𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆Lilith @lilithtales - Tumblr Blog

His Cousin’s Wife

꒰ pairing ꒱ gwayne hightower x fem!reader

꒰ wc ꒱ 23k words (guys i am so srry) ꒰ summary꒱ being Lord Ormund Hightower’s wife has afforded you many luxuries. his handsome cousin is the only one you have yet to acquire.

.ᐟ contents | 18+ (MDNI), smut, seduction, religious guilt, sexual tension, mutual lust, emotional manipulation, shameless!reader, conflicted!gwayne, gwayne’s crisis of faith, obsessive attraction, mean!reader, vain!reader, family rivalry, reader and ormund lowkey in a lavender marriage, dysfunctional marriage, forbidden relationship, ormund being ormund, reader has a child, unprotected piv, cheating sex, oral sex (f!receiving), mating press, cheating/infidelity, creampie, praise, degradation, rough sex, overstimulation, period-typical sexism .ᐟ lizzy’s note | back to my asoiaf writing roots. gwayne genuinely got me back to watching hotd, so all thx to him. im actuallly so sick of this fic, but i'm free now. also might anyone want a sequel with ormund x wife!reader mayhaps? enjoy .ᐟ

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

divider by @omi-resources

Supper in the Hightower might have been the worst part of your day.

Not the petitions, with their endless parades of merchants and smallfolk, each weaving their troubles into tapestries of breathless appeal.

Not the household accounts, those dry ledgers where every copper was a stone upon your chest. Not even the ceaseless procession of men who seemed to believe that speaking slowly to you would make their concerns sound more urgent, as though your sex rendered you incapable of understanding plain Common Tongue.

No. It was supper.

The one ritual your husband insisted upon every evening, without fail.

A small table in his solar, always laid for the family. It might have been intimate, had your husband been a different sort of man.

Had he been the sort who reached for your hand beneath the cloth, or who paused to ask after your day with genuine curiosity, or who smiled at his son as though the boy were something more than an heir-in-training.

Instead, it was merely another chamber in which Lord Hightower could hear himself speak. Mostly, you suspected, it pleased him to look upon the arrangement; his wife, his son, his young ward, his table, his tower.

His life. Neatly arranged around him.

At present, Ormund was speaking at length about some new philosophical revelation that had apparently seized him during the afternoon. Something about the necessary refinement of taste, the vulgarity of spectacle, and the slow degradation of noble discernment among lesser houses.

You had ceased properly listening somewhere between the second and third mention of “cultural decay.”

Daeron, sweet boy that he was, was making a valiant effort to appear attentive. He sat very straight, hands properly placed, eyes politely fixed upon Ormund whenever your husband’s gaze passed over him.

But you noticed the way his shoulders had drawn in, the slight hunch he could not quite suppress. He always grew smaller under Ormund’s attention.

Olyvar, mercifully, was too occupied with his supper to care.

You drew his plate a little closer and began cutting his meat and vegetables into smaller pieces, careful and automatic, the way you had done since he was old enough to chew solid foods.

Ormund’s voice stopped.

The silence was so abrupt that even Daeron glanced up, his blue eyes widening like a startled deer.

“Do not help him, wife.”

You stilled. The knife hovered above the last piece of carrot, frozen mid-stroke. For a brief moment, only the fire spoke, crackling softly in the hearth behind you.

Then you lifted your eyes to your husband with great care, forcing your expression into something that might, from a charitable distance, resemble patience.

“Ormund,” you said evenly, “he is five.”

“And yet you insist on keeping him helpless.” Ormund leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath his weight. His expression was one of mild disapproval, as though you were not his wife but a poorly argued treatise placed before him for correction. “Let the boy do it himself.”

Olyvar looked between you both, his little mouth parting, the spoon forgotten in his grip.

“He is learning,” you replied. The words came out softer than you intended, but there was a blade hidden beneath the velvet.

“Then permit him to learn.” Ormund reached for his wine, his fingers curling around the stem of the goblet with practiced ease. “You cannot expect him to become capable while forever placing your hands over his.”

Your fingers tightened around the knife. The handle bit into your palm.

For one small, ugly moment, you wanted very badly to ask him whether he had formed that opinion before or after spending all of ten minutes a day in his son’s presence.

Whether he had ever watched the boy wake from a nightmare, or taught him to hold a quill, or kissed the crown of his head when he was too tired to speak.

Then Daeron shifted slightly in his chair, eyes lowering to his own plate. And your son’s brows began to pull together in the way they did when he sensed discord but could not yet name it.

So instead, you inhaled through your nose and set the knife down. “Very well,” you murmured.

Olyvar’s lower lip wobbled with concentration as you placed the cutlery into his small hands. You adjusted his grip carefully, turning the knife so he would not nick himself, then brushed your thumb once over his knuckles.

“There,” you said softly. “Slowly, sweetling. No need to rush.”

Ormund gave a faint sound of approval which irritated you more than an outright insult might have done. And then, having successfully corrected the household to his satisfaction, he resumed speaking as though nothing had occurred.

“As I was saying, the issue is not merely taste, but the absence of discipline required to cultivate taste. Any merchant with coin may commission a fresco. That does not make him a patron. It makes him a purchaser with delusions of refinement.”

Daeron nodded because he was kind. Because he had been raised to nod. Because he was a prince far from his mother’s court, and he had learned that it was easier to agree than to not.

You lowered your eyes to your plate because you were not. A good example, you reminded yourself. For your son. For poor Daeron.

Your gaze drifted across the room, seeking any surface less tedious than the sight of Ormund’s mouth shaping another sermon. And snagged on a pair of blue eyes already fixed upon you.

Ser Gwayne sat near the far end of the table, newly returned to Oldtown after several months in King’s Landing. He had arrived that morning, travel-worn, but smiling.

He was your husband’s cousin. A familiar figure in the household whenever duty dragged him home. Handsome, yes, but handsome men were hardly rare among noble families.

The Hightower’s bred for it, it seemed. Generations of careful marriages filtering their blood until only the finest thread remained. You had never been a woman easily made foolish by a pretty face.

And yet he was looking at you now. His expression held some faint, mistaken softness that took you a moment to place.

Sympathy.

You scowled before you could stop yourself. Sympathy. From him. What in the seven hells had you done to earn pity from your husband’s cousin?

Gwayne seemed to recognise his error at once. The soft line of his mouth flattened, and he lowered his gaze in retreat. Then he reached for his cup with unhurried care, letting the movement shield whatever might have lingered in his face.

You turned deliberately to Olyvar, who had managed a crooked little piece of meat and was staring at it with triumph.

“Well done, sweetling,” you whispered.

He beamed.

Across the table, Ormund continued speaking as though the air had never been disturbed. “The tragedy, of course, is that most men mistake abundance for beauty.”

You nearly laughed aloud. From a man whose entire household was a monument to excess, the observation was either profound hypocrisy or staggering self-unawareness.

You let your eyes drift back to Ser Gwayne as though pulled by an invisible thread.

He had lifted his wine cup and was listening to Ormund with the practiced patience of a man who had spent his youth in this very hall. There was nothing remarkable in that. All men of Ormund’s blood learned eventually how to sit through him.

Yet now, under the softening candlelight, you found your attention catching on details you had never bothered to catalogue.

The leather jerkin he still wore, unbuttoned at the collar. The breadth of his shoulders, which seemed more pronounced than when you had last seen him.

Perhaps it was the riding leathers. Perhaps it was the way he had broadened through the chest. Perhaps it was only that you were desperate for a distraction.

Then Gwayne looked back.

A brief flicker. Questioning. His eyes met yours across your husband’s table, and after a breath of hesitation, he offered a small smile. Tentative. Cautious.

You did not return it. You merely watched him, as though he were a puzzle placed before you without warning.

The smile faltered. His fingers shifted once against the stem of his cup.

“You are very quiet,” Ormund said.

You turned your head slowly, feeling the weight of every gaze at the table now that his attention had shifted to you. “Would you prefer I interrupt?”

“No,” he said, his mouth curving with something that was not quite warmth. “I merely find the novelty... distracting.”

“I was listening.”

“Were you?” He tilted his head, a gesture of delicate disbelief. “To which part, precisely?”

“To the grand thesis on cultural decay,” you replied, letting a pleasant smile settle over your features. “I am saving my objections for the inevitable conclusion.”

A beat of silence. Ormund’s smile sharpened with genuine pleasure. He did enjoy this, the cut and thrust of a wife who refused to bend entirely. “How wise of you.”

“I’m aware.”

For a heartbeat, the table held itself very still. Daeron’s eyes flickered between you and Ormund before dropping to his plate.

You looked away first. Your gaze slid back towards the far end of the table, almost of its own accord. Ser Gwayne had not looked away. Your eyes met. He dropped his gaze at once, a trained movement, but not quickly enough.

There had been something in his face. Curiosity, stripped of its careful neutrality. The faintest glimmer of admiration before he remembered himself.

And for the first time that evening, supper became tolerable.

You had no clear notion of where your sudden interest in your husband’s cousin had seeded itself.

Desire, perhaps. Boredom, more likely.

The inevitable consequence of a life measured out in quiet afternoons and colder nights, spent beside a man who possessed the rare talent of making even fine Dornish red taste flat, simply by talking over it long enough.

Perhaps you ought to have felt guilt. There were, after all, several forms of guilt readily available to a woman of your station. The heavy, familiar drape of religious shame, if you had been feeling devout.

The colder weight of marital duty, if you had wished to pretend your union had ever been built on anything warmer than alliance and accommodation.

The quiet voice of conscience, urging you to remember your vows and the solemn weight of your name. No such voice came. And if it had, you suspected you would have silenced it without ceremony.

Instead, you had chosen to pursue the matter.

No… pursue implied a peasant greed, a grasping hunger unbecoming of your station.

You had always been a woman of refined taste, one who savoured rather than devoured. You had chosen to investigate. You sought only to determine whether the pious, honourable Ser Gwayne Hightower desired his cousin’s wife.

Which was how, two days later, you found yourself taking luncheon in the training yard. You had expressed a wish for fresh air, and the household had obliged.

Beneath the shaded arcade that overlooked the yard, a small table had appeared, dressed in linen and laden with the afternoon’s bounty. Your ladies had lingered only long enough to exchange pleasantries before you dismissed them with a soft word, granting yourself solitude.

Olyvar alone remained, settled on a cushion near your feet, his painted wooden knights drawn up in opposing armies across the stone. The fate of a dozen imaginary houses rested on his small hands.

The yard below was alive with the familiar music of men at practice, the crisp ring of blunted steel, the scuff of boots on packed earth, and the occasional burst of low laughter when some young squire overreached and paid for his ambition with a mouthful of dust.

Ser Gwayne was not difficult to find among the men. He stood out as a flame stands out among dying embers. You told yourself this was mere practical observation.

He was paired with a knight of your husband’s household guard, a seasoned man who was beginning to look profoundly dissatisfied with the shape of the lesson.

Gwayne fought with a clean grace that bordered on maddening. No wasted theatrics, no brute display of strength simply to intimidate.

He was quick when speed was demanded, firm when force was required, his sword flashing in the high sun before turning aside another blow with that maddening elegance.

You leaned back, your head tilting as you considered him. It was not simply that he was handsome. Many men were handsome from a suitable distance, and considerably less so once they opened their mouths. Gwayne was something altogether rarer.

He was pretty.

The word felt almost improper for a knight wearing spurs, a man of proven steel and honourable name. Yet it was the truth of him. The fine structure of his face. The blue of his eyes like a shard of summer sky, vivid even from this distance. The colour that exertion had painted high on his cheekbones.

The damp strands of fair hair that had pulled loose near his temple, clinging to the skin there. A knight, yes. Unmistakably a man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped and capable.

But a pretty one, all the same.

“Mother?”

Olyvar’s voice cut cleanly through your reverie. You looked down. He was holding up a wooden knight, its red paint chipped from a hundred imagined battles.

“Ser Redwyne has fallen,” he announced.

“A tragedy,” you said, your voice softening. “Was he taken honourably?”

“In the head,” Olyvar said, frowning at the knight’s fate. “He did not see the blow.”

“Then he ought to have worn a better helm,” you replied, a faint smile touching your mouth. “A commander must learn from his defeats.”

Olyvar considered this with the grave deliberation, then nodded once, satisfied with your counsel, before returning to his campaign.

Below, Gwayne turned to receive some remark from a man at the edge of the yard. And then, with the casual lift of a man stretching his neck, his gaze swept the arcade.

He found you. You marked the instant awareness passed through him, a micro-shift in his posture, a pause barely long enough to measure. His eyes traced the table, the wine, the figs. Olyvar at your feet. Then you. After a beat, Gwayne inclined his head with the precise measure of courtesy owed to his cousin’s lady.

“My lady,” he called, his voice carrying cleanly across the stones, polite and proper for all the yard to witness.

“Ser Gwayne,” you returned.

And from that moment onward, his composure became a thinner thing.

He continued to fight well, beautifully even, but his attention had frayed at the edges. Every few passes, his eyes flickered up towards the arcade. Fleeting glances, brief enough that he must have believed them subtle.

They were not subtle.

You watched, unhurried, savouring the small triumph of observation. You reached for a fig, and brought it to your lips. The skin split beneath your teeth, the flesh yielding sweet and crimson. A small, private indulgence.

