A/N: i've been going feral for den for a few weeks now and there simply isn't enough love out there for him... ignore if this is ooc, i need this. hope you enjoy!
Tags: buff den, accidentally rough sex, manhandling, p in v, missionary, just the tip, needy den, freak reader
Wordcount: 0.8k
Your boyfriend was getting big. As hell, actually.
Dauntingly big.
Scarily big.
Panty-droppingly big.
When he had first moved in with you, he was a scrawny thing. Obviously, he had a layer of muscle from working on a farm, but poor nutrition and stress had thinned him out. After a few months of staying with you and getting his eating habits in order, though, he became a whole different breed.
You noticed it in his shoulders first. They got broad quick, taking up more room in your small apartment’s doorway each day, expanding centimeter by centimeter. He was constantly bumping into things now, knocking into the walls and confused about his own clumsiness. He hadn’t quite noticed the change in his physique, how he took up so much more room with those thick, corded muscles of his.
You tried not to think too much of it, men usually hit a tiny second growth spurt in their mid-twenties anyways.
It was hard not to notice how he started to completely dwarf you, though. His hugs were less of the gentle cradling you were used to from him and more of a smothering embrace that drowned you in his newly widened chest.
His appetite changed, too. He was ferocious, cleaning your cabinets out in a matter of days most weeks. You didn’t mind, it was good to see him taking care of himself, but it was jarring to see just how different his eating habits had become. He used to nibble here and there, normally a light eater, but now he was clearing his plate and then some. Seconds of every dinner, thirds if you weren't looking. This new, strong body of his needed its fuel.
Then there were his arms. Fuck, they were huge.
You had lost yourself in many a conversation with him through your staring, watching as they inadvertently flexed. You had started asking him to open jars and such for you just to see his biceps bulge without interruption.
And the best part? His muscles weren’t just for show. Far from it.
You were evil for teasing him, you knew it. Your poor boyfriend had just gotten off of an extremely long shift and he needed you so badly, but you decided to have a little fun.
You asked to ride him and he, of course, obliged. You were earnest at first, letting your walls adjust to his size as you sunk down. Then, you stopped at the halfway point. He assumed you were just achy and taking a little break. You lifted yourself off of his cock almost entirely, keeping only the tip inside, and shallowly fucked yourself with it.
“Huh?”
You giggled softly into his neck, arms wrapped loosely around his wide, hard shoulders. “That’s all you get tonight,” you said with a devious smile, half-assedly working your way up and down on his length. “Just the tip.”
He groaned and rolled his hips upwards, begging for more. “Don’t do this to me,” he mumbled, hands taking purchase of your waist. They were gentle, but firm. Even his fingers had gotten slightly thicker lately. He let you egg him on for a few more seconds before he gave in and flipped you on your back, slotting between your legs with ease.
You gasped, feeling your body hit the mattress so quickly. You had never been handled like that, so easily moved around. The simplicity of his movements made you feel small and weightless in the best way.
When he started to pound into you, hands keeping you firmly planted into the bed, you let out a strangled moan and grabbed his wrist. You wondered how it would feel to have him use all that strength to finger you, his whole arm’s effort put into it. You squeezed softly and mumbled something under your breath, trailing your hand up his sinewy forearm.
“Fuck, princess, you okay?” Dennis’s hips had stilled, not pulling out but merely pausing. “What’s wrong?” His jaw went slack for a bit as he tried to catch his breath.
That was another thing. His jaw had gotten remarkably sharp. Sometimes, you missed how soft and sweet his little face used to be, but the man he had blossomed into made your cunt clench with need.
Your hand ran up his bicep and groped. “You’re so big now, Den,” you said. “My big, strong boy. S’like you could do whatever you want to me now.”
