bloom behind her horn, Vaelys remained utterly still for you.
Gwayne could never quite look away from the two of you.
There was something strange and lovely in the contrast: the little silver-haired woman moving fearlessly beneath the jaw of the immense beast, the dragon lowering her head whenever you reached too high. It was there, more than anywhere, that Gwayne came to understand the bond between dragon and rider.
Vaelys did not obey you.
She loved you.
The distinction had once seemed fanciful to him. It no longer did. Nor, to his considerable surprise, did Vaelys seem entirely opposed to him.
Winning the dragon’s tolerance had taken the better part of his marriage. Winning anything resembling affection had taken longer still.
For many moons she had regarded him as one might regard a chair placed inconveniently in a doorway: not necessarily offensive enough to destroy, but certainly deserving of suspicion. Whenever he approached you while she was near, one enormous eye followed him. Whenever his hand found your waist, that same eye narrowed with such unmistakable judgment that Gwayne occasionally found himself wondering whether dragons understood the institution of marriage.
Eventually, however, Vaelys appeared to accept that Gwayne belonged to you. And because he belonged to you, he had apparently been granted the extraordinary privilege of continuing to live.
Her first willing touch had come in the meadow. Gwayne stood nearby holding your basket, and Vaelys had turned her head toward him with enough suddenness to make every instinct bred into generations of Hightower men urging immediate retreat.
He had remained where he was. The dragon brought her snout near until warm breath moved through his hair. Then she nudged her enormous nose beneath his waiting palm.
Afterward, Gwayne behaved as though this were a perfectly ordinary occurrence.
From that day onward she permitted him to touch her when you were near, usually along the smooth scales of her snout or beneath the heavy line of her jaw, and though Gwayne grew more comfortable with the privilege, he possessed neither the arrogance nor the suicidal inclination to test whether it extended to moments when her rider was absent.
A Hightower might be proud. He need not be stupid.
And so the days passed beneath the southern sun. You gathered flowers until your baskets overflowed, then carried them home and filled the manse with them. Wild lavender appeared beside the bed. Cornflowers crowded into little clay pitchers along the windows. Poppies brightened the dining table. Sprigs of rosemary perfumed the galleries, and once Gwayne discovered a daisy tucked into the clasp of his cloak and wore it through supper without removing it.
The house slowly became yours.
Your books began appearing upon tables. Your slippers were abandoned beneath chairs. Your ribbons found themselves inexplicably among Gwayne’s possessions. Vaelys’s distant calls rolled through open windows at dawn, and sometimes at night the sea wind carried the scent of salt all the way into your bedchamber, stirring the pale curtains while you slept curled against your husband.
Gwayne watched the years of King’s Landing fall from you piece by piece.
He watched brightness return to your features.
He watched you eat because you were hungry rather than because a maester had instructed it, ride because the morning was beautiful rather than because someone claimed exercise might encourage quickening, sleep late because rain whispered against the windows and there was nowhere you were required to be.
Most of all, he watched you laugh again.
The one that escaped you without permission and made you throw your head back, the one the wind carried across the meadow while Vaelys lay crowned in flowers and Gwayne waited among the flowers pretending he had not been staring at his wife for the better part of an hour.
You looked wild and silver and sunlit, your loose hair dancing around you while flowers filled your arms and your dragon dreamed in the grass at your side.
You looked free.
And perhaps the sweetest thing Oldtown gave Gwayne was the realization that he had not brought you there to find that woman.
She had always been there. All he had done was bring her somewhere she could breathe.
—
“I do not think I shall ever leave Oldtown,” you said, leaning back against your husband as the horse carried you along the sunlit track.
Gwayne’s mouth curved against your temple. “That may prove troublesome.”
You turned your head slightly. “Why?”
“There are occasions upon which even I am expected elsewhere.”
“Then you may go.”
His arm tightened around you at once, drawing a quiet smile from you.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice warm with amusement. “So this is how little my wife values me now that she has acquired a pleasant manse, a meadow, and an unreasonable quantity of flowers.”
“I had Vaelys before you.”
“A grievous disadvantage I have never managed to overcome.”
“And she is prettier.”
“I had noticed.”
“Larger, too. And she can fly.”