Olyvar made a small sound of triumph as one wooden knight toppled another.

“Was that Ser Redwyne avenged?” you asked, though your eyes remained on the yard.

“No,” Olyvar said. “That was Lord Costayne. He is dead now too.”

“How grim.”

Below, Gwayne’s gaze lifted again. His eyes met yours across the dust and sunlight, and this time you allowed yourself a smile. A small curve of your lips, intended for him alone.

A promise held out like a flower, waiting to see if he would reach for it.

The effect was immediate. His gaze dropped as though the weight of your attention had physically pressed him down. His jaw tightened. He faltered, just slightly, and the other knight pressed his advantage, almost landing a blow along his ribs.

Gwayne turned it aside at the last breath, an elegant recovery.

Then he answered. A counter-strike that rang through the yard, a perfect connection that forced his partner back several steps. The watching squires let out a low murmur of approval.

A few minutes later, the bout drew to its close. Gwayne stepped back, breathing a little harder, and clasped forearms with his opponent A servant appeared with water. Gwayne took the cup, raised it, and drank. Then, in a gesture so casual it felt almost on purpose, he tipped the remainder over the back of his neck.

You watched the water trace a silver path along his skin, disappear into the dark collar of his tunic, darken the fabric where it clung. Gwayne looked up once more, his gaze finding the arcade as though drawn there by a thread you had already begun to wind.

To your surprise, he passed his practice sword to one of the waiting squires and began walking towards the shaded arcade.

You watched him approach, your brow lifting a fraction.

He looked good like this, you thought with some irritation.

Flushed from exertion. His fair hair damp at the temples, darkened to auburn. The open collar of his tunic showing the hollow of his throat, the skin there still gleaming from the water he had poured.

He reached the shade of the arcade and bowed his head with dutiful courtesy.

“My lady,” he said. His voice was perfectly polite, though the breathlessness still clung to it, “I confess, I had not thought to find you watching over the yard.”

“Have I no right to observe the men of my own household?”

“You have every right. It is simply a pleasure I had not anticipated.”

That was well said. You let the words settle, then smiled. “I thought it would be good for Olyvar to observe the training yard. The discipline. The instruction. The camaraderie of men.”

You lied easily enough.

Gwayne’s eyes shifted past you. Olyvar, at your feet, had not looked up once throughout the entire exchange. His wooden knights lay in a violent little heap, and he was currently engaged in the solemn work of making one dead man stab another dead man.

Gwayne was quiet for half a second. Then his gaze returned to you.

“Ah,” he said.

You felt your mouth curve. “You seem unconvinced, Ser.”

“I should never presume to question a mother’s judgement.”

“A wise answer.”

“I try to give those when I can.”

That made you smile properly, a genuine warmth that you could not quite suppress.

Gwayne noticed it. You saw the flicker of his attention, the way his gaze touched your lips, fleeting as a blink, then returned at once to your eyes.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, considering him.

“You fight well,” you said.

His expression settled into modest courtesy at once. “You are kind to say so.”

“I did not say it to be kind.”

His eyes held yours a moment too long before he inclined his head again. “Then I thank you for your honesty.”

“How formal you are.”

“I am speaking with my lord cousin’s wife.”

“Yes,” you said mildly. “I am well aware of the relation.”

The air between you shifted. Gwayne seemed to feel it too, because whatever brief warmth had touched his face retreated behind the careful architecture of his courtesy.

He bowed once more. “I shall leave you to your luncheon, my lady.”

“So soon?”

His eyes caught yours. The question had been plain enough to be heard, innocent enough to be denied.

“The men will be waiting,” he said.

“Of course.”

Another pause.

Then he gave you a small, dutiful smile, the sort of smile a man offers when he wishes to close a door without seeming to slam it. “Enjoy the rest of your day, my lady. I shall see you at supper.”

And then he left.

You watched him descend the shallow steps, noting the deliberate length of his stride. He did not glance back. Did not slow. He returned to the training yard as though the shade beneath the arcade had held no temptation at all.

You frowned. Was that all?

How vexing. Perhaps Ser Gwayne Hightower was too pious for implication. Or perhaps he simply needed a sharper provocation.

Very well, then.

You would need to be plainer.

“May I speak plainly, my lady?”

Daeron’s voice came from beside you, pitched low enough that the question might have been lost beneath the murmur of the fountain.

Your arm was hooked through his as the two of you walked slowly through the Hightower gardens, the gravel crunching beneath your slippers.

You turned your head towards him, noting the slight furrow between his brows, the way his gaze remained fixed on the path ahead rather than meeting yours. “With me, sweet prince? Always.”

He smiled faintly at that, though it did not quite reach his eyes.

You let your gaze drift ahead again, momentarily distracted by the peonies along the eastern walk. They were not blooming as they ought. Too sparse near the roots, too heavy in some places, and the colour had come in weaker than you had requested. A small irritation, perhaps, but one nonetheless.

You made a silent note to speak with the gardeners before the week’s end. Such neglect was unbecoming of a household of Oldtown’s standing.

Daeron walked quietly beside you for another few paces.

“I have missed our talks,” he admitted at last.

There was something almost shamefaced in the confession, as though he had failed at some duty by desiring a little ordinary companionship.

You looked at him more fully then, taking in the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his hands clasped together behind his back as though he were still a boy being chastised by a maester.

He was no longer the shy ten-year-old you had met when you first came to Oldtown as Ormund’s bride. That boy had been all wide eyes and careful manners, quick to blush and quicker to apologise.

Daeron glanced down at the gravel path, his jaw working for a moment before he spoke again.

“The maesters have kept me very occupied,” he continued, his voice taking on a rehearsed quality. “Lord Ormund wished my lessons expanded. Histories of the Reach, the foundations of the Hightower, the genealogies of its principal bannermen, matters of law and patronage…”

His mouth twisted slightly before he corrected it. “It is a great honour, of course.”

“Of course,” you said, the words dry as dust.

“And important,” Daeron added quickly, as though fearing you might mistake him for ungrateful. “It is important to venerate the history of House Hightower. Lord Ormund says a prince fostered here ought not leave Oldtown ignorant of the house that shaped him.”

You hummed softly. “That sounds very much like something Lord Ormund would say.”

Daeron looked at you, uncertain whether he was permitted to laugh.

You saved him the trouble by squeezing his arm lightly. “You need not perform gratitude for me, sweet prince.”

His shoulders eased a fraction, the tension draining from his frame as though a knot had been loosened. “I am grateful,” he said, but more honestly this time. “Only… tired.”

“Those two things are allowed to exist in the same body.”

He breathed out, a long, slow exhale, and there it was, the quiet relief of a boy who had been granted permission to be less than perfectly composed. The breeze stirred the auburn hair at his temples, and for a moment, he looked younger than his years.

“I know the lessons matter,” Daeron murmured, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “But sometimes it feels as though every hour must improve me somehow. If I read, it must be the correct book. If I ride, my seat must be assessed. If I speak, I must consider whether my thought is worth saying aloud.”

“Ah,” you hummed. “A particular cruelty. Being made to weigh every word before speaking.”

He gave you a small, knowing look, a flicker of something wry in his eyes. “You do not seem to suffer from it.”

“No,” you replied pleasantly. “Marriage cured me of that.”

Daeron’s lips parted in surprised amusement, and then he looked quickly ahead, as though worried someone might have heard him almost laugh.

Your gaze drifted past Daeron’s shoulder then, moving idly over the garden path, the sunlit hedges, the distant figures gathered near the cypress walk.

And caught on one figure in particular.

Ser Gwayne stood a little way off, conversing with some lord whose name you could not immediately recall and had no great desire to.

He was dressed for court rather than the yard today, a tunic of deep green, the Hightower sigil embroidered at the breast in silver thread, his hair neatly combed, his posture impeccable.

One hand rested at his belt as he listened with a look of courteous endurance, the expression of a man who had heard this particular speech before and was merely waiting for it to conclude.

Before good sense could advise you otherwise you lifted your voice.

“Ser Gwayne.”

The name carried cleanly through the garden air, clear as a bell tolling in still weather. You did not raise it unduly, but there was a specific clarity to it, a refusal to be ignored.

His head turned almost at once.

The very instant your voice crossed the gravel and the hedges and the soft murmur of the fountain, his attention came to you, direct and unguarded.

You noticed. You tucked the knowledge away like a coin slipped into a pocket.

So did Daeron, judging by the quick, sideways glance he gave you.

“Perhaps you might come and soothe your favourite nephew’s spirits,” you continued, letting amusement thread through your voice, “The maesters have made a martyr of him.”

Daeron straightened beside you, a flush rising to his cheeks. “My lady—”

“Oh, hush. I said martyr, not rebel. There is dignity in martyrdom. Surely they have taught you that much.”

He closed his mouth, half-protesting and half-pleased.

Gwayne said something brief and polite to the lord before him and bowed his head in farewell with the easy grace of a man accustomed to extricating himself from tedious conversations.

You watched him approach with an expression of mild innocence, as though you had merely done him a kindness by providing an excuse to withdraw. He stopped at a perfectly respectable distance. Far enough to satisfy propriety.

He inclined his head.

“My lady. My prince.”

Perhaps it was inconsequential. Perhaps it meant nothing at all. Still, you noted that he addressed you first.

Daeron brightened at once, some of the earlier tension easing from his face. “Uncle.”

“Have your lessons grown so unbearable already?” Gwayne asked, his mouth curving faintly. His expression was warm, genuinely fond, “I had thought you more resilient than that.”

“I did not say unbearable,” Daeron protested.

“No,” you said, before he could gather a proper defence. “He merely looked as though he might fling himself into the Honeywine.”

Daeron turned to you in open horror. “I did not.”

“You did a little.”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked to you then. There was caution there now. A guardedness that had not been present before supper, before the training yard, before he had learned that your attention was not always accidental.

“I am certain the prince suffers nobly,” Gwayne said, his voice even.

“Thank you, uncle,” Daeron replied, gathering what dignity he could manage.

“And if your tutors become too terrible,” Gwayne added, “you may always inform them that your uncle has recommended idleness as an essential part of princely education.”

Daeron blinked, then smiled. “Would you truly?”

“No,” Gwayne said. “But you may imagine it with comfort.”

You laughed softly despite yourself.

Gwayne looked at you again.

“You see?” you said, glancing between them, “Ser Gwayne understands you. He has spent a lifetime surviving Lord Ormund’s instruction.”

The change in Gwayne was slight. Almost nothing. A tightening around the eyes. A subtle stillness in his shoulders, as though he had braced himself against something unexpected.

But you saw it.

Daeron, sweet enough to miss the sharper thing beneath your words, only looked between you and his uncle with polite interest.

“My cousin has always been generous with his wisdom,” Gwayne said carefully.

“How delicately put.”

“It is a delicate subject.”

“Is it?”

“With you, my lady, I suspect most subjects may become so.”

There was no impropriety in the words. None that could be named. You smiled at him, slow and without hurry.

Daeron glanced between you both again, visibly uncertain whether he had missed some small jest. “You are both speaking strangely,” he said slowly.

“Are we?” you asked, still smiling.

“Yes.”

Gwayne’s mouth softened. “Then it must be your lessons, nephew. They have made you too perceptive.”

Daeron accepted that with a faintly pleased look, though he tried not to show it. The boy’s hunger for approval was a tender thing, easily assuaged by a scrap of recognition.

You let your hand rest lightly over the prince’s arm, “Come,” you said. “Walk with us, Ser Gwayne. Unless the nameless lord we stole you from was saying something terribly important.”

Gwayne glanced back once towards the man he had abandoned, still standing alone near the cypress walk, looking vaguely confused.

“He was explaining the superiority of his family’s kennels.”

“Then we have rescued you.”

“So it would seem.”

He fell into step on Daeron’s other side, close enough that the three of you moved together like a single, unhurried current beneath the long shade of the garden walk.

Daeron began asking him some earnest question about training yard drills and Gwayne answered with patient attention, his tone easing as he spoke to the boy, the guarded edges softening into something simpler.

You listened in silence for a few moments, allowing the rhythm of their voices to wash over you, the low murmur of his explanations blending with the fountain and the bees.

Then, without turning your head, you let your gaze drift towards Ser Gwayne from the corner of your eye.

He was already looking at you.

This time, he did not look away quickly enough.

You allowed yourself to notice it with only the faintest turn of your mouth, careful not to give him the satisfaction of being caught too plainly.

Gwayne, for his part, seemed to realise his mistake a breath too late. His attention shifted towards the hedges, then towards Daeron, as though the garden had suddenly become full of urgent things to observe.

Fortunately, the fates proved generous. Only a few minutes later, one of Ormund’s guards appeared at the end of the walk.

“My prince. Lord Ormund requests your attendance. The maester is waiting.”

The small measure of ease Daeron had gathered vanished at once, dissolving like frost touched by sun. He did not complain. He was too well-bred for that, too accustomed to obedience. But the look he gave you was helpless enough to make your heart pinch.

You squeezed his hand where it rested against your arm. “Courage,” you murmured.

Daeron attempted a smile. It was a brave attempt, if not entirely convincing.

Gwayne’s expression softened as he looked at him. “Farewell, nephew. I shall see you after, should you survive.”

It was a small jest, dryly delivered, but it did what it was meant to do. Daeron’s mouth curved, and some of the dread left his face before he inclined his head to you both and followed the guard back along the path.