Dennis let out a huff, caressing your cheek with a soft laugh. “You think so? I guess I have gotten bigger.” He hiked one of your legs up, pushing it almost to your chest. Pressing a kiss to your jaw, he said, “Let’s see what these muscles can do, huh?”
i neeeeeed people to write more soft dom dennis 😭😭 especially outside of the bedroom too, that man would liveeee to take care of you!!!
: casual dominance w dennis
oh definitely. i see a lot of people talking of how he would like subbing since itd be a good n more controlled outlet to direct his people pleasing tendencies (which i agree with fully) but . . consider that he can do that even through domming !! he wld get soo much satisfaction from having a sweet little thing to take care of <3
dennis who always walks with a hand on your shoulder or a palm resting at the small of your back, guiding you and steering you towards the right direction.
dennis who doesn’t let you do a single thing. you’re eating together n say you’ll go get another spoon, but he shakes his head, places an arm on your shoulder and gently pushes you to sit back down as he walks to the kitchen himself, appearing with a spoon a few seconds later. no empty words, no it’s fine i’ll do it, just action.
dennis who reaches over and buckles your seatbelt for you, then gets right back to driving like he didn’t just get you dizzy from the proximity. also just the image of him driving.. sleeves rolled up to reveal his watch and his firm hands on the wheel.. need that
dennis who is so strict about your eating habits and timely hydration. you tell him you haven’t drunk water in a couple hours and still don’t wanna, but you quickly change youe stance when he calls out your name in that firm, low tone, brow slightly raised in irritation and arms crossed in a way that has his forearms flexing.
dennis who knows how to tame you better than anyone. you’ll be yelling and whining one second, but your voice dies out in your throat when you feel his hand on the nape of your neck, squeezing lightly, telling you to behave.
A/N: i've been going feral for den for a few weeks now and there simply isn't enough love out there for him... ignore if this is ooc, i need this. hope you enjoy!
Tags: buff den, accidentally rough sex, manhandling, p in v, missionary, just the tip, needy den, freak reader
Wordcount: 0.8k
Your boyfriend was getting big. As hell, actually.
Dauntingly big.
Scarily big.
Panty-droppingly big.
When he had first moved in with you, he was a scrawny thing. Obviously, he had a layer of muscle from working on a farm, but poor nutrition and stress had thinned him out. After a few months of staying with you and getting his eating habits in order, though, he became a whole different breed.
You noticed it in his shoulders first. They got broad quick, taking up more room in your small apartment’s doorway each day, expanding centimeter by centimeter. He was constantly bumping into things now, knocking into the walls and confused about his own clumsiness. He hadn’t quite noticed the change in his physique, how he took up so much more room with those thick, corded muscles of his.
You tried not to think too much of it, men usually hit a tiny second growth spurt in their mid-twenties anyways.
It was hard not to notice how he started to completely dwarf you, though. His hugs were less of the gentle cradling you were used to from him and more of a smothering embrace that drowned you in his newly widened chest.
His appetite changed, too. He was ferocious, cleaning your cabinets out in a matter of days most weeks. You didn’t mind, it was good to see him taking care of himself, but it was jarring to see just how different his eating habits had become. He used to nibble here and there, normally a light eater, but now he was clearing his plate and then some. Seconds of every dinner, thirds if you weren't looking. This new, strong body of his needed its fuel.
Then there were his arms. Fuck, they were huge.
You had lost yourself in many a conversation with him through your staring, watching as they inadvertently flexed. You had started asking him to open jars and such for you just to see his biceps bulge without interruption.
And the best part? His muscles weren’t just for show. Far from it.
You were evil for teasing him, you knew it. Your poor boyfriend had just gotten off of an extremely long shift and he needed you so badly, but you decided to have a little fun.
You asked to ride him and he, of course, obliged. You were earnest at first, letting your walls adjust to his size as you sunk down. Then, you stopped at the halfway point. He assumed you were just achy and taking a little break. You lifted yourself off of his cock almost entirely, keeping only the tip inside, and shallowly fucked yourself with it.
“Huh?”