“Now you are merely being cruel.”
Your laughter scattered into the wind. Behind you, Gwayne smiled so broadly that you felt it where his cheek brushed your hair. It still startled you sometimes, how easily happiness came here—how lightly it settled between the two of you beneath the southern sun.
You rested your hands over the forearm secured around your waist. “You should have taken me here from the beginning.”
There was no accusation in the words, only a soft wistfulness that made the teasing in his expression fade.
“From the beginning?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. Before all those dreadful maesters and their dreadful cups.”
Gwayne was silent only long enough to press a kiss into your hair. “I should have.”
You glanced back at him, surprised by how readily he admitted it. His eyes met yours, steady and open.
“I thought remaining near your family would make things easier for you,” he said. “You had lived much of your life between the Vale and King’s Landing, whilst Oldtown was mine. I feared bringing you here too soon would feel as though I were taking you away from everything you knew.”
“You foolish man.”
His brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“I will follow you wherever you went.”
Something shifted in his face then. The smile remained, but beneath it came that look he still gave you even after all these years—as though some small thing you had said had reached inside his ribs and found the same tender place it had discovered when he first loved you.
“You will?” he said softly.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Clearly you did not, else we should have been here years ago.”
Gwayne laughed, warm and helpless, and bent his head until his brow rested briefly against the side of yours. “Then I owe my lady wife an apology.”
“Years’ worth.”
“Gods preserve me. And how shall I ever repay such a debt?”
You pretended to consider it while the horse carried you onward through the olive trees. “The western chamber shall become my library.”
“Done,” he said at once, without the slightest hesitation.
You twisted enough within the circle of his arm to peer up at him suspiciously. “You fold rather too quickly for me, Gwayne.”
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest against your back. “Do I?”
“You might at least pretend to consider my demands before surrendering everything I ask for.”
“I could.”
“Then why do you not?”
Gwayne’s expression turned thoughtful for a beat—though the wicked little gleam already sparking in his eyes was pure warning. Whatever was coming, you knew you should stop it before it began.
His grin only widened. “You might say I am quite helpless where you are concerned. I cannot help that my love for you towers above all else.”
You stared straight ahead at the sun-dappled path. Silence stretched for a long and dangerous time. Then you slowly turned your head and found Gwayne was already biting the inside of his cheek, fighting for composure.
“Oh, COME NOW.”
Your horrified cry sent a flock of birds exploding from one of the olive trees in a flurry of wings and leaves. Gwayne laughed so hard behind you that the horse flicked an irritated ear back at him.
“I cannot believe you used your own name to jest!”
“I believe I just did,” he said, still grinning, “and you’re laughing.”
“I am laughing,” you insisted, covering your face with both hands, “because I cannot believe I married a man capable of saying such things without shame.”
“Ah, but you did marry me.”
“A youthful error.”
“One you have repeated every morning by remaining my wife.”
Utterly delighted with himself now, Gwayne drew you more snugly against his chest. You shook your head, the motion small and helpless, the corners of your mouth still fighting a smile even as you tried to look severe, and let him carry you the rest of the way home.
summary: our knight and our septa finally give in.
CW: NSFW, def canon divergence as septs don’t have confessionals but they’re fantasy catholics so i’m allowed, typical blasphemy, mutual masturbation as they’re pleading for the gods’s forgiveness, completely unedited ramble
The candlelight in the small confessional booth flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls. It was a place meant for your worst sins, for your mortification.
And yet, he had sought out his precious Septa here again.
"I cannot pray," her voice was barely above a whisper, her face frantic behind the screen. “My mind… it’s been consumed."
Gwayne’s hands clenched at his sides. He could feel her presence. He could feel it here, he could feel it in the riverlands, and now it is back pressing into his spine again. The sin. He closed his eyes, picturing the dimples blooming of her cheek, the warmth of her eyes that seemed to shine with both sincerity and mirth.
"Nor I," he confessed, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Every time I close my eyes, I see you. And these thoughts… they are not of the Holy Mother." He chuckled dryly. Every woman is an image of the mother, to be pictured with reverance, he remembers his early days with his old septon now. Oh, how he’d turn in his grave.