You watched him go until the turn of the hedge took him from sight.

Then there was only Gwayne. Perfect. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved. The garden seemed to hold its breath without Daeron between you, the air growing heavier, warmer, as though the afternoon had drawn closer to listen.

You turned to him with a slow, playful smile, letting it unfurl across your lips like a secret shared too late to recall.

“So,” you said, your voice carrying the lightness of discovery, “you can be amusing.”

Gwayne’s eyes dropped for the briefest fraction of a heartbeat to your mouth before returning to meet yours. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

“Does that surprise you, my lady?” he asked.

His voice remained courteous, polished to a fine, untouchable sheen. But something in it had changed. Only slightly. Enough.

“Indeed it does,” you said, and began to walk again.

You did not ask him to follow. He did anyway. Gwayne kept to your side, not too close, not distant enough to be rude. Every inch of him arranged according to propriety, every muscle held in careful alignment.

How tiresome. How interesting.

“You are always so formal with me,” you said, looking ahead rather than at him, “One begins to wonder whether you have any other manner at all.”

There was a pause before he answered, as though he was choosing each word with care. “You are my cousin’s wife,” Gwayne said. “And Lady Hightower of Oldtown.”

You gave a quiet sigh. “Yes. You do enjoy reminding me.”

“I would not presume you had forgotten.”

“No?” You glanced at him then, turning your head just enough to catch his profile. “How generous. For a moment, I feared you thought I required instruction in the shape of my own life.”

Gwayne’s jaw shifted, a muscle tensing along its edge, but he said nothing.

“I am aware I am Lord Ormund’s wife,” you continued, your voice mild, unhurried, as though you were discussing the weather. “I have borne the man a son. I sit at his table. I listen to his thoughts on taste and virtue and the failings of lesser men, night after night, until the candles gutter and the wine runs dry. Believe me, Ser Gwayne, I have not misplaced the fact of my marriage.”

His steps slowed by the smallest measure, a falter in the rhythm of his stride. You did not slow with him. After a moment, he caught up, his boots crunching against the gravel as he fell back into step beside you.

“That was not my meaning,” he said.

“Was it not?”

“No.”

You looked at him again, long enough to make him feel the full weight of your attention. There was discipline in him, certainly. Faith too, perhaps. Honour arranged about him so tightly that you wondered how often it chafed against his skin, how often he wished to loosen the bindings.

“Then what was your meaning?” you asked.

Gwayne’s eyes moved once across your face, and again they paused too near your mouth. The moment stretched, before he pulled his gaze away.

“My meaning,” he said at last, “is that respect is owed to you.”

Respect. A pretty word. A useless one, in that moment. You smiled as though pleased by the answer, and turned your attention back to the path ahead. “How very dutiful of you, Ser Gwayne.”

He did not answer immediately. But beside you, his hand flexed once, the fingers tightening briefly before releasing.

You allowed him the mercy of another subject, though not entirely out of kindness. The game required patience, and you had learned long ago that too much pressure would cause a man like Gwayne to retreat entirely.

“Was King’s Landing much changed?” you asked, your tone light, conversational. “You have been away long enough that we nearly began to forget you.”

“Nearly?”

“You must not ask for too much flattery. It becomes unbecoming.”

The corner of his mouth moved, a ghost of a smile that seemed determined not to fully form. “King’s Landing is as it ever was. Loud. Crowded. Restless.”

“Vile, then.”

That drew his attention more cleanly. He turned his head to look at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “You dislike the city?”

“I dislike most cities that mistake stench for importance.” You brushed your fingertips along the head of a rose as you passed, careful not to catch your fingers on the thorns hidden beneath the leaves. “My father thought the Red Keep a wretched place. A painted skull upon a hill, I believe he once called it.”

“A severe judgement.”

“He had a gift for those.”

“And do you share it?”

“For severity? Frequently.” You glanced at him, your eyes meeting his. “For judgement? I suppose that depends on the object.”

Gwayne’s eyes narrowed faintly, not in displeasure but in caution, as though he had heard the soft shift beneath your words and did not yet know whether he was meant to step over it or step around it.

You continued before he could decide.

“I have always thought the Red Keep must be suffocating,” you said, your voice thoughtful. “All those ambitious men pressed together in one place, each certain his own desires are better hidden than they are, each watching the others for signs of weakness. A city built on whispers and half-truths.”

Gwayne looked ahead, his gaze fixed on the path before you. “Men at court are not known for modest ambition.”

The garden path narrowed, forcing him closer beside you as you moved beneath the arbour. The space did the work for you, his sleeve brushing near yours, the warmth of him briefly more present than it had any right to be.

“Did you enjoy it?” you asked.

Gwayne inhaled quietly. You had the impression of a man choosing between several safe answers and finding all of them insufficient. He settled, eventually, on honesty trimmed to an acceptable shape.

“There are moments of honour to be found there,” he said. “And many more moments of inconvenience.”

“How diplomatic.”

“It is often safer than truth.”

You looked at him then, and this time he did not immediately look away. The sunlight shifted through the leaves overhead, breaking across his face in brief gold fragments.

He really was irritatingly pretty. The kind of beauty that seemed almost unfair, a face that belonged in a tapestry or a song.

“Do you prefer safety, Ser Gwayne?”

His gaze held yours.

For a moment, the garden seemed to contract around you, the air thickening with the scent of lavender and heated stone.

Then his jaw tightened, just slightly. “When it is wise.”

You did not let the silence sit for too long. You paused near a low wall where the roses climbed thickly over pale stone, their blossoms heavy and overripe in the afternoon heat.

One had drooped beneath its own weight, petals dark at the edges, bruised almost purple where the sun had touched it too long.

“This one has spent itself,” you murmured, touching the bloom with the pad of your thumb. The petal was soft, the velvet surface dimpling beneath your pressure. “It has given everything to the sun without thought for the consequence. Now it hangs there, open and past its prime, waiting for someone to notice it before it falls.”

Gwayne’s eyes followed your hand.

“Do you know much of roses, Ser Gwayne?”

His expression had gone very still.

“No, my lady.”

“No?” You let your thumb trace the edge of the petal, dragging slow and idle across the bruised flesh. “A pity. They are not unlike women in that regard. They require a firm hand, not rough, but certain. They must be guided, or they climb wild, tangling with whatever brushes against them. And if handled carelessly…”

You pressed until the petal dimpled deeper beneath your thumb, the bruise spreading like an ink stain in water. “They bruise so easily.”

You looked up at him then, your lashes low. “The secret is knowing exactly how much strength a stem can bear before it breaks.”

Gwayne’s throat moved as he swallowed.

“Perhaps I should ask the gardeners instead,” you said, letting your hand fall from the rose. “They seem to understand the practical application of pressure.”

“That would be wise.”

His answer was controlled, but thinner than before, as though the words had to press past something tight to reach the air. He looked at you as though you had at last said something plainly enough to leave him no comfortable place to stand.

You waited. His hand flexed once at his side.

“You should take more care with your words,” he said. The voice was stripped bare, scraped of all the courtly veneer he had worn so carefully all afternoon.

You felt your smile soften into something far less polite. “Should I, Ser? How considerate of you to advise me.”

“This is not advice.”

“No?” You tilted your head, letting your gaze trail down his form with slow, appreciative leisure, then back to his eyes. “What is it, then? A plea? A prayer?”

Gwayne’s mouth parted, then closed again. You watched the truth he wanted to speak rise to his tongue, watched him force it back down. At last, he managed, “You know very well what you are doing.”

For one brief, clean moment, satisfaction moved through you like honey.

“I know many things, Ser Gwayne.” Your voice lowered, soft as a touch against his skin. “You will have to be plainer with me.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. A vein pulsed at his temple beneath the pale auburn of his hair.

A distant laugh rose from somewhere beyond the hedge, bright and careless, a sharp reminder of the world that existed outside this charged pocket of air.

Gwayne blinked once, as if waking from a fever dream. He stepped back with the abrupt control of a man yanking his hand from an open flame. “I should return.”

“To what?”

“To anything else.”

You laughed then, the sound escaping before you could temper it. It was absolute delight. His eyes snapped to yours. For the first time, you saw irritation there. Not the measured discomfort of a man offended for honour’s sake. It was irritation at you.

It suited him. It made him human.

“Of course,” you said, smoothing one hand over your sleeve. “I would not keep you from your many duties.”

Gwayne bowed his head, but the gesture was stiff, a jerk of the chin rather than a fluid courtesy.

“My lady.”

“Ser Gwayne.”

He turned to leave. Then stopped. You watched his spine stiffen as he fought with himself. When he looked back, his face had recovered its composure.

“You should not seek to provoke what you would not wish answered.”

The warning slid through you like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Then perhaps you should take care with your answers.”

You were irritated. Unbelievably, utterly, exhaustingly so.

Ser Gwayne Hightower had taken to avoiding you now. Not merely keeping a respectful distance, no, that would have been proper, expected, even comfortable.

He had begun avoiding you with the single-minded dedication of a man preserving himself from a plague he had already seen ravage whole cities.

His gaze would slide over you, past you, around you, as if your presence were a piece of light too bright to be borne. It would have been a rich jest, a game to be savoured, if the sting of it had not run so deep.

In the last several days, you had seen him only at supper, and even then it took Ormund’s rigid insistence upon family ritual to trap him in the same room as you.

He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, the fine silver catching the candlelight, or on Daeron, or on Ormund whenever your husband felt compelled to expound on whatever subject had presently devoured his interest.

Never you. Not a single glance. The first night, you had nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.

By the third, you had found your fingers tight around the stem of your wine cup, an image of the dark red liquid arcing across the table to splatter against his chest blooming so vividly in your mind that you had to set the cup down entirely to resist the urge.

He would converse with Daeron gently enough, turning towards the boy with a soft curve to his mouth, asking after his lessons in a voice that held none of the clipped edge he reserved for the world.

He would answer Ormund with his usual, weary patience, enduring long-winded correction, tedious commentary, and the occasional thinly disguised insult without so much as a flicker of his composure.

But you might as well have been an empty chair at the far end of a long, abandoned hall.

At one point, during the fourth course, you had reached for the salt at the same moment he had. Your fingers had not touched. They had only approached the same small silver dish, drawn by the same need.

Gwayne had seen your hand coming and had withdrawn his own as though the metal had glowed red-hot.

Across the table, Daeron’s eyes flickered between you both, swift and confused, before dropping to his plate.

Ormund, naturally, had observed nothing.

When the meal finally, blessedly ended, Gwayne rose from his chair with a controlled haste that it became a spectacle in itself. His bow to Ormund was a little too stiff.

He murmured some careful excuse about the early hour required of him in the training yard, and was gone before you had even finished setting your cup down upon the linen.

You said nothing. You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek, tasting the faint, and decided that Ser Gwayne Hightower had become far, far too pleased with his own suffering.

He was preening in his little cage of honour. It was time to rattle the bars.

The following afternoon, the insult remained with you, a stone lodged beneath your ribs. You stood in the watery light of your solar while you fastened a narrow chain of delicate silver around your throat. Letters laid open on your desk went unread; the words blurred and swam before your eyes.

The Hightower moved around you as it always did, breathing and turning and obeying the immutable currents of its own existence.

Servants passed through the corridors with soft footsteps. A steward waited just beyond the solar door, his ledger tucked under his arm, patient for your attention. Somewhere below, Olyvar’s septa was drilling him in his letters. The whole of Oldtown lay at your fingertips, a stone-and-wood body waiting for your will.

Your Hightower. And Ser Gwayne thought he could hide from you inside it.

Did the man truly not understand who you were? Did he imagine that blood alone made a fortress? Yes, he was a Hightower by birth, carried the name like a shield. Yes, his position in this house was not insignificant, second-in-line after your son.

But you, at present, were Lady of Oldtown. Wife to its lord. Mother to its heir. Mistress of its pantries, its keys, its schedules, its gardens, its chambers, its wine cellars, its very breath.

There were very few doors in this tower that would dare remain closed to you. There were even fewer people inside it willing to deny you anything you might ask of them.

If Ser Gwayne wished to truly and irrevocably escape you, he would need to leave Oldtown entirely. Better still, the Reach altogether. He would need to put the whole of the realm between his conscience and your smile, if he wanted any real and lasting certainty.

You took your seat behind the desk, arranging your skirts with a practised hand, and waited. The knock came a short while later, two crisp raps against the oak door.

You let the silence stretch, counting the seconds, letting the weight of it settle into the space between you. Only when the pause had grown long enough to become a small, pointed statement did you speak.

“Enter.”

The door swung open. Ser Gwayne Hightower stepped inside, and the quality of the light in the room seemed to shift.

He looked, unfortunately, as handsome as ever. More so, perhaps, because irritation sharpened your appreciation rather than dulled it.

His eyes found you. For a heartbeat, they rested on your face, on the length of your throat where the silver chain lay.

Then, with an effort you could almost feel in your own chest, he moved his gaze to some respectful, neutral point near your shoulder, fixing it there as though the stone of the wall behind you held absorbing interest.

“My lady,” he said, his voice low and even. He bowed his head. “You sent for me.”

“So you do remember how to come when called.” Your words came out silken, touched with just enough of a serrated edge to catch.

You sat behind your desk, one hand resting lightly over the stack of unread letters, the other lying palm-down on the polished wood. You did not invite him to sit. You did not gesture towards the chair that stood opposite.