You giggled softly into his neck, arms wrapped loosely around his wide, hard shoulders. “That’s all you get tonight,” you said with a devious smile, half-assedly working your way up and down on his length. “Just the tip.”
He groaned and rolled his hips upwards, begging for more. “Don’t do this to me,” he mumbled, hands taking purchase of your waist. They were gentle, but firm. Even his fingers had gotten slightly thicker lately. He let you egg him on for a few more seconds before he gave in and flipped you on your back, slotting between your legs with ease.
You gasped, feeling your body hit the mattress so quickly. You had never been handled like that, so easily moved around. The simplicity of his movements made you feel small and weightless in the best way.
When he started to pound into you, hands keeping you firmly planted into the bed, you let out a strangled moan and grabbed his wrist. You wondered how it would feel to have him use all that strength to finger you, his whole arm’s effort put into it. You squeezed softly and mumbled something under your breath, trailing your hand up his sinewy forearm.
“Fuck, princess, you okay?” Dennis’s hips had stilled, not pulling out but merely pausing. “What’s wrong?” His jaw went slack for a bit as he tried to catch his breath.
That was another thing. His jaw had gotten remarkably sharp. Sometimes, you missed how soft and sweet his little face used to be, but the man he had blossomed into made your cunt clench with need.
Your hand ran up his bicep and groped. “You’re so big now, Den,” you said. “My big, strong boy. S’like you could do whatever you want to me now.”
Dennis let out a huff, caressing your cheek with a soft laugh. “You think so? I guess I have gotten bigger.” He hiked one of your legs up, pushing it almost to your chest. Pressing a kiss to your jaw, he said, “Let’s see what these muscles can do, huh?”
a/n: this was requested it was so juicy! i hope you all enjoy! likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome.
summary: your dead husband's parents come and visit for Eli's senior night making your life for the next week a living nightmare. On top of that, college recruiters will be at the game stressing Eli out and Viv gets an ear infection.
tags: smut in the beginning (just a bj), child illness, annoying in-laws, misogyny, mental breakdown, ambulance ride, illness goes from bad to worse, robby has a bit of a backseat but he breaks the hippocratic oath(?)
wc: 7.0k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
A few days after the fight between Eli and Jake, Robby is once again at your house. Your kids are out of the house for the night sleeping over at their friend's house leaving you and him in your big house all alone.
This was a usual routine for the two of you. He would come over, you ordered food and to pass the time the two of you would sit end to end on your couch reading. Robby was reading more so than you were. Your eyes were on him as his focus was held on the pages of the book he was reading.
His glasses sat just below the bridge of the his nose. His mouth was slightly agape as he would occasionally mouth the words on the page. You lick your lips as you notice how his fingers are hooked in the book.
You slowly lower your book. You shift your foot and run it along the side of his torso. Robby looks over his glasses making you stop, but when his eyes return to the book, you do it again.
"Behave," he warns.
You completely abandon your book and crawl over his lap. He sighs with a reserved smile, looking up at you. "The delivery driver could be here any minute."
"Then we shouldn't waste anytime." You lean down capturing his lips in a kiss. You take the book out of his hands and make the conscious effort of showing him that you had bookmarked his placed with the receipt he was holding for the exact reason. You then set the book down on the coffee table gently.
His hands squeeze your waist as he watches you put the book down. As you come down for another kiss, he leans up and moans into your mouth. You smile against his lips before deepening the kiss sliding your tongue against his.
Robby's hips thrust upward and you can feel his erection against you. You smirk and grind against it. "Ugh, we can't do this right now." He groans.
"Why not?" You whisper, "I can be quick."
"No, we can't because you're going to force me to get the door."
"I'm not seeing the issue here." You kiss his jaw and make your way down to his neck.
"I'm going to have a massive hard-on as I try to pay the delivery driver. And then we'll— mmph— we'll have to choose between our— Ah!— hot food or finishing our hot sex."