He could hear her sharp intake of breath.
"This is…sinful work," she chuckled nervously. A reflex, a hollow shield against the bare truth.
"Or a test," Gwayne countered, picking at the skin rising above his thumbnail. "A test of our…holiness, I suppose." He spoke the word with such resentment it might as well have been spat.
She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. "Is it a test we are meant to fail?" She hesitated. “We…we are humans, after all. Thoughts…thoughts are just thoughts!”
“We musn’t act on them,” Gwayne rasped, “No matter how much I wish to.”
“You…wish to, too?” She mumbled, and he heard fabric rustling on the other side of the booth, as if she were adjusting her position.
Her fingers found the hem, bunching the coarse fabric. It was an act of sheer, reckless will. She began to raise it, inch by agonizing inch, baring her skin to the stuffy air of the booth. The vulnerability of it, the sheer defiance of her vows, made her dizzy, her knees weak. But she swallowed it all.
"What are you doing?" Gwayne’s gravelly voice was tight. His gaze went from the screen to the floor.
"Finding a way to ease this ache," she confessed, her voice trembling. "I cannot touch you. It would be a sin beyond measure, a desecration of everything we are.” She swallowed audibly, a breath of hesitation. “But if we are both facing away… we are not looking upon each other. Does that not lessen the sin? We are only… tending to ourselves.” She squeezed her merry eyes shut, searching for a justification. “Tending to the flesh the Seven molded us out of.”
A helpless sound escaped his lips, louder than anything in the quiet. He knew she was right, in a twisted, rationalizing way. To turn and look upon her aching, wanting form…to touch her, that would be a true sin. This, though, this was a desperate compromise with his own desire.
One he had technically already given up.
"An act of desperation," he whispered, his resolve cracking. "A plea for relief."
He reached for the laces of his own trousers. He faced away from the screen. He could not see her, but he could picture her, in his mind’s eye. Or what he could piece together from under her habit. A long, pale curve of her leg, the soft, pillowy flesh of her thigh. He loosened the laces with trembling fingers and a groan, already punishingly hard.
Upon hearing the sounds of his clothing being freed, she pressed her lips together to stifle a moan. The idea of him, so close, yet so far, was an exquisite torture. She let her own hand wander, her fingers tracing a path up her exposed thigh, following the trembling rhythms of her own muscles. She thought of that day in the courtyard, his hand enveloping hers, correcting her grip on the hilt of a sword. The other hand on her hip, positioning her in the correct stance— but all she could feel is the sunlight of his freckled skin on hers.
"Forgive me," she breathed, the words a fragile, desperate prayer. "Forgive me, fuck, for my weakness." Her fingers found the warmth of her need. She gasped, followed by a sharp, strangled sound from Gwayne.
"Ask them for me too," he ground out between gritted teeth, his voice thick with lust. He wrapped his hand around himself, the contact a rushing, overwhelming relief. His breathing became ragged. "Forgive me, he whimpered, "for this burning in my blood. For forsaking them. For wanting… for wanting you."
Their breathing filled the room, ragged and out of sync, two separate rhythms of desperation. Her world narrowed to the feeling of her own fingers, the wet sound of her own pleasure, and the exhilarating knowledge of Gwayne doing the same, just feet away. She didn’t dare look- but she could imagine it. His head thrown back against the brick, a bead of sweat down his adam’s apple, his mouth parted in sweet music…
"Tell me," she pleaded, her words a breathy whisper. "Tell me what you see. What you imagine."
"I see you," his breath hitched, his hand moving faster, his hips beginning to thrust into his own grip. "In the garden. The sun on your hair. You are not wearing your habit… you are bare. Your hair…” he groaned, “your hair is wild and undone. And you are free."
She gasped. "Are you imagining touching me?" she asked, her own fingers playing a perfect, punishing rhythm.
"No," he confessed, the word a guttural tear from his throat. "It would be…” he hesitated with a breath, “I am only imagining looking. The shape of your shoulders. The curve of your hip. The way your skin would feel if I could just…"
"Fuck, well I am," she cried out. "Forgive me, Gwayne, for wanting your hands on me. F-for your touch, your fingers your…” she whimpered, “your mouth.”