The door, you noted, had been left ajar behind him, wide enough to preserve propriety, narrow enough to feel like a cage. You had already ensured that your maid had departed on some errand that would keep her away for the better part of the hour.

“I was not aware I had given offence,” he said carefully, each word chosen with care.

“No?”

His mouth tightened

You leaned back in your chair, the wood creaking softly beneath you, as you studied him. If he wished to behave as though you were invisible then you would make a generous, thorough effort to correct that misapprehension.

You traced the line of his brow, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw that suggested he had not shaved as closely that morning as he usually did.

“For several days now,” you said, letting the words fall slowly, “you have looked at everyone in this household except me.”

Gwayne grew very still. The stillness of a man who has been caught in a trap and is calculating whether there is any graceful way to extricate himself. He lowered his eyes, in a retreat from the challenge of your gaze. “I meant no disrespect,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“Of course not. Men rarely do when they are being insulting.”

His jaw shifted once. A quick, involuntary clench, quickly released.

You smiled faintly, letting the expression touch only your lips, not your eyes. “Tell me, Ser Gwayne. Have I become difficult to look upon, or have you merely developed some sudden, consuming fear of my face?”

“My lady—”

“You may answer plainly. I assure you, I will survive the blow.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. His hand rested at his side, the fingers perfectly still, but you had begun to recognise the effort it cost him to keep them so. At last, he looked at you properly.

“My conduct has been improper,” he said.

You lifted your brows, letting the silence draw the words out of him.

“My attention,” he said, and the word came out halting, “has been improper.”

Ah.

You let the words settle between you, turning them over, tasting them. When you looked up again, his expression was taut.

“How pious,” you said softly.

You rose from your chair. The wood of the desk was warm beneath your fingertips as you pushed yourself upright, and you saw the change in him at once.

Gwayne’s posture shifted. Almost imperceptibly, a knight bracing himself for movement, for danger. His gaze tracked you, as you came around the corner of the desk.

You moved slowly, your steps unhurried. You stopped at a proper distance. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, to catch the faint, clean scent of him.

“You are in my husband’s house,” you said, your voice pitched low. “At my husband’s table. Beneath my husband’s roof. If you are determined to behave as though that makes me impossible to see, then I must warn you, Ser Gwayne, you have chosen a very poor place in which to be blind.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

And there, beneath all that honour, all that careful, excruciating virtue, you saw it. Irritation. It warmed his face, brought a flush to his cheekbones, made his eyes glitter with something that was not quite anger and not quite desire.

Beautiful, you thought, with a flicker of cruel delight.

“You should not have sent for me,” he said. The words were ground out through clenched teeth.

You smiled. “And yet you came.”

His mouth pressed into a hard, flat line. “You must cease this.”

Your hand stilled over the correspondence. Slowly, you turned your head back towards him. “Cease what, Ser Gwayne?” Your voice was soft, almost curious.

His eyes sharpened. The green in them caught the light, flinty and hot. You watched the calculation flicker behind them, the risk of naming what he dared not name.

You let your face arrange itself into mild confusion. A little concern, even. It cost you nearly nothing, and the effect on him was immediate. His nostrils flared once. “You know very well.”

“I assure you, I do not.”

Gwayne looked towards the open door, then back to you.

The gesture was brief, but you caught it. He was measuring propriety, servants, the thin safety of appearances. He could not raise his voice. He could not accuse you too plainly. Not with the door open.

And most of all, he could not bring himself to say it. Stop looking at me. Stop calling me to you. Stop standing too close. Stop trying to make me want you.

You almost pitied him. “If I have offended you,” you said softly, “I would prefer to understand how.”

Gwayne’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

You could see the war in him, the desire to look away, to retreat, to salvage what remained of his composure. But his eyes lingered on the curve of your lips, on the slight, inviting part of them, before he wrenched his gaze back to yours with an effort that was almost violent.

The fury in his restraint was far more gratifying than any confession might have been.

“You are making sport of me,” he said.

There. As close as he could come.

You tilted your head, letting your hair slide across your shoulder. “Am I?”

He wanted to rebuke you. He wanted to leave. He wanted, perhaps most of all, for you to have enough mercy to stop forcing him to name the thing neither of you were supposed to know.

But mercy had never been among your favourite virtues.

“I had thought,” you said, letting the words drift, “that I merely summoned my husband’s cousin to ask why he has begun treating me as though I carry some illness. As though proximity to me might stain his honour.”

“You should not summon me at all.” His voice was low, threaded with something that might have been desperation.

“Because you dislike my company?”

He did not answer. He could not say yes. It would be false. He could not say no. It would be ruinous. Poor, pretty Ser Gwayne.

At last, he said, “Because it is unwise.”

Unwise. Not wrong. Not forbidden. Only unwise, as though the sin lay in the risk of discovery rather than in the act itself.

Then, very slowly, you smiled. “Then I shall try to be wiser,” you said. The softness of your voice made the lie almost beautiful.

Gwayne stared at you. He stood there, caught between the door and the desk, between duty and longing, and you could see the precise moment when he understood that you would not relent.

You turned away first, breaking the spell. You returned to your desk, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms, and picked up the folded letter as though the matter had reached its natural conclusion.

Only then, having taken what you wanted from him did you permit him the dignity of escape. “You may go now, Ser Gwayne.”

He remained there for another moment. You did not look back, but you felt him. His anger. His restraint.

Then he bowed. “My lady.”

The words were courteous. His voice was not. You listened to his steps recede. Then the quiet pull of the door as he closed it behind him. Only once he was gone did you allow yourself to smile properly.

So.

He could be made to beg.

Gwayne had come to the conclusion several days ago that the Lady of Oldtown might be the wickedest woman alive.

It was a monstrous thought to have about his cousin’s wife.

It was also becoming increasingly difficult to disprove.

He had known you for years in the vague, ordinary manner of family by marriage. Lord Ormund’s wife. Lady Hightower. The mother of the heir. A woman of excellent birth and composed manners who inhabited the Hightower as naturally as the old stone itself.

You had been beautiful, certainly. He had never been blind. But your beauty had belonged to the room in the same manner as polished silver, carved marble, costly tapestries, and all the other fine things arranged around Ormund’s life.

A pleasant, distant ornament, admired without being touched.

Months ago, before he left for King’s Landing, you had treated him as little more than another ornament in your husband’s household. A kinsman to greet. A knight to thank. A man to whom courtesy was owed and nothing more.

Now, when you looked at him, the world tilted.

It vexed him. You vexed him.

Worse still, he could not escape you.

You were everywhere.

In the training yard, seated beneath the arcade with wine and fruit at your side, watching him as though he had been placed there for your private amusement.

In the gardens, walking slowly beneath the cypress shade. The way you said his name, Gwayne, drew out the syllables like honey, letting them rest on your tongue a moment longer than necessary. The way you touched your own throat when you spoke to him, fingers trailing along the column of your neck as though you were showing him where you wanted his mouth.

At supper, beside Ormund, where you did not need to speak to him at all.

That was perhaps the worst of it.

By day, he could at least remove himself. By night, he was made to sit across from you at his cousin’s table and endure the unbearable intimacy of being observed in plain sight.

Ormund would speak. Daeron would listen with patient attention. Olyvar would lean sleepily against his mother’s side, his small hand resting on your breast without any of the meaning that haunted Gwayne’s own thoughts.

And you would look at Gwayne.

You looked rarely enough that each glance struck him cleanly. A slow lift of your eyes while reaching for your cup. The deliberate arch of your back as you leaned forward to set down your glass, the fabric of your gown tightening over the curve of your breasts.

Except he always felt it.

He began drinking less at supper. Wine softened resolve. Wine made men slow and foolish. Wine allowed thoughts to loosen from the places where discipline had bound them.

So he watered his cup more heavily, ignored Ormund’s amused remarks about moderation, and kept his hands folded or occupied with his knife whenever you were near.

It did not help. Sobriety only made him more aware. He noticed everything with painful clarity, the colour of your mouth, red and full and slightly parted, as though you were always about to speak, or to kiss.

The measured grace of your hands as you fed some small piece of fruit to Olyvar, and he could not stop imagining what they might feel like wrapped around something else. The faint perfume that followed when you passed behind his chair, a blend of jasmine and something warmer, something that made his mouth water and his groin tighten.

There were evenings when he left the table feeling as though he had survived a battle no one else had seen.

His cock would be half-hard, aching against the seam of his breeches, and he would have to walk carefully, slowly, to keep his body from betraying him.

He would retreat to his chambers and pour cold water from the basin, splashing it over his face, his neck, the burning length of his arousal, praying for relief that never came.

And sleep, which should have offered mercy, became another place where you found him.

In dreams, you were less careful. In dreams, your lips brushed his ear as you whispered things no honourable woman would ever say aloud.

I want you inside me, Gwayne. I want to feel you stretch me, fill me, ruin me.

Your hand rested over his bare chest, palm warm against the hard, uneven beat of his heart, and then slid lower, down the plane of his stomach, past the trail of auburn hair, until your fingers curled around the rigid length of his cock.

In dreams, you stroked him slowly, your thumb circling the slick head, your breath hot against his throat while you whispered that you had thought of this, of him, every night since he returned.

Sometimes he saw only fragments, the red tint of your mouth, which left marks all over his body like a brand. The dark sweep of your lashes as you looked up at him on your knees, your lips parted, your tongue tracing the tip of him before you took him into the wet heat of your mouth.

A place no man had any right to imagine you.

And yet he did. He imagined you swallowing him, your cheeks hollowed, your eyes glazed with want, your hands gripping his thighs as you took him deeper, deeper, until he spilled down your throat with a groan that tore from his chest.

He would wake before dawn with his breath unsteady and his body burning with the evidence of thoughts he had not permitted himself while conscious.

The sheets would be tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, and his cock would be painfully hard, slick with the evidence of his shame. He would lie there, staring at the dark ceiling, and feel the phantom warmth of your mouth still lingering on his skin.

Desire had made a traitor of his flesh, and no amount of cold water splashed across his face, no amount of silent, bitter prayers muttered into the dark, seemed able to make it loyal again.

So he went to the Sept.

He went more often than duty required.

In the grey hush before morning, when the candles had burned low and the air smelled of wax, Gwayne knelt before the Seven and forced discipline into himself one prayer at a time.

The chill of the floor seeped through the wool of his breeches, a grim penance against the warmth still lingering from his dreams.

To the Warrior, he prayed for strength, the strength to wrestle his own nature into submission, to look at you without hardening. To the Father, for just judgment, though he knew any fair verdict would condemn him. To the Mother, for mercy, though he did not think he deserved any measure of it.

And to the Maiden, he found himself unable to pray without shame curdling thick and bitter in his throat.

The statue regarded him with downcast stone eyes, her hands folded in a gesture of perfect innocence, and every image of purity she offered turned, wickedly, inexorably, back towards you. The fall of her marble gown became the drape of your silk. The modest curve of her mouth became the full, parted softness of your lips, red and wet and waiting.

The purity of her form dissolved into the memory of your body moving beneath candlelight, the shadow of your nipples against the fabric, the sway of your hips as you walked past his chair.

That was when he knew he was in danger.

Not when you smiled at him across the training yard. Not when he woke hard and aching from dreams of your mouth on his cock. Not even when he began avoiding the very corridors of his own kin’s house like some green boy frightened of the cook’s daughter.

No. He knew he was truly lost when sacred things began to bend around the shape of his temptation.

When the flicker of candle flames recalled the heat in your gaze. When the scent of frankincense mingled too closely with the memory of your perfume.

When the word sin no longer frightened him quickly enough, because it had become inseparable from the thought of you.

He confessed in fragments. Not to a septon. He did not trust his own mouth to form the truth where another man might hear it. Instead, he knelt with his head bowed, and spoke only inside himself, where the gods could see what he was too cowardly to name aloud.

I have entertained impure thoughts. I have looked too long. I have wanted what is not mine.

Even that was not honest enough. Because the whole truth was uglier, heavier, more damning.

He did not merely want a woman who belonged to another man. He wanted you. And some part of him, some shameful, resentful, deeply buried part he had spent years mastering, knew exactly whose wife you were and wanted you more because of it.

Ormund’s ring on your finger. Ormund’s name on your tongue. Ormund’s bed you shared, the sheets where you lay bare and willing for a man who did not deserve the half of what he possessed.

That was where guilt turned into something heavier.

Ormund, who was arrogant, impossible, vain in the way only highly cultivated men managed to be. Ormund, who had corrected him since boyhood, bested him when he could, raged when he could not, and carried every triumph as though it had been written into the order of the world.

Gwayne had learned early how to yield.

A boy could only endure so many games ruined by Ormund’s wounded pride before he understood that victory was not always worth the cost. Let him win. Let him speak. Let him stand taller if standing taller kept the peace.

Cousin. Lord. Blood.

And yet at supper, Ormund sat beside you and spoke as though everything in the room existed by his possession of it. His tower. His table. His wife.

And you looked at Gwayne over the rim of your cup.

That was the thought that made him feel most wretched. Not merely that he wanted you.

That he reveled in being wanted by you. That when Ormund’s attention was elsewhere and your gaze found Gwayne’s across the table, something low and disgraceful in him answered with a surge of savage, possessive triumph.