"Mm, decisions, decisions." You purr as you continue down his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants, "How about I suck you off and see how far I get before our food gets here."
Robby's brows knit together as his cock jumps at the suggestion. He bites his lip in thought as you palm him through the fabric of his pants. "Oh my god." He groans, "Fine, be quick."
You lick your lips before pulling down his waistband and pulling his dick free from his pants and underwear. You give the tip a few kitten licks before putting the entire thing in your mouth.
As you bob your head, Robby gently thrusts into your mouth. When the tip hits the back of your throat, he moans. He hold the back of your head as you continue. "Fuck~" He moans. You hum in response sending vibrations through his dick.
Robby wasn't going to last much longer. With the anxiety of the door and the way your mouth felt around him; he was only going to last a matter of minutes. He continues to thrust into your mouth as he grunts, getting closer to his orgasm.
You suck on his tip as your hand holds his balls. You give them a gentle squeeze as you moan around his cock. Robby's breath hitches as he shoots his cum into your mouth. He continues to thrust until he finishes painting the inside of your mouth with his cum.
Just as you pull off, the doorbell rings. "Just in time," He chuckles as he pull his pants up
"I can get it" You wipe your mouth. The doorbell rings again more aggressively.
"No, I got it. Go wash your mouth out." He gets off the couch as you go to the bathroom. He grabs his wallet and pulls out some cash before opening the door.
When he opens the door, he is not greeted by a food delivery but instead a small elderly couple stands on the porch. A small older woman and a much taller older man. They look among each other awkwardly. Everyone at the door seems disappointed by who is presented to them in the moment.
"Uh, hi, can I help you?" Robby purses his lips.
"Hi we're Eli and Vivian's grandparents." The woman says it like it's obvious.
Surely, not your parents. These people look nothing like you. Robby nods, "Let me get (Y/N) for you." He calls your name from the door, "Could you come to the door, please?"
"What is it?" You shout back from the bathroom.
"I think it's best you come see for yourself." He smiles to the couple apologetically but they don't seem all that amused.
You shuffle to the door, "What's wrong?"
Robby steps to the side revealing your dead husband's parents at the door. "Oh… my god! What are you guys doing here?" You feign your excitement and hug them both. As you do, you notice the luggage behind them.
"Eli's senior night is this weekend and we heard through the grapevine the Michigan coach was going to be there scouting talent." The old woman says excitedly.
You blink slowly knowing that Eli wasn't the one to invite them as the boy had forgotten his facebook password years ago. "I see, well, this is my friend, Dr. Michael Robinavitch."
"Friends call me Robby." He holds out his hand.
"Robby, this is Alan and Birdie, my husband's parents."
"Pleasure." Alan gives his hand a firm shake.
"It's awfully late to be having friends over, no?" Birdie says nonchalantly as she gives his hand a weak shake, "Had we known you had a guest staying, we would have booked a hotel in town instead."
"No it's fine." You say, "The guest room is clean. Robby, can you get their stuff?"
Robby nods as you invite them inside. You give him an apologetic look before following the couple to your living room. As Robby brings in the suitcases, the food arrives.
As you follow them, Birdie is bombarding you with questions, "Is that his motorcycle in the driveway?"
"Yes ma'am." You smile
"You don't get on it though, right? You should really think about that now that you are all by yourself…"
"No ma'am, I don't." You lie.
"And what were y'all planning on doing this late?"
"We were just waiting for our dinner to arrive, actually."
"Not cooking, as usual. Where are the kids?"
"At their friend's house." You let a sigh slip from your lips, "Aren't you guys tired? The flight must have been exhausting."
"Nonsense. We don't mind y'all eating. We ate at the airport so we're full of energy." She waves you away and goes to occupy the couch with her husband. Alan has already hijacked your television, resting his feet on Robby's book on the coffee table. You quickly yank the book from under his heels and smile politely before holding the book close to your chest. "Oh, Hun, you should put those things up. It makes your living room look all cluttered."