The sound of his name on her lyrical tongue shattered the last of his restraint. He felt his peak coming, on a blinding wave.
"Septa…" he gasped a final, desperate prayer. "Forgive me."
He spilled himself into his hand, a moan ripped from his damned soul. At the exact same moment beside him, her own body convulsed, a silent release that rang through her eardrums. Her hand stilled, and she trembled in the aftermath, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.
The silence that descended was heavier than before. It was filled with shame, but also a vulnerability. They were connected now, not even by a touch, but by a shared, secret fall.
while retreating to your chambers, someone tries to kill you. luckily, gwayne is there to intervene and take care of you after.
pairing: fem!lucerys!reader x gwayne
warnings: dark thoughts, fluff, romantic tension, assassination attempt, jealousy, hurt/comfort
part 1 part 2
Gwayne is your constant shadow. No matter where you go in the Red Keep—he’s there. Whether it’s during your morning conversations—which Alicent forces you to have, since she always claims you’re her honorary guest—your brief strolls in the gardens you had to fight for, or when you’re confined to your room. Gwayne. Is. There.
You’ve grown accustomed to him and his constant, annoying presence. Which is why it feels especially strange this evening not to have him right in front of you, behind you or at your side. He’s sitting next to some Lady at dinner in the Great Hall. Flowing hair, a pretty smile, and she keeps leaning toward him. Touches her hair, even gets a smile from him.
How different he looks when he does that, you think. His smile highlights the intricacies of his face, making harsh edges appear softer.
Beautiful. He’s absolutely beautiful.
The thought races through your head uninvited. You were not supposed to feel a glimpse of affection towards your captor and shadow. You were supposed to feel nothing instead. Sadly it was the opposite. Looking at Gwayne being adored sends a pang of pain through your entire body. As if it wasn’t bad enough you had to sit next to his sister, who keeps dropping her venomous remarks every now and then. Honey dipped in poison, serving only to further intimidate you.
Again and again, you glance at your shadow. Again and again, it feels like a blade right between your ribs. When the lady puts her hand on Gwaynes arm, you can’t seem to breathe anymore.
You stand up and excuse yourself. You just want to retreat to your chambers, so you no longer have to endure the sight of him being touched by someone else. The hallways are empty as you walk past the windows. Suddenly, a hand clamps over your mouth, cold and forceful. Someone yanks you around, and you let out a muffled scream. You frantically try to recall Harwin’s training, performing a maneuver—or at least trying to—when cold metal is pressed against your throat, slicing your skin slightly. A whimper leaves your mouth.
“No one here wants you,” a rough voice whispers directly in your ear. “You are worthless. Everyone here wants you dead. Just because you cut your hair off doesn’t change its color, bastard.”
The blade presses deeper into your skin.
This is it, you realize. This is the way you’re going to die. You‘re never going to see your mother again, your brother, your kin. You’re never going to ride a dragon again. You’re never going to experience the love you had always so deeply yearned for.
The blade cuts your skin. The pain makes you cry out in pain, and you can feel the warm blood running down your neck.
A wish forms in your head. A stupid, unnerving one, but it’s loud and clear.
I wish I had told him.
Suddenly, a jolt runs through you and you stumble forward. A blade flashes in the darkness, clashes against the one of your attacker. A flash of auburn hair, one swift strike, another one; blood splatters, hitting you in the face. Gwayne had positioned himself between you and your attacker. You wished to grab a sword yourself. You wanted to strike back, slit his fucking throat for whispering those horrible words, just because you existed. You wanted to ram your sword directly into his heart yourself.
“Who sent you?” Gwayne growls, his sword on the mans neck.
Your attacker spits blood on Gwaynes feet. “Everyone.” With those words, he throws himself onto the blade.
“No!“ you scream and leap forward. Gwayne’s the one holding you back, slinging his arms around you while you stare at the man and the sword piercing his neck. Something about the sight lets your knees give out under you. You land in the blood and it drenches the thick fabric of your dress. The metallic smell fills your nose until you can taste it on your tongue.
The way back to your chambers is blurry. You shake so badly that Gwayne doesn’t let go of you, the steady weight of his arm around you. Your knees nearly give out when the door closes behind you. Gwayne catches you before you fall.