Not yours, cousin. Mine.

He closed his eyes, and the taste of the communion wine on his tongue was not enough to wash away the imagined sweetness of your mouth.

Gwayne bowed his head and swallowed hard, his hands clasped so tightly before him that the knuckles ached.

He prayed for deliverance, knowing he would not recognise it if it came. He prayed for punishment, knowing he deserved nothing less than the fire of seven hells.

He prayed, most of all, for the strength to stop wanting the very thing he feared, with every desperate, traitorous beat of his heart, he would not refuse if it ever came close enough.

He prayed for a grace he knew he did not possess, while his body, his treacherous, aching, unredeemed body, prayed silently for you.

Supper, again.

There was nothing unusual in that. And yet Ormund, for reasons known only to himself and whatever dark humour had taken root in him that evening, had chosen his cousin as his entertainment tonight.

It had begun lightly enough. A remark about Gwayne’s return from King’s Landing. Some comment on how the capital seemed to drain the vigour from men who were not careful of it.

Gwayne had accepted it with a faint smile and a lowered gaze, giving the answer expected of him.

Then Ormund had continued. That was always the danger with him. A single barb was never enough if the first found flesh.

“I only say it out of concern,” Ormund said, turning his cup slowly between his long fingers. “There is a certain manner men bring back from the Red Keep. A taste for ceremony over substance. They stand straighter, speak less, and begin to mistake silence for depth. Or emptiness for self-control.”

Gwayne’s expression did not change. He sat with one hand resting near his knife, the other pressed flat against his thigh, as if grounding himself in the solid weight of his own bones.

Only the faint colour along his cheekbones, deepening towards his jaw, suggested the words had landed anywhere at all.

“You find me changed, then?” he asked mildly.

“I find you quieter,” Ormund replied. “Though perhaps that is mercy. A man who speaks less reveals less of his want. It is a useful discipline.”

Daeron glanced down at his plate. You remained silent, your hand stroking Olyvar’s back in slow, absent circles.

There were many things your husband enjoyed, but few so much as the sound of a room carefully adjusting itself around his temper. He had a talent for creating discomfort without ever raising his voice.

Ormund looked to Daeron then, drawing the boy in with the careless confidence of a man who knew refusal would feel like disrespect. “You noticed it as well, surely. Ser Gwayne has returned to us a model of piety.”

Daeron’s fingers tightened around his cup. “I had thought my uncle much the same as he was,” he said carefully.

“A loyal answer,” Ormund said, smiling faintly. “Not a perceptive one. But a boy cannot be expected to read the hunger a man hides behind his prayers.”

Daeron’s face warmed.

Gwayne looked at him then, not at Ormund. The look was brief, steadying, almost protective. It seemed to say that none of this mattered, that the boy need not trouble himself trying to answer well.

Ormund leaned back, pleased with himself. “Come now, my Prince. You have spent enough time under my roof to know that affection does not require blindness. Even kin may be assessed honestly.”

Daeron swallowed. “Ser Gwayne is an honourable knight.”

“Honourable, yes,” Ormund allowed, the words falling like a judgement from a high bench. “But honour is a beginning, not an accomplishment. Many dull men are honourable because they lack the imagination to be otherwise. Or the appetite for the pleasures that require a bolder nature.”

Daeron persisted. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the table’s hush like a stone through still water. “I do not think Ser Gwayne dull.”

Ormund’s eyes slid back to him. The boy seemed to regret speaking the moment the words left him, but he did not take them back. You saw the effort it cost him to remain seated properly, to meet Ormund’s attention and not shrink from it.

Gwayne saw it too.

“My prince is kind,” he said, before Ormund could answer. His voice was calm. “But your lord is not wrong to say I am not made for the games of court and chamber. I have always been a simpler instrument.”

Ormund smiled. The smile of a man who had seen his opponent lay down his sword.

“No,” your husband said. “You were always more suited to sword and saddle. There is use in that, of course. Every house requires bodies that can be aimed. Strong hands and a willing back. A sword has no need of pride, only a hand to wield it.”

The servants continued moving as though nothing had happened. A dish was replaced. Wine was poured. Somewhere beyond the windows, the evening wind moved faintly against the stone.

Gwayne gave a small inclination of his head. “As you say, cousin.”

The words were old. Worn smooth from years of use. You looked at Gwayne and wondered how many times he had said them as a boy. How many times he had decided that yielding was simpler.

How many little contests Ormund had been allowed to win so the household might be spared his wounded pride.

Your husband turned to you then.

There was a glimmer in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, the satisfied gleam of a man who had performed precisely as he wished and now sought the most particular witness.

His wife. Beautiful, silent, seated beside him in green silk that caught the candlelight in slow, liquid shifts, watching with an expression he had not yet managed to read.

“What say you, my love?” Ormund asked. “Am I too severe?”

He wanted you to admire him.

He had taken a man apart in small, polished pieces and now expected you to praise the elegance of the blade. You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough for the silence to grow heavy with the weight of what he was not hearing.

Ormund waited, his mouth faintly curved, ready to be indulged.

Across the table, Gwayne did not move. He stared down at his cup as though your answer had nothing to do with him.

Daeron’s gaze remained fixed on his plate, a flush creeping up from his collar.

You stroked Olyvar’s hair once, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like silk, then lifted your wine.

“I think,” you said at last, “that you always know precisely how much severity a room will tolerate.”

Ormund’s smile sharpened, pleased before he understood you fully. Then something in his expression cooled by a fraction, a tightening at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of recognition that he had not been praised but measured.

You took a slow drink. The wine was warm on your tongue.

Gwayne’s eyes lifted.

They met yours across the table, and for a breathless instant, the room fell away. There was only that look, before he lowered his gaze once more.

Ormund studied you over the rim of his own cup, some private irritation passing like shadow behind his face. But there were servants in the room, and Daeron at the table, and his sleeping son tucked against your side. So he did not press you.

Instead, he gave a soft, dismissive hum.

“A wife’s answer,” he said.

You lowered your cup, the ceramic clicking softly against the wood. “Naturally. I am told I am very accomplished at being one.”

Daeron did not dare look at you.

Gwayne did. This time, he failed to hide it.

You held his gaze across the table, your face calm, your pulse strangely awake beneath your skin. There was no smile this time. Only the plain, silent acknowledgement that you had seen what Ormund had done to him. And that you had not partook.

Ormund resumed speaking before the quiet could thicken beyond his control, turning the conversation towards the rebuilding of some minor sept outside the city.

And supper ended without further incident.

That was to say, no one raised their voice, no cup was overturned, no servant was sent scurrying from the room with instructions to summon anyone of consequence.

Ormund rose from the table satisfied with himself, as he so often did, and excused himself to attend to some letters that apparently required the grave intervention of his intellect.

Daeron slipped away soon after, his shoulders dropping as he crossed the threshold. Olyvar had long since been carried to his bed, heavy-eyed and half-asleep against your shoulder before his nurse came to collect him.

You remained a little while longer.

Only when the servants began clearing the last of the cups, did you finally rise and leave the solar. The halls of the Hightower were cooler at night, the old stone holding the memory of the sea wind even when the windows were shuttered.

You had nearly reached the turn towards your personal chambers when you saw him.

Ser Gwayne stood near one of the tall arched windows, half in shadow, his hand braced lightly against the stone ledge as he looked out over the city below. Beyond the glass, the lights of Oldtown glittered like scattered embers, and the distant spire of the Starry Sept rose against the dark sky.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he straightened.

“My lady.”

You looked at him carefully in the dim torchlight. The humiliation from supper had not left him. His face was composed, but there was a tiredness around his eyes, a thinness to his mouth. A man who had endured insult after insult without allowing any of them the dignity of visible injury.

“You do that often,” you said.

Gwayne’s gaze moved to yours. “My lady?”

“Allow him to make sport of you... to bully you.”

Gwayne went still, the last of his polite greeting draining from his face like water through sand. “My cousin does not bully me,” Gwayne said.

You nearly smiled at the choice of denial. The way he said it, the lie worn smooth by repetition.

“No. Of course not. Lord Ormund is far too cultivated for anything so plain.” You let your eyes drift towards the dark window. “He merely cuts, and waits to see who is polite enough to bleed quietly.”

Gwayne’s mouth tightened. The muscle in his jaw jumped once, a small betrayal of control. “You need not defend me.”

“I did not.”

His eyes narrowed, exhaustion and something sharper. “Then why—?”

“My husband asked me a question,” you said, your voice soft and even. “I answered.”

Gwayne looked away first.

In profile, the resemblance between him and Ormund was clearer, the same noble blood shaped differently, Ormund severe and ornamental, Gwayne cleaner, warmer, made dangerous by the very effort he took to be good.

After a moment, he gave a quiet, humourless breath.

“Why do you care?”

There it was. Not accusation at first. Weariness. Frustration. Something close to embarrassment that you had seen too much.

You took a step nearer, unhurried. “Because I prefer you.”

Gwayne’s head turned back to you. For one suspended moment, the words seemed to pass through him without finding a place to settle. And you watched the slow process of their meaning sinking into his skin like water into thirsty ground.

Then weariness hardened into anger so quickly you almost felt the air shift with it.

“You should not say such things.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” His voice was low, rough at the edges. “You are married.”

“I am aware.”

“This is not some idle game.”

“No?” You let the word linger, arching your brow just enough to catch the torchlight.

“No.” He stepped closer then, not enough to threaten, but enough that you felt the heat of his temper more keenly than before. “Whatever amusement you find in this, whatever pleasure you take in provoking me, it is sin. It is dishonour. It is adultery.”

You watched him, unmoved. The word hung in the air like a bell that had been struck and was still trembling.

“We have committed no adultery,” you said softly, your voice dropping to a murmur that seemed to brush against his skin. “Not yet.”

Gwayne stared at you.

The silence after that was almost violent. His breath came shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath the fine wool of his doublet.

His throat moved once, and you had the sudden impression that every prayer he had ever spoken had risen in him at once and found no answer strong enough to silence the want curling in his gut.

He looked appalled by you. By himself. By the fact that you had taken the ugliest word he possessed and handled it as though it were merely a door neither of you had opened.

“Do not,” he said, but his voice cracked on the second word.

He was angry. Humiliated. Aroused. You could see each one warring through him, as they bled into each other, staining his composure, making his breath come faster.

“You should return to your chambers,” he said, but the words were barely audible now.

“You should stop telling me what I ought to do.”

His breath left him through his nose, a sharp, frustrated sound that was almost a groan. Anyone might turn the corner. A servant, a guard, Ormund himself. Gwayne was surely thinking the same thing. Still, he did not move.

You lifted your hand and touched his chest. Your palm settled over the front of his doublet, light enough to be refused, deliberate enough that refusal would require movement.

The fabric was warm from his body, fine and smooth beneath your fingers. Beneath it, you felt the solid wall of his chest, the hard muscle tensing at your touch.

His breath caught.

Beneath the fine cloth, his body went rigid. You felt the hard shape of him, the held breath, the living warmth beneath all that piety. The heat of his skin seemed to seep through the layers, reaching for yours.

His eyes dropped to your hand. Then, suddenly, his fingers closed around your wrist.

It was the first time Gwayne had touched you as a man rather than a courtier offering courtesy. His grip was firm and warm, the calluses of his palm rough against the soft skin of your inner wrist.

You looked up at him.

His face had changed. The anger was still there, but it had been overtaken by something more dangerous. Want, stripped of all its polite disguises.

His pupils had dilated, the torchlight catching the dark gleam of his eyes. His lips parted slightly, and you saw the quick movement of his tongue wetting them.

He was looking at you now as he had fought not to look for days, with his restraint pulled so taut that one more breath might snap it entirely.

Your wrist remained caught in his hand. Neither of you moved.

Then his gaze fell to your mouth. This time, he did not pretend otherwise. His eyes traced the curve of your lips, the slight parting of them, the shine of moisture where your tongue had touched.

You felt the smallest shift in him before it happened. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your pulse point.

His body leaned nearer by a fraction, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. His eyes lifted once to yours, as though searching for some last warning, some final scrap of sense.

You gave him none.

For one wild, breathless instant, you thought he would kiss you.

He would kiss you as the man who had sat across from you at supper and endured your husband’s insults while your gaze rested on the bruise of his pride. He would kiss you as the man who had prayed against wanting you and failed.

His mouth came close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath, the faint brush of air across your lips. His chest pressed against your hand, the rapid beat of his heart hammering against your palm.

Then he stopped.

A muscle jumped in his jaw, tight and hard as a bowstring. His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, something cold and brutal had returned to them. The hunger was locked away, and in its place stood a fortress.

He released your wrist as though it had burned him.

You remained very still, your hand falling slowly back to your side, the memory of his calloused palm scorched into your skin.

Gwayne stepped away, putting cold stone between you.

“You shame yourself,” he said, his voice low and rough, “And you would have me drown in that shame with you.”

The words struck cleanly, a blade drawn across the softest part of your pride. For a second, there was no sound but the faint hiss of the nearest torch and the ragged sound of his breathing, quick and shallow as a hunted thing.

Then heat rose beneath your skin, not the sweet warmth of desire, but the bitter burn of humiliation. You had offered him the victory of your nearness, the scent of your skin, the softness of your mouth beneath his.

And then he had chosen to rebuke you as though he had not been one breath from proving himself no better than the rest… as though his own cock had not been stiff with the very sin he now condemned.