Your eye twitches from the nickname before you grab your book too putting them both on a shelf. Robby enters the kitchen with the food and you quietly thank god before going into the kitchen and boring holes into the back of the old couple's heads.
Robby notices the irritation in your eyes as you watch them from the kitchen. He grabs your waist and beckons you to the sunroom.
Once outside you rub your face with both your hands in frustration. Robby chuckles as he pulls out the food, "Not a fan I take it."
Your brows furrow and you shake your head. "They are very… particular people that don't seem satisfied with anything I do. Especially when it comes to 'homemaking.' They are very traditional and in their opinion, I am not."
"What was your husband like with them around?"
"Not helpful." You flop onto the couch cushion next to him, "I would argue she is worse now that he isn't around than when he was."
"She seems like it," He mutters. "Let's just enjoy dinner."
"Our last meal." You mumble.
After dinner, you come back inside to clean up the kitchen for the night. Birdie hears you and gets up from the couch to help. "So, Dr. Robinavitch, what kind of doctor are you?"
"I practice Emergency Medicine. I work in the emergency room." Robby explains, "I do a little of everything."
"I see," She glances at you, "What hospital do you work at?"
"Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
"Really… isn't that where my son passed away?"
You clatter some dishes in the sink, "You already know the answer to that, Birdie."
"I was just curious," Birdie defends, "Were you one of his doctors?"
"I was overseeing the doctor treating him. It's a teaching hospital."
"Maybe you should reconsider that malpractice lawsuit, Hun." Birdie whispers.
"No, Birdie, your son was having a heart attack and didn't know until days later. His heart just wasn't strong enough. There was no need to sue the hospital." You exhale.
Robby starts to get offended for you. Her judgemental gaze on the back of your head, "Well, Hun, it's getting pretty late. We are going to hit the hay. Are you on your way out, Robby?"
"He's staying the night." You wipe your hands on a dish towel, "In my room, in my bed."
Birdie blinks a few times, "Oh, I see. He's that kind of friend."
"Yes, Birdie, my boyfriend. And we are also going to retire for the night." You grab Robby's hand, "TV is on a timer after eleven, Alan. Good night."
You bring Robby upstairs and once the door is closed you grumble with frustration. "You saw that right? Her snide little comments, her judgemental eyes. Always judging me."
"Mhm, you did good not getting upset." He commends.
"Oh, wait until the kids come. Then it becomes a real Olympic sport." You flop onto your bed. Robby crawls into bed next to you.
"I'm here for you." He kisses your shoulder, "I don't know all the history there but I'm in your corner."
You melt in his hold as he spoons you under the covers. "You probably deal with a hundred of her every day."
"Oh no, she is a different breed. I pray she doesn't end up in the ER while she's staying here." You both giggle before relaxing in each other's arms falling asleep.
The next day, Robby's alarm wakes him up for work. He notices you not in bed when he sits up. His brows furrow in confusion before he gets up and ready for the day.
When he comes out of your room, he see you come out of Viv's, "Hey is everything okay?"
"Yeah, Eli brought Viv home late last night. She's got a fever and couldn't sleep so she called Eli." You whisper.
"Do you want me to check her out?" He offers.
"No it's fine for now I think her cold is coming back. I bet they were outside late in the night in the cold air." You sigh, "Let me make you some coffee before you go."
The both of you head downstairs to find Birdie already at your coffee machine. Your eye twitches before you take a deep breath, "Good morning, Birdie."
"Good morning, Hun. I heard the kids come home and just couldn't go back to sleep." She says. You face falls when you see the coffee she was using.
"Where'd you get that coffee?" You try to keep your composure. Robby purses his lips and holds your shoulders to keep you steady.
"Oh, I found it in the cabinet. It looked so delightful, perfect for the cold day." She made it sound so simple when you knew that wasn't the case.