“I’ve got you.”
You don’t want him to see you this way. He already saw you at your weakest. But this? This is different. It hurts too much. You can‘t hide your pain from him anymore. And you don’t want him to see the rest.
“I’m well. Thank you. You may leave,” you say with your chin up. It’s a lie, and when Gwayne looks at your trembling hands, it seems as if he sees it too.
No one here wants me, you think. Everybody wants me dead.
“Please leave,” you grit out. You lose what’s left of your composure.
He doesn’t move. “Princess–”
You whirl around. ”Aren’t you supposed to listen to commands? Leave!”
His jaw tightens. “You’re hurt. I won’t leave you while you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine by myself.”
“You don’t have to be.”
Something inside you snaps. “What? Because I have you?” You huff. ”Perhaps it would have been better if the man trying to kill me had gone through with it.”
Suddenly he grabs your wrist. Hard. “Don’t ever say that, Princess.”
You stare at his hand. The sudden feel of his skin on yours lets flames dance through your veins. You can’t feel this way. You simply can’t. So you pull out of his grasp and put a distance between you.
“Am I not a reason for staying?” he asks.
Your breath catches in your throat. You gulp, but can’t look at him. “Why should you? It was very clear to me that you were occupied otherwise tonight.”
Silence stretches between the two of you. Then you feel him come nearer. His presence seems to fill the whole chamber. “Don’t think my attention ever wavers simply because I‘m talking to someone at a banquet.“
“What’s that supposed to mean?“ You barely whisper.
“It means“, he says while coming even closer. “My eyes are on you, Lucerya. Always.“
It is the first time he ever said your name. Your heart stutters. Part of you melts, while another part grows hot beneath your skin.
You turn around. His gaze flickers over your face before settling on your throat and the dried blood there.
“Come,” he says. “Let’s clean you up.”
Your skin, your dress, your hands – all stained crimson. So you follow him into the bath which somehow has already been prepared. The smell of citrus and herbs fill the chamber. Gwayne gestures to the bath. You simply raise a brow.
“But … you’re here.“
The corners of his mouth twitch. “I am.”
“Well, then turn around!“
He gives a low chuckle and turns his back to you. With still shaking fingers you undo your laces, until the dress slips from your shoulders to the floor. Then you step into the hot water and let the heat hug you. You sigh when you’re fully wrapped by the warmth.
“May I turn back around?” Gwayne asks behind you.
You make sure to fully be hidden in the bubbles before you answer. “You may.”
He comes around to you, a cloth in hand. He dips it in the water, before kneeling beside you. “The blood,” he says, nodding to your neck.
You hesitate for a second while he looks at your wound. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Then, slowly, you lift your chin. Carefully Gwayne brings the cloth to your throat. You flinch, even though he’s carefully tending to your wound.
“Forgive me,” he whispers.
His gaze darkens as he cleans the blood from your skin. “I didn’t know you were capable of such an expression, Ser Gwayne.”
“Not quite sure what you’re referring to, Princess.”
“I mean this,” you say, lift your hand and softly touch the wrinkle between his brows.
Gwayne gulps. Your gaze stays a moment too long on his neck. Then on the sharp lines of his jaw. His ruffled auburn hair that seems to shift color in the candlelight. He’s so close to you. His skin feels warm. His scent fills your nose, and the sudden nearness wakes things inside your soul you shouldn’t want. You want to reach for him again. You want to peel the armor off of his body piece by piece. You want his hands not only on your neck, but on other parts of your body. You want to grab fistful of his hair, and make him do unspeakable things to you. Things that would make you whimper and sigh, things that let him lose all control and any remnants of chivalry he has left.
You cannot give into these urges.
Gwayne is your sworn protector. Your knight. But he’s also the brother of the queen dowager.
But right now he serves you. He’s kneeling beside you.
“Gwayne,” you whisper.
He gulps again. Runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Once. Twice. Your breathing fastens.
”You shouldn’t look at me like that, Princess,“ he rasps.
”And you shouldn’t be in here while I bathe, yet here we are.“ You push yourself out of the water, and his glance roams over you, just for a second before locking onto your eyes again. Red splotches build on his cheeks.