“Do not flatter yourself, Ser Gwayne.” Your voice emerged smooth and cold. “Do not mistake a moment’s curiosity for a need I am desperate to repeat.”

His expression flickered. Shock. Shame. Something raw and wounded beneath.

“You must not speak to me so again,” he said, but the authority had drained from it, leaving only a plea and a warning tangled together.

Your smile vanished.

Something in Gwayne’s face shifted when he saw it, some belated understanding that he had passed from guilt into insult.

And that you, unlike the gods he prayed to every night, were not inclined towards mercy. You stepped back. This time, he was the one who looked unsettled, his hand lifting an inch as though to reach for you before he caught himself.

“Then you shall be relieved to know I have no reason to remain here.” Your voice had gone cool enough to frost the stone between you, to freeze the very heat you had stoked between his thighs. “I ought to return to my husband. He will not turn from what I offer.”

Gwayne flinched. The mention of Ormund, a lash across his conscience.

You gathered your skirts and turned from him, anger carrying you before pride could be made to limp behind it. You did not look back. Not once.

Let him stand there with his honour. Let him pray over the taste of almost. You had offered him the edge of something exquisite, and he had chosen to bleed himself on restraint rather than fall into the sweetness of your body.

Very well, you would return to Ormund.

And Ser Gwayne Hightower could choke on whatever holy comfort he found in that.

For the first three days, Gwayne told himself he had been granted mercy

He woke each morning with the ghost of your scent still tangled in the linen and the shameful, persistent stiffness of his cock beneath the sheets. The remnant of dreams so vivid they left him breathless and aching. Dreams of your mouth. The weight of your thigh over his hip.

He punished his body to quiet his mind.

He rode until his thighs burned and the saddle rubbed him raw, forcing exhaustion into his bones so that sleep might come without your face behind his eyelids.

He sparred until sweat darkened his tunic and the ache in his shoulders became something pure, something that had nothing to do with the memory of your skin beneath his hand.

He prayed in the sept until his knees bruised on the cold stone, begging the Mother and the Maiden to scour your image from his thoughts.

It did not work.

By the fourth day, the truth cracked through his ribs like a splintered lance. Your silence was not mercy. It was the most exquisite punishment you could have devised against him.

Because he had spent every hour organising himself around the task of resisting you. The war had given his days shape.

Do not look at her mouth. Do not imagine the weight of her breast in your palm. Do not let your voice soften when you speak her name. Do not think of her cunt… warm, wet, waiting for a husband who does not deserve it.

Every moment had possessed its own private battle. Then, suddenly, the siege was lifted. The enemy had withdrawn behind her walls. And he was left standing on the empty field with his sword drawn, looking like the greatest fool in the Seven Kingdoms.

He became a hound scenting the air for a master who had locked him out.

At supper, you starved him. When courtesy compelled a greeting, your voice emerged smooth and cool as river-stone.

“Ser Gwayne.” No honeyed edge. No secret sliding of your gaze down the length of his body.

“My lady,” he answered, and the effort of keeping his voice level made his jaw ache.

It made his throat tight with the effort of pretending he did not want to drag you from that chair and take you against the nearest wall.

Then you turned away.

You looked at Ormund. You laid your hand on Ormund’s arm. You smiled at him. It should have relieved him, this withdrawal. Seven above, he had begged for it.

Had he not gone to the sept with his hands clasped too tightly, praying for the strength to remove you from his thoughts? Had he not rebuked you in the corridor with every scrap of honour left to him?

You were doing exactly what decency demanded.

And it was ruining him.

By the third supper, he felt the absence of your gaze like a physical deprivation. He had condemned that gaze so fiercely when he possessed it. He had called it temptation. He had called it wickedness.

Now, without it, he felt like some poor living thing dragged from the sun, withering in the cold. That thought shamed him nearly as much as the dreams.

You were cruel, Gwayne decided. No woman could do what you had done by accident.

No woman could spend weeks drawing a man’s desire out from beneath his armour, teaching his body to answer yours like a well-strung lute, and then step back into the safety of cold courtesy as if she had merely been practicing a dance.

As if his prayers, his shame, his despair had been nothing more than an entertainment that had briefly failed to please you.

But the true poison in the cup was Ormund.

Gwayne had endured his cousin all his life. Ormund’s pride. His theatrical displeasures. The exquisite little humiliations dressed as wit. That was familiar territory. Irritating, yes. Often humiliating. But known.

Now, however, he found himself aware of Ormund in ways he had never permitted himself before.

Aware of how often Ormund addressed you, seeking your ear. Aware of the way your husband’s hand rested at the back of your chair. Aware of how Ormund sought your approval with a subtle, wheedling persistence that should have been laughable.

It was not laughable.

Because Gwayne watched you lean into that touch. Watched you offer Ormund the attention that he was dying for. He imagined Ormund in your chambers. He imagined your husband’s hands on your skin, his mouth on your throat, his body moving over yours in the dark.

One evening, Ormund spoke at length about some carved screen he had commissioned for the lower hall. He described the quality of the wood, the way the artisan had coaxed the figures from the surface like peeling back a lover’s gown.

He praised the cleverness of the design, the interlacing vines and hidden beasts, and then, with that familiar curl of his lip, dismissed the inferior works of other houses. He performed. He always performed.

And though half the room might have been spared by a merciful collapse of the ceiling, you listened. Not with affection, Gwayne could see that plainly enough. You did not adore Ormund. But you indulged him.

You tilted your head at the correct moment. You gave him a faint smile over your wine, lips parting just enough to wet the rim of the cup. You offered, in that smooth voice, exactly enough admiration to satisfy him.

“It is finely chosen,” you said. “You have always had a good eye for ornament.”

Ormund’s face warmed with pleasure, his chest puffing slightly as he reached for your hand where it rested near his plate. He lifted it to his lips, a slow kiss to your knuckles.

Gwayne wanted to be the one holding your hand. He wanted to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, wanted to taste the salt of your skin on his tongue. He looked down at his plate instead. He hated himself for that too. Hated, most of all, the vile little thought that came again before he could stop it, curling through his mind like smoke from a censer,

She does not want him.

It brought him no peace. Only more shame. Because you might not want Ormund, but you sat beside him. You wore his house colours. You bore his name. You had borne his son, had given that smug, undeserving man a child from your own womb.

When the household looked at you, they saw Lady Hightower, Lord Ormund’s wife. And still, when you laughed softly at something Ormund said, a throaty sound that made Gwayne’s sack ache, he felt betrayed.

By the next supper, he was no better.

You arrived late, though not so late as to be remarked upon. Ormund looked up first, displeasure prepared and then softened, as it often did, by the sight of you. His eyes trailed over your gown, the low cut of the bodice, the way the fabric clung to the swell of your breasts.

Olyvar brightened at once and reached for you when you passed behind his chair, and you bent to kiss your son’s head.

Gwayne looked at his cup. He told himself not to look again.

Then Ormund said your name.

Not sharply. Merely summoning your attention to some matter beside him. You leaned closer to your husband, one hand resting lightly against the table, close enough that your fingers brushed his. Gwayne saw the way his cousin’s hand turned, palm up, inviting yours to rest within it. He saw you place your hand in Ormund’s.

He felt the movement like a hand closing around his throat.

He looked up despite himself. Then, as though feeling Gwayne’s gaze across the table, your eyes lifted. At last.

For one breath, you looked at him. Only a cool acknowledgement, as one might grant a man whose presence was expected and uninteresting. Then you returned your attention to your husband.

The pain of it was so precise it almost steadied him. A clean, sharp blade slipped between his ribs. Yes, he thought, staring down at his untouched wine, his jaw tight, his throat dry.

Wickedest woman alive.

Your existence must have driven him to madness. There was no other sensible explanation. No other defence for why, after a week of praying against you, he had written a note with his own hand and left it in your solar.

He had not trusted a servant with it. The thought alone had sickened him. No. If disgrace was to be invited, he had at least possessed the miserable dignity of delivering the invitation himself.

The note had been brief. Painfully so.

My lady, If you would grant me a private word after supper, I shall await you in my chambers. Ser Gwayne Hightower

A private word. What a cowardly phrase. What a polished little lie. What he wanted was not words.

He did not know what he wanted from you. Explanation, perhaps. Some answer for why you had made a ruin of his thoughts and then withdrawn as though he had ceased to amuse you. Or comfort, though the shame of desiring comfort from you nearly made him crush the parchment in his hand.

Perhaps he wanted you to look at him. That was the worst possibility. That he had summoned his cousin’s wife to his chambers after supper because he could no longer bear being deprived of her gaze.

By the time the meal ended, Gwayne was certain he had made a catastrophic mistake. By the time he reached his chambers, he was certain of very little.

He paced like a condemned man. The room was orderly, as it always was. Nothing in the chamber suggested sin. Nothing in it looked capable of holding you. And yet the air felt altered because he was waiting for you inside it.

Gwayne stopped before the small polished mirror and immediately despised himself for doing so. Still, he adjusted his collar. Then smoothed his hair. Then did it again. The ridiculousness of it struck him with almost physical force. He was a grown man. Years your senior, no less.

He turned away from the mirror. Then turned back once more, his fingers brushing the front of his breeches where the fabric had begun to tent, pressing himself flat in a futile attempt at composure.

“Seven preserve me,” he muttered.

A knock came at the door.

His heart stilled. For one absurd moment, he thought of not answering, of letting the note remain unanswered and the shame remain private. But his body moved before cowardice could complete the thought. His hand found the latch.

He opened the door. And for a moment, Gwayne forgot every carefully prepared word.

You stood in the corridor, dressed for the night, or near enough to it to undo him utterly. A pristine pale nightgown showed beneath a robe fastened at your waist, the fabric modest in shape and devastating in implication.

The thin linen clung to the swell of your breasts, and he could see the dark shadow of your nipples beneath, the way the cloth dipped to follow the curve of your ribs.

Your hair was loose over your shoulders, freed from the pins and ornaments that usually made you Lady Hightower before the court. In the softer glow, you looked less like an apparition than something far more tempting.

Your brow lifted slightly. The movement drew his eyes to the arch of it, the line of your jaw, the soft parting of your lips. “You summoned me, Ser Gwayne.”

The coolness in your voice bit deeper than accusation might have done.

He stepped aside without trusting himself to speak.

You entered with a calm that felt obscene given the hour. Your eyes moved once around his chambers, taking in the bed, the devotional candle burning low near the window. A slow, faint smile touched your mouth, and he watched the way your lips curved. “How improper.”

The words were quiet. Almost idle.

Gwayne closed the door. The sound seemed too loud, a thud that echoed, sealing the two of you inside.

“You came,” he said. His voice was rougher than he intended.

You turned towards him, the loose spill of your hair shifting over your robe. “You called.”

His hands closed briefly at his sides before he forced them open. He could see the outline of your thighs through the linen, the shadow between your legs where the fabric fell in a soft V.

“I did.”

Gwayne could feel his restraint fraying in real time. The fabric of his breeches grew damp at the tip as a bead of precum leaked out.

You looked at him for a moment, then allowed your gaze to drift once more to the devotional candle. “Did I interrupt your prayers?”

That was when something in him finally broke. “You should not mock prayer.” His voice came out harsh, the words bitten off.

Your eyes returned to him, mild as ever. “I merely asked a question.”

“You know what you asked.” He took a step closer, then stopped himself, his fists clenching at his sides.

“And you know why you sent for me,” you replied.

Gwayne stared at you, and all at once the week rose inside him… every sleepless night, every wet dream, every prayer he had tried to drown you in. It surged up from his gut, and hardened his voice into something ragged.

“You are cruel,” he said.

Your expression barely changed, but something sharpened, a glint of satisfaction. “Am I?”

“Yes.” The word left him too quickly, too raw, and with it came the rest. “You have made a sport of me from the moment I returned. You looked at me over the supper table, and every look was a promise you never meant to keep. You smiled, knowing exactly how it tightened my breeches. You whispered your little meanings beneath every harmless word, and when I would not give you what you wanted, you withdrew as though I were nothing.”

You watched him with a stillness that made him angrier. The quiet composure of a cat watching its prey exhaust itself.

“You do not get to look surprised,” he said, his voice trembling now with the effort of restraint. “Not with me. You know exactly what you have done to me.”

“I have done very little, Ser Gwayne.”

The title, in that voice made something in him snap.

“Little?” He stepped away from the door, unable to remain still, his boots heavy on the stone. “You have bewitched my mind. You have tainted every prayer I offer until the words turn to ash on my tongue. You have brought shame into the sept with me. I kneel before the Mother and the Maiden and find your face, your body, beneath the robes of every goddess.”

Your lips parted faintly. The smile on your face brightened. Your nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric of your gown. In interest.

Gwayne saw it, and it unsteadied him worse than outrage could have. “You are pleased,” he said, the words hollow. “Gods help me, you are pleased to hear this.”

You lowered your lashes for a moment, but not quickly enough to hide the triumphant glimmer there. “I am listening.”

“No. You enjoy tormenting me.”

You took one slow step closer. Gwayne went still. His whole body locked, every muscle taut.

“My poor Ser Gwayne,” you said, so gently it felt like mockery wearing silk. “Have I truly made you suffer so?”