It was your husband's favorite coffee. The last bag of it. You put it in the very bottom and farthest corner away from your vision. Every time you'd get even a whiff of the aroma of his coffee, you'd get overwhelmed with tears.
"Would you like some?" She asks, "I'm brewing a pot now."
"No, thank you, I've got to get to work. I'll get some on the way." Robby pulls you back to the hall.
You lip begins to quiver as Robby tries to comfort you. Tears well up in you eyes as he holds your face, "They'll be gone by the weekend. Take a deep breath. You're okay" He stares deeply in your eyes. "Take a deep breath."
You do as he says, taking a deep breath, "I'm just going to go back to bed."
He gives you a quick peck on the lips, "You can always call me, okay?"
"I'll see you later," You close the door after him and trudge back to your room in defeat.
-
"Woof, sounds like a true monster-in-law." Dana says after listening to Robby tells the stories of Birdie from the night before and the morning.
"Was Benji's mom like that?" He asks.
"No way, she had my mom to answer to." She scoffs, "Those kind of women are tough. They feel the need to punish you for taking their sons away from them."
"I wish I could tell her off." He sighs.
"Don't do that. Let the missus handle it. She's had to deal with that woman for twenty years." She pats his back, "Just be more present than her husband was."
"Hey Robby, your girlfriend is here with her daughter." Donnie walks over, "Her fever got worse so they came in."
"Thanks for letting me know. Santos you're up. Let's go." He walks over to the room with Donnie.
You lean against the wall with your eyes closed as Birdie complains about everything. Vivian lays in the bed with a mask on as a precaution. "It's so drafty in here. Don't they know it's fifteen degrees outside. The least they can do is offer a blanket around here." Birdie shivers.
"She's burning up, Birdie. A blanket is the last thing she needs."
"Then they could offer it to me. I'm getting aches."
"Hello again, Birdie. Hi, Viv how are you doing," You open your eyes and smile with relief as Robby and Santos approach the curtained room.
"I'm okay." Viv mutters timidly.
"Oh nonsense, I tried to wake her up this morning and she wouldn't budge. When I touched her face, she was burning up. Thank goodness I went to check on her."
"The fever was the same as it was this morning but she's been sluggish. She's also complaining about her ear."
"Alright, Santos why don't you go ahead and take a look."
Santos grabs the otoscope to look in Viv's ears. "Has she had any history of ear infections in the past."
"Yes—"
"Yes, she had one when she was five. It was swimmer's ear though. Nothing like this." You quickly cut Birdie off from speaking.
"No, my ear just hurts." She points to her left one.
"Yeah, I see." Santos looks again with her otoscope, "Looks to be a middle ear infection."
"What causes it?" You ask.
"The common cold is a possibility. Since she's been having the condition frequently." Robby suggests.
"Frequently?!" Birdie shoots a glare at you.
"It's February, Birdie. She's got school and practice. She's always in the cold." You argue.
"Then maybe you should make her stay home once in a while. Ice skating is not that important." Vivian wilts after Birdie says that.
"Is it treatable?" You ignore her, deciding not to pick a fight anymore.
"It is. They usually go away on their own but we can write up a prescription for antibiotics just in case." Santos explains, she takes Viv's hand, "You'll be back on the ice in no time. Let me get you some meds for the pain now and write up the script. "
"Thank you." You say to Santos. "Thank you." You hug Robby tightly. It was a strong hold like he'd vanish in your grasp.
"I'll check on you guys before you go." He whispers. You let go and return to the wall. Birdie is scowling at your affection before she proceeds to dote on Vivian.
After Santos explains the prognosis and treatment, Viv and Birdie go to the bathroom while Robby takes you to the break room. "She's only been here half a day and I want to tear my hair out."
"Don't do that. I like your hair." He twirls a strand between his fingers
You look at him unamused and pouting. "She's been helicoptering around Viv all day just waiting for her to get worse so she can say 'I told you so.' The nerve of that lady."