”Lucerya.“ His voice is laced with desperation.
”Who are you serving?“ you inquire.
He stares at you, cloth still in hand. The air feels cold on your chest, yet you stay in that position. You want him to see. You want him to take. A foolish wish, yet it’s persistent in your head.
“Are you serving me? Or your sister?”
Suddenly he’s very still. The seconds stretch into eternity. He can’t give you the answer you so desperately want. You let out a laugh.
“You told me you’d be whatever I wanted you to be.” Your voice shakes. “But those were just words. I didn’t take you for a liar, Ser Gwayne.”
You want to sink back into the water – and in that moment he grabs you. The cloth is forgotten as Gwayne pulls you to him, staring directly into your soul.
”It wasn’t a lie,” he grits out.
”Prove it then.“ there lies a challenge in your voice. You want to see him break, take apart his chivalry bit by bit. But he doesn’t. He simply stares at you with longing and anger in his eyes.
You huff. ”Seems like a lie still. Promises you didn’t keep.“
His touch grows softer then. ”What kind of knight would I be,“ he whispers while leaning forward, his forehead resting against yours. ”After the things you endured tonight, with blood still on your neck … what kind of man would I be, if I now take what you so willingly offer?“
His breathing mixes with yours and heat rushes to your cheeks.
”A man who fulfills his Princesses wishes,“ you reply hoarsly, and when he laughs you can feel it from your head to your toes.
Suddenly he leans forward. Your breath catches when his thumb grazes your cheek, then your bottom lip. You can feel his hand trembling slightly. Then he slides it back to your neck, closes it around and pulls you to him.
Gwayne kisses you.
Your knight. Your shadow. Your enemy. Kisses you.
It’s soft at first, but when you open your mouth and invite him deeper, flames rush through your veins. His tongue dances on yours and a whimper leaves your lips. You pull him closer, grab a handful of his hair and his teeth graze your lip. You didn’t know it could feel this way. You didn’t know it was possible to feel like flying without a dragon. You want more. Need more. Especially when he lets out a moan that vibrates through you.
When he retreats, you lock eyes with him.
“I intend to keep all my promises, Princess,” he says. “Remind me of them after tonight. When you’re not being attacked, when there’s no blood on you. If you’ll still want me, I’ll be there.”
This time you’re the one who kisses him. There’s still this longing to pull him into the bath, still the wish to take, to let him take. But unfortunately he’s right.
When he retreats, you fight against the instinct to pull closer.
“I’ll remind you of your promise, Ser Gwayne,” you whisper as he stands. His eyes are still on you as he walks backwards to the door. Something flickers over his face.
“I take back what I just said. There’s no need for reminders, Lucerya,” he replies. “This sight is all I will think about for the rest of my life.”
AU!Camila where Cregan Stark is the priest and the Targ!wife is the aristocrat
If you never saw that movie, this is basically the whole plot...but very short, since there's a governmental sub plot that contributes to the main story: The film recreates the true story of the romance between Camila O'Gorman and the priest Ladislao Gutiérrez during the first half of the 19th century. Camila begins to develop feelings of affection for Father Ladislao and shows increasing interest in him. At first, he rejects her, adhering to the vow of celibacy imposed by the Catholic Church; however, he eventually yields and confesses his love to her. The couple decides to run away, taking refuge in the countryside under assumed names and working as teachers at a rural school. While attending an event to which they have been invited, they are recognized by a priest who knows Ladislao. A local official responsible for security offers them horses and supplies so they can flee before dawn, at which point he will have no choice but to arrest them. Camila waits impatiently for Ladislao so they can escape before daybreak; meanwhile, overcome with guilt, Ladislao has taken refuge in a church, weeping and praying. He finally returns at dawn, by which time their fate is already sealed. Both are arrested and imprisoned separately. Faced with a public outcry over the priest's violation of his vows of chastity and other things, the president ordered their execution by firing squad, even against the wishes of his daughter, who was a friend of Camila. In the film, Camila is pregnant at the time of her execution—a detail inferred from the memoirs of a commander, which state that Camila had declared she was pregnant and that a priest gave her holy water to drink before the execution in order to baptize the unborn child.