Your gaze dropped deliberately to the front of his breeches, where the straining fabric left nothing to the imagination. A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. “It seems you are suffering even now.”

His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “Do not.”

Your face softened into innocence. “Do not what?”

He looked at you then and hated how beautiful you were. Hated that his fury had brought a glow to your face and pleasure to your eyes. “You know.”

“I am afraid you must be plainer.”

He could hear the provocation in it, the demand for more.

“You want me to say it?” His voice rose before he could stop it. “You want me to stand here and confess that I have thought of your mouth wrapped around my cock for nights on end? That I have woken with your name caught behind my teeth and my seed hot on my belly? That I cannot hear Ormund speak of you as his wife without wanting to silence him with my fist and and bend you over the nearest surface?”

He took another step, then stopped himself, fists clenched so hard the tendons stood out. “You have made me faithless. You have made me resent my own blood. You have made me want sin, and worse, you made me miss it when you took it away..”

For the first time, you did not immediately answer. The quiet pleased him and terrified him in equal measure. You stood close enough now that the heat of your body reached his. Then you smiled.

Triumphant.

“You missed me.”

Gwayne stared at you. That was all you had taken from it. Not his guilt. Not his horror. Not the vile, glorious wreckage he had laid at your feet. You missed me. His anger returned so swiftly it nearly steadied him. “You are impossible.”

You came nearer. Slowly, as though approaching something wounded enough to bite. “You hate that you want this,” you murmured.

Gwayne’s breath altered. He felt it betray him, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly.

“Say I am wrong,” you whispered, your lips so close now that he could almost taste the words.

He said nothing. The denial died in his throat, strangled by the sight of your lips. You lifted your hand. It trembled, a tiny flaw in your perfect composure that sent a thrill through him.

Gwayne caught your wrist before you could touch him.

His fingers closed around the delicate bones, the soft skin. Your pulse hammered wildly against his thumb. He felt it. You looked down at his hand around you, then back up at him. The satisfaction simmering in your face became unmistakable.

He had meant to stop you. Instead, he was holding you.

Your voice came low, a velvet knife against his raw nerves. “There you are.”

Gwayne released you as though waking from a fever. He stepped back, and the cold air that rushed between you was a cruelty he had not deserved but accepted like penance. You remained where you were, unmoved, unashamed. Your eyes were bright with victory.

He hated you then. The hatred was a hot, venomous thing in his chest.

“You should leave,” he said.

For a moment, you only stared at him.

Then the pleasure left your face. Like a curtain drawn back from a colder room. Your mouth settled into a hard, disdainful line. Whatever warmth had gathered between you curdled instantly into something proud and wounded, and Gwayne knew that he had struck not your conscience but your vanity.

“How tedious you are,” you said, the words dipped in vitriol.

His breath remained uneven, ragged.

“You summon me to your chambers like a man half-mad with rut,” you continued, voice low and cutting, your gaze dropping deliberately to the hard outline straining against his breeches. “Accuse me of bewitching you, speak of sin and ruin as though I held a knife to your cock, and now I am to leave because your courage—”

You let out a soft, cruel laugh.

“—has failed you again.”

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. “You should never have come. I made a mistake.”

You laughed softly then, but there was no amusement in it.

“Yes,” you said. “you made a mistake. You thought you could look upon the fire and not be burned.”

Then you turned.

You let your hair spill across your back, let the silk of your robe drape over the curve of your hip. At the door, your hand touched the frame. You paused. Without looking back, you delivered the killing stroke.

“My husband awaits me in our bed, Ser Gwayne. He does not pray for permission. He does not tremble. If you do not want me, Ormund surely will.”

The words hit him like a blade sliding between his ribs. Then something in him snapped. It was the last thin thread of his obedience. His piety. His honour. His fear of the Seven. All of it fell away in a single, hot rush.

Gwayne crossed the room before sense could catch him. His hand closed around your arm and he wrenched you back towards him with such force that you stumbled against his chest.

Then he was kissing you.

There was no gentleness in the first collision. None. Only the brutal, devouring hunger he had been choking down since the first night you looked at him across Ormund’s table.

For half a heartbeat, you went still. Testing him. Then you yielded. A soft, satisfied sound, a hum of pure approval, escaped your throat and went through him like a razor dipped in honey.

Your mouth opened beneath his, warm and eager, and Gwayne felt the last of his restraint shudder out of him in a ragged groan against your lips. Your arms rose around his neck, drawing him closer with such shameless welcome that he actually did groan, a broken sound of pure, animal relief.

You did not resist. Your tongue swept against his, you let him plunder your mouth and then answered it as though you had been waiting for him to stop pretending he was anything better than this.

A sinner and a thief of another man’s wife.

His hands found your waist. The silk of your robe was smooth beneath his palms, but the body beneath it was no dream at all. He slid one hand lower, gripping the curve of your hip, then the full swell of your ass, pulling you hard against the aching length of him.

You gasped into his mouth and pressed closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, your thighs pressing together against his.

Gwayne lost the ability to think in anything but fragments of pure, burning sensation, the wet heat of your mouth, the taste of wine, the soft, pleased catch in your throat when he kissed you harder, when his teeth grazed your tongue, when his hips pressed forward in an involuntary thrust, grinding himself against the soft cradle of your thighs.

He had imagined this too many times and not once had imagination been merciful enough to prepare him for this. Reality was a thousand times worse.

He could not stop. Even when some distant, horrified remnant of himself commanded him to pull away, his body refused. His mouth moved over yours again and again, harder, wetter, more desperate, as though if he devoured you thoroughly enough, he might pass the torment back into you and be free of it.

But you only held him closer. You moaned against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body arching into his. You accepted his ruin like tribute.

He kissed you until he seemed to remember, all at once, that breathing was required of mortal men.

Only then did he break away. Barely.

His forehead came to rest against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing the tip of your own, his breath hot and uneven against your damp, parted lips.

For several moments, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the ragged pull of his breathing, the soft rustle of silk as your body shifted against his.

Your lips were flushed from him. The sight of them, of his work upon your mouth, nearly undid him all over again. “Why?” he asked.

The word came out rougher than he intended. He closed his eyes briefly, his forehead still pressed to yours, his hands still gripping your waist.

“Out of every man who would fall over himself for one smile from you. Every knight, every lord, every fool at court who would crawl if you asked it of him.” His voice roughened further. “Why me?”

You lifted one hand from his neck and touched the side of his face, your thumb resting lightly near the sharp line of his cheekbone, tracing the faint stubble there with a slowness that made his breath catch.

He held utterly still beneath it, a hawk frozen by the weight of a gaze.

It was almost tender. Almost.

“Just to see if I could.”

Gwayne opened his eyes. For a moment, the words cut so cleanly he could not feel the wound. To see if I could.

Not because you had suffered with wanting him. Not because you had prayed against him, dreamed of him, hated yourself for the shape of him in your thoughts. Not because you had lain awake at night, hand between your thighs, imagining the weight of his body on yours. Not because he was good. Not because he was loved.

Because you had looked at him and wondered whether he could be made to break. And he had.

The pain of it should have steadied him. It should have returned his anger, his dignity, some sharp fragment of self-preservation.

Instead, he looked at you and thought, with a despair so complete it nearly became peace, that he would cut his own heart from his chest and lay it in your hands if you asked him sweetly enough.

How cruel you were. How plainly, exquisitely cruel. And still, beneath your gaze, he felt chosen. Blessed, almost. The blasphemy of that thought should have driven him to his knees before the Seven. Instead it kept him standing there with you in his arms.

“I knew it,” you whispered, your voice a low, velvet purr. A faint smile touched your swollen lips. “I knew you wanted me.”

Gwayne’s grip tightened at your waist, his fingers digging into the silk of your robe. “You are wicked.”

“Yes.”

“You are vain.”

“Yes.”

“You are faithless.”

Your smile softened, but only at the edges, a flicker of something almost tender. “And yet.”

And yet. And yet he wanted you. And yet his cousin’s wife stood in his chambers with her arms around his neck, looking at him as though all his honour had only made the conquest sweeter.

Gwayne closed his eyes for one brief, agonised moment.

He despised you. He loved you.

The two truths struck together inside him until he could no longer tell which was meant to save him and which was meant to damn him.

His mouth crashed against yours with a force that drove you back a step, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you hard against him so that you could feel the full, aching length of him, pressed against the soft cradle of your belly.

His hand rose to your jaw, fingers splaying along the delicate bone, thumb pressing against the hinge as he angled your head and kissed you with everything he had tried to bury.

He felt your smile against his lips, the way it softened the kiss even as his tongue plunged deeper. And yet somehow that seemed to upset him more.

His hands slid down your sides, over the curve of your hips, then lower still, palms flattening against the backs of your soft thighs. Without a second thought, he gripped the soft flesh and hauled you up against him, lifting you clean off the floor.

A delighted squeal escaped your throat, quickly swallowed as you wrapped your legs around his waist, your ankles locking behind him.

The shift of your weight pressed the damp, heated core of you directly against his stomach, and he groanedd as the sensation shot a jolt straight to his cock.

The laugh you let out against his lips was breathless, almost musical, “How wild you are with your lady, Ser Gwayne.”

In response, he kissed you rougher. His tongue tangled with yours, wet and demanding, as he walked backwards, one hand gripping the curve of your ass, the other flattened against your spine.

He broke the kiss only to mutter against your mouth, “I wished for respite. And you have granted me none.”

You broke out in an evil smile, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently. And yet how domestic the two of you must have looked, you cradled in his arms, your thighs locked around his hips. He held you as though you were precious, even as he carried you with long strides toward his bed.

“You cannot blame me for every wicked thought in your head.”

“I can blame you for putting them there,” Gwayne murmured.

Despite his rough handling, he sat you down on the edge of his bed with surprising gentleness. The mattress dipped beneath your weight. He stood over you, chest heaving, hands flexing at his sides as though he was restraining himself from simply tearing the clothes from your body.

You shrugged out of your robe, letting the silk fall from your shoulders in a whisper of fabric. Beneath it, your nightgown clung to every curve, the thin material barely concealing the peaks of your breasts, the sweet swell of your hips.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still slick and swollen from his kisses, and he had to resist the urge to drool over you.

“You flatter me,” you hummed.

“I condemn you,” he said.

And yet despite his words, his hands moved to the laces of his vest, pulling them loose with rough, impatient tugs. His chest was bare now, the muscles tensing and relaxing with each ragged breath.

His eyes roamed over you as though this would be the only time he ever saw you like this, as though he was memorising every curve, every inch of skin the candlelight touched.

“With your hands on me?”

Your wit was beyond him. You seemed to take great pleasure in angering him, in mocking him, in watching the war wage behind his eyes. All he could do was lean toward you, his hands finding the soft warmth of your thighs, fingers sinking into flesh as though he meant to anchor himself.

You leaned up to meet him, close enough to feel the heat of his breath.

He murmured, almost hypnotised by your lips once more, his gaze tracing the curve of your mouth, “I have prayed against this.”

“And have the Seven answered?” you whispered, mockingly sweet, your voice a velvet taunt.

Gwayne’s brows furrowed. A muscle twitched in his jaw. The prayer had gone unanswered, of course. And now, with your thighs warm beneath his palms, he knew there was no salvation left for him.

Then, suddenly, he moved.

His hands hooked behind your knees, dragging your legs to the edge of the bed with a rough, decisive pull. You let out a surprised noise as your back hit the mattress, your hair spilling across the pillows. You bent your knees instinctively, parting them slightly, and without prompt, Gwayne’s fingers found the hem of your nightgown.

He began to slide it up your beautiful bare legs.

The silk whispered against your skin, inch by inch, revealing the soft swell of your calves, the tender flesh of your inner thighs. The more skin exposed, the more excited and nervous he became. His eyes moved to lock with yours, pools of warmth, and he wanted to drown in them.

He dragged the nightgown higher, baring your hips, the dip of your belly, the shadowed apex of your thighs. And then he dropped his eyes. Oh gods above. You were bare there as well.

No shift, no smallclothes, no linen between him and the glistening, mouth-watering sight of your cunt. The folds were slick and swollen, and wet, the lips parted as though they had been waiting for him. The candlelight caught the sheen of your arousal, a dewy trail that glistened in the nest of dark curls above.

His throat went dry. His tongue felt thick and useless. What could he say now? He stared, utterly transfixed, his hands frozen on the bunched silk at your waist.

“Say something, Gwayne,” you breathed, your voice a husky murmur, your hips shifting slightly, an invitation, a taunt. “The Seven have struck you dumb?”

He swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving the sight of you. When he finally spoke, his voice was a hoarse rasp, “I have no prayers left for this.”

His thumb moved, almost of its own accord, tracing a featherlight line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just short of where you ached for him. He closed his eyes, a low, tortured groan escaping his lips. Is this what his cousin got to smell every day?

The thought fanned a flame of dark jealousy in his chest. Ormund was spoiled beyond measure, and he never even knew the treasure he had, the altar he neglected.

He opened his eyes, lifting his gaze to you. You were watching him, bated breath, lips parted, eyes heavy with a hunger that matched his own. You gave him a subtle nod, a silent command that brooked no argument. Your fingers threaded through his hair, a gentle but firm pressure urging him forward.

And who was he to deny his lady?