"Yeah, she's quite the character. How have you dealt with her for so long."
"It's nice when they're hundreds of miles of away in Florida. And when we are there I could make myself sparse. Kinda hard to do that now that you don't have a husband to hide behind." You suck your teeth.
"Well, you are doing a phenomenal job. I don't think I've ever seen your angry face before. It's very sexy."
"Shut up." You slap his shoulder, "I feel the wrinkles lingering on my forehead like a Shar-Pei."
"And you still have your humor." He chuckles. He kisses your forehead, "I'll see you tonight."
You kiss him longingly before leaving with your family. Santos approaches him, "That older woman was kinda…"
"A bitch? I know." He sighs, "She'll get what's coming to her someday. People like that don't have healthy hearts."
Later in the night, at your house, Birdie messes around in your kitchen trying to cook dinner for the family and some soup for Viv to make her feel better. Alan rambles to Eli about his future at Michigan while Eli looks at you begging to be put of his misery. You lay against Robby's shoulder, rubbing your temples as you hear Birdie swearing under her breath and clamber in your cabinets. She's mumbling about your organization skills and the layout of the kitchen.
She's always hated your renovated kitchen. It was too large, too pristine and too expensive. She had a lot to say at the wake to the other guests about the house. She was under the impression that you would have put the house on the market by the end of the month.
"Dinner's almost ready, I'm just going to run this up to Viv." She says as she carries a large bowl to Viv. As she walks it past the living room, you and Robby try not to gag at the smell.
"What is that?" He asks.
"Sour soup recipe. It's good for when your sick. Not that you'd care, eh doc? I bet you see the sick and see dollar signs." Alan laughs at his own joke before returning to his conversation with Eli.
"I may have failed to mention they are kinda… anti hospital?" You whisper.
"I figured." Robby whispers back.
"They are here until the weekend but I don't know if I'm gonna make it." You whine.
"Don't say that. You gotta hold on. Do it for me." He holds your hand and laces his fingers with yours, "I can take a week off and I'll be your servant and I'll do whatever you want."
"Whatever I want?" A smile grows on your face, "I like the sound of that." You lean in and kiss him.
"Hun, are you going to work tomorrow?" Birdie scares you apart as she comes down the stairs.
"No I'm going to take some sick days until Viv gets better."
"Oh Hun, that's what I am here for. I'll keep an eye on her. You should go to work. My son's life insurance isn't going to last forever."
"Of course." You sigh. Robby's eye twitches slightly at the woman's slight. "But you will let me know if anything changes, right?"
"Yes, yes." She waves off your presumptuous tone, "Dinner's ready. Hun, can you set the table? I can't find the table settings in this damned kitchen."
"I can do that. I know where they are." Robby gets up and kisses your hand. You mouth a thank you as he walks to the kitchen.
Every day after the first feel like a slow and painful countdown to the end of their trip. With Birdie's complaining and Alan's possession of your living room, the only place you knew peace was your bedroom. And it seems to be everyone else's peace too.
"Tomorrow's the big day Eli. Are you excited?" You pinch his cheek.
"I guess so, I'm more ready for it to be over and done with." He sighs.
"Don't feel obligated to out perform on the ice for Michigan. There are plenty of other schools that have given you offers." You assure, "Wherever you go I'll be happy just don't become a Flyer, okay?"
"Yes mom." He rolls his eyes.
You turn to Viv and notice her looking better, "You gonna come to the game with us tomorrow?"
"Yeah, I'm feeling much better." She smiles.
"You look better too." You smile in return, "We are almost home free. They'll be gone the day after next."
"Is it bad that I've been dumping grandma's oily soup in the garden?" Viv confesses.
"Viv!" You pat her playfully, "I can forgive you since it's still Winter."
"It's gross." She pouts, "I mean, at least she cares."
"Sometimes we can appreciate care when it's coming from Florida and not in our face." You snicker.
-
The next day was the big game; Eli's Senior Night. The coach of his high school team introduces you to the recruiter but the conversation is immediately hijacked by Birdie and Alan. You take a step back and go to sit with the rest of the seniors' families where the moms have saved your family some seats.
Viv sees her friend and goes to sit with them instead. As the players warm up, Robby arrives wearing a team shirt for the occasion. He finds you in the stands and takes a seat beside you. "Final stretch," He whispers.
"I'm literally counting down the seconds." You chuckle, "They are hoping to go out to dinner but I'm praying someone is out there slashing tires to prevent it."
"How well are you at faking a medical emergency?" He suggests.
"Oscar-worthy." You smirk.
He laughs and kisses you cheek before finding Viv down below, sitting with her friend, "Viv looks better."
"She says she feels better. We didn't have to fill the prescription." You smile, "I'm glad she's upright again."
"Dr. Robby, you're here too. Glad you could find the time in your most likely busy schedule." Birdie says as she takes the seat below you. Alan sits down beside her.
"Wouldn't miss it, Birdie." He purses his lips.
"What I don't understand, Hun, is being so high up in the stands. You know Alan's got those screws in his knee."
"You and Alan are more than welcome to sit anywhere else in this arena, Birdie." You retort. She sneers and faces forward.
It was clear your patience was waning by the minute with Birdie and her bull shit. Robby doesn't say a word and simply takes your hand as a comfort. You were not going to tolerate all that she had say at a 2 hour high school hockey game.
Before the game begins, the announcer goes through the home team's seniors and their plans for the future. Eli is the last to be announced: "Elijah is still undetermined of which school he will be choosing but has received offers from schools like Ohio State, Providence, Denver, and Notre Dame."
Eli skates around the ice waving as the announcer continues, "He plays today in honor of his mom and sister for being his support after the passing of his father last summer." Everyone cheers as he goes around.
"He must have submitted that before inviting us." Birdie mutters to Alan.
"He also would like to give special thanks to Dr. Robby for helping him back on his skates and continue to the season after his father's passing."
Robby looks at you in surprise. You simply smile and shrug, "You left an impression."
After the announcements, the game begins with a face off. Eli is the starting center and when the puck is dropped he is quick to gain possession. His team are swift to score their first goal in the first quarter. It was a game of keep away until the intermission.
During the intermission, Birdie is babbling about Eli while your eyes are on Viv. The game has started but she's not paying attention, choosing to stare at her phone instead. She's further down the stands with her head resting on her friend's shoulder.
"Hey," Robby nudges you, "You okay?"
"Yeah, just worried about Viv like a doting mother." You says.
"You worry too much. That little girl is a fighter like her daddy was." Birdie dismisses your worry.
"That's what I'm worried about." You mutter.
"I can check on her after the game. Our excuse for the dinner." Robby whispers. You smile and kiss his cheek.
"Thank you."
Intermission ends and the boys are back on the ice again. They zip around chasing the puck from end to end until the opposing team scores. Players are subbed in and out constantly until Eli is back on the ice again. It was incredible seeing how he maneuvered on the ice. Taking hits, staying balance, ramming others while maintaining speed and focus. By the end of the second quarter the teams are still tied.
Vivian comes up to you during the second intermission, "Can I have a couple bucks for a snack."
"Sure. Are you feeling okay?" You ask as you dig for your wallet. Robby pulls out his wallet and hands her some cash.
"Thanks Robby!" She beams, "I'm okay, I think I'm just need to eat something."
Before you can ask anymore questions she rushes down the stands, linking arms with her friend and heading to the food stand. You can't shake the feeling that something is wrong though. A dull but familiar pang in your heart from when your husband passed. "I think she should have stayed home." You say.
"You think? She might just need to rest when we get home." Robby says.
You chew on your bottom lip before taking a breath. You notice Birdie