He dipped his head, and the first stroke of his tongue was a revelation. A slow, flat stripe from the slick, fluttering entrance of your cunt, all the way up to the tight, swollen pearl hidden in its hood. The taste of you flooded his senses, he groaned against you, the vibration making you gasp and arch into his mouth.

“Do you taste it?” you taunted weakly, your voice a broken whisper, pleasure bleeding through the mockery. “The sin on your tongue?”

He pulled back just enough to answer, his lips brushing against your slick inner thigh. “I taste nothing but you. Only you. I have tasted nothing so divine in all my life. This is the only altar I will ever kneel at again.”

He went back in, ravenous now. He licked and sucked, his tongue circling your pearl before flicking it sharply, before flattening and pressing broad, wet kisses against your entire cunt.

He learned you quickly; what made you cry out, what made your hips buck, what made your fingers tighten painfully in his hair. He drove his tongue into you, fucking you with it, lapping at your opening like a man dying of thirst.

Your taste coated his lips, his chin, his cheeks. He was utterly lost, a drowning man who had finally found the ocean he was meant to perish in. He needed more of you. He needed to be inside you in every way possible.

His thumb found your pearl, pressing and circling in time with his tongue, while his other hand fumbled down his own body, his cock aching and hard beneath his breeches, but he denied himself for now.

He needed to taste your peak. He needed to feel it on his tongue. He slid one thick finger into you.

“Oh, fuck…” you moaned, your head thrown back against the pillows.

The heat of you wrapped around his finger, clenching tight, gripping him as if begging him not to leave. He gasped against your cunt, his eyes rolling back.

“Gods, you are so tight, my lady. How will I ever…” He pushed a second finger in, stretching you carefully, feeling your walls flutter and grip. “How will I ever fit my cock inside you when you squeeze my fingers so sweetly?”

“You will make yourself fit, Gwayne,” you insisted, your nails raking his scalp. “You will fill me until I cannot remember my own name. You will stretch me until I forget the feel of my husband’s cock.”

He groaned, a sound torn from the depths of his chest, and curled his fingers inside you, finding that rough, secret spot that made you scream.

“That’s it, my sweet knight,” you purred, your voice a velvet whip. “Drink from me. This is what you starved for while you knelt in the sept and begged for deliverance. There is no deliverance here. Only me.”

He pulled his mouth away just long enough to answer, his lips slick. “I have never wanted anything the way I want to be buried inside you. To feel you clench around me. To hear you scream my name until your voice breaks.”

He returned to his feast with a desperation that bordered on madness. His fingers pumped steadily, while his tongue was a relentless, flickering fire on your pearl. He was utterly consumed. The world had narrowed to the space between your thighs.

“Gwayne…” you gasped, your inner walls beginning to flutter and clamp around his fingers. “I am so close… I am going to… oh, gods, I am going to—”

But he did not stop. He could not stop. He was drunk on you, starving for you, and the thought of your release flooding his tongue was the only thing that existed in the universe.

Your first peak crashed over you like a wave of fire and lightning. Your body locked up, a sharp, keening cry tearing from your throat as your release gushed over his fingers and into his waiting mouth.

He drank it greedily, his tongue lapping at your pearl, swallowing every drop of your pleasure as though it were the holiest of sacraments.

But he did not relent.

The pleasure was blinding, a sharp, sweet agony, but his tongue kept moving, laving at your oversensitive pearl, his fingers still thrusting inside you, milking you for every last shuddering wave.

“Gwayne!” you gasped, your hands clawing at his hair, trying to pull him away. “Too much… it is too much…!”

He was deaf to it. He was drowning. The overstimulation was unbearable, a fire that burned too brightly, and yet his mouth was relentless, chasing more of your taste.

You had to shove him, your body arching away on the bed, your thighs snapping shut around his head to block him.

“Stop! Please, stop, I cannot—!”

He lifted his head, finally, lips slick and swollen, cheeks flushed, chin glistening with your wetness. His eyes were wild and dark, pupils blown wide with a hunger that was far from sated.

“Did… did I hurt you?” His voice was hoarse, confused, as if he was just waking from a fever dream.

“No…” you panted, your chest heaving, your thighs still trembling from the force of your release. “No, just too much…”

He blinked, realisation dawning slowly. A slow, sinful, utterly satisfied smile spread across his glistening lips.

“Forgive me, my lady. I was lost in you. I could not bear to let you go. I did not know you had crested until you pushed me away.”

He crawled up your body, his hard length pressing against your slick thigh, leaving a trail of your own wetness on your skin as he moved. The rough wool of his breeches scratched against your oversensitive flesh.

“But now…” He lowered his mouth to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “I fear I must taste that relief for myself. Inside you.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your ragged pants.

“Tell me you want it. Say the words, my lady. Give me the sin I have prayed against, and I will worship you until the sun rises.”

Once again, that feline smile formed on your lips, slow and wicked, as you drank him in. His flushed state was a masterpiece… sweat beading at his temples, his lips still slick and swollen from his feast, your wetness glistening on his chin like a sacred anointing.

His pure blue eyes stared at you with such naked devotion, that it made your cunt clench around nothing, hungry for the fullness only he could provide.

“I shall never deny you, my love.”

The words slipped from your tongue like honeyed poison, and you watched the effect take hold. His breath hitched. His pupils, already blown wide, seemed to shatter and reform. That single endearment struck him deeper than any blade.

His pretty blue eyes welled with sudden, unshed tears, glistening in the candlelight. He was trying to master himself, throat working as he swallowed down the emotion that threatened to break him.

You almost pitied the man.

Your hands moved while his heart was still reeling, fingers finding the laces of his breeches. He was so lost in the storm of your words that he did not even notice until your warm palm wrapped around his cock.

The sound he made, a surprised and strangled grunt, was muffled against your mouth as you claimed his lips briefly.

His hips jerked forward, thrusting instinctively into your grip, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. You slid your hand slowly down his length, feeling every ridge, every throb of his pulse against your palm. He was thick, heavy, slick with need already.

Your thumb traced the weeping slit at the tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum across his crown, and he let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated through his entire body.

“Tell me,” you purred, hand still stroking him, “how often have you dreamt of me?”

Your finger slid over his slit again, pressing just enough to make him shudder. His words came out rushed, tumbling over each other like a confession torn from a dying man.

“Every night.” His voice cracked. “Every night you have haunted my dreams. I wake hard and aching, my sheets soaked with the memory of you, my hand wrapped around myself. I have fucked my own palm more times than I can count, imagining it was your cunt, your mouth, your hand…”

“Every night?” you mocked gently, your grip tightening just enough to make him gasp. “And what did you do in these dreams, my sweet knight? Did you worship me properly? Or did you take me like the hungry beast you pretend not to be?”

“Both,” he admitted, his voice raw, his hips twitching as he fought the urge to fuck your fist. “I have been gentle. I have been rough. I have kissed every inch of your skin and I have bent you over every surface I could imagine. But always, always, I end with my cock buried inside you, spilling my seed where it does not belong.”

You laughed, and began to guide him. Your hand left his cock, and you reached down, spreading your slick folds, positioning the flushed head of his length at your entrance.

“My poor, sinful knight. So full of honour, and yet here you are, ready to defile your cousin’s wife. Tell me, Gwayne, does this make you a traitor? Or a true believer?”

“I am whatever you want me to be,” he breathed, his voice pleading. “Just let me in. Please. I beg you.”

“Beg me,” you whispered. “Beg me to let you fill me.”

“Please, my lady, my love, let me inside you. Let me feel you. Let me—”

But you did not let him finish. You pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, just barely breaching the first ring of muscle, and you held him there, torturing him.

Your words dripped with mockery, each one a sharp barb, “You are so eager to defile me, aren’t you? To spill your seed where your lord has planted his. To claim what is not yours. You are nothing but a common thief, stealing pleasures that were never meant for you.”

He flinched. The words hit their mark, striking something. His eyes, those beautiful, tear-filled blue eyes, flickered with a flash of pain,and then something darker snapped.

He did not intend to be rough. He had sworn to himself he would be gentle, would worship you, would make love to you with the love you deserved. But your mockery clawed at the raw, bleeding edges of his guilt and his desire, and before he could stop himself, he drove forward.

There was no gentleness to be found.

He slammed into you in one brutal, desperate thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single, shuddering motion.

The air left your lungs in a sharp, shocked moan, your body arching beneath him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you were stretched and filled beyond anything you had anticipated.

He was thick, and he was deep, and the sudden fullness of him made stars burst behind your eyes.

He froze immediately, horror dawning on his face. His eyes were wide, his breath coming in ragged pants, his body trembling as he realised what he had done.

“I—I am sorry—I did not mean to—” His voice was a wrecked whisper, his hands gripping your hips, holding himself still, afraid to move. “Forgive me, I swore I would—”

But you were already clenching around him, your walls rippling and gripping his length, and the sound you made was not a cry of pain.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you gasped, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Don’t you dare be gentle now, Gwayne. You wanted to claim me? Then claim me. Fuck me like the thief you are.”

He blinked, confusion and relief warring on his face. “But I—”

“I said fuck me,” you snarled, your hips grinding against his, your nails raking down his back. “Do not temper yourself. I want to feel you in my bones tomorrow. I want to limp when I walk past my husband.”

A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest.

The last shred of restraint crumbled, and he pulled out almost entirely, only to slam back into you with a force that made the bed frame groan.

You cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and he drove into you again, harder, faster, his hips finding a brutal rhythm.

“Is this what you wanted?” he rasped, “To be taken like a common whore?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your head thrown back, your body bucking against his. “Yes, yes, yes… give me more, Gwayne. Give me all of it.”

His hand found your throat, pressing just enough to make your vision swim, and he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

“I will ruin you for any other man. I will brand myself so deep inside you that you will feel me for the rest of your life. And when you lie beside your husband, you will think of me. You will clench around him, dreaming of my cock. You will be mine, even if only in these stolen moments.”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking on the word. “Make me yours. Make me forget his name.”

And he did. He drove into you with a fervour that bordered on madness, his hips slamming against yours as he chased the oblivion of your combined release. He was in absolute heaven, lost to the world, lost to everything but the feel of your cunt gripping his cock.

“I cannot get enough of you,” he gasped against your mouth, his voice ragged. “I need—I need to be closer—”

His hands slid down your flanks, gripping your thighs, pushing them up and back until your knees pressed against your own chest.

The new angle opened you completely, and you gasped at the devastating stretch, the length of him reaching depths you had never felt before, the ridge of his cock scraping against every sensitive inch inside you.

“Seven Hells—Gwayne—” Your voice broke on a moan as he drove deeper, his hips meeting the backs of your thighs with a wet, obscene slap.

“I know,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours. “I know. I cannot help it. I need to be inside you. I need to fill you.” His pace quickened, became animalistic. “I need to breed you. I need to leave my seed so deep inside you that you will feel me for days. That he will know what I have done.”

The words sent a thrill through you, “Yes,” you breathed, your nails raking down his back. “Yes… breed me. Fill me. Make me yours.”

He was absolutely lost.

The pious knight, he was nothing now but a creature of pure, ravenous instinct. He fucked you as if he were trying to imprint the shape of his cock into your very flesh. The bed groaned beneath you, the headboard knocking against the stone wall in a frantic rhythm.

And through it all, he could not stop kissing you.

Every thrust was punctuated by a kiss. He kissed your lips, your chin, the corner of your mouth, returning always to your lips as if he was drawing breath from you.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling with yours, the kiss deepening as his hips drove harder. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, always returning to your mouth, unable to stay away.

You felt the peak approaching for a second time, the familiar coil tightening low in your belly. “Gwayne,” you gasped against his mouth. “I am going to—I cannot hold—”

His eyes flew open, and the panic in them was raw, “Neither can I,” he grunted, his rhythm stuttering. “I must—I should not—”

He tried to slow, to pull out, his muscles tensing against the instinct to bury himself deeper. The thought of spilling inside you, of leaving the physical proof of his sin, terrified him even as it drove him wild.

But you would not let him. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, locking him inside you.

“Do not dare pull out,” you insisted, “I want your seed. I want it deep inside me. Give it to me, Gwayne. Give me everything.”

A broken sound escaped his throat, “You will carry my bastard. Ormund will know. The whole world will know what I have done.”

“They won't,” you whined, your hips grinding against his. “Let Ormund look at the child in my belly and think it his. Let him see me swell with your sin. I want it. I want your child. I want to carry you inside me.”

His control shattered completely. The last frayed thread of restraint snapped. “You will be mine, then. In every way that matters.”

He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt his release.

It flooded you, pulsing deep inside your womb, and the sensation of him spilling inside you pushed you over the edge with him. You cried out against his mouth, your body arching, your inner walls clenching around him, milking him.

It felt like an eternity, the two of you locked together, trembling, whispering each other's names into the dark. When it was done, he collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress.

His breath was ragged, his body trembling. He felt emptied, exorcised of every demon that had haunted him since the moment he first laid eyes on you.

The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of your mingled breathing. After a long moment, he stirred, lifting his head to look at you. His beautiful blue eyes were wet, his cheeks flushed, his lips swollen from your kisses. He looked utterly undone.

“I did not mean to be so rough,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You smiled, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with your fingertip. “I did not want gentle. I wanted you. The beast you hide behind your prayers and your honour.”

“I have no honour left,” he said, but there was no regret in his voice. Only wonder. “I have damned us both.”

“Then let us burn together,” you murmured, and leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his brow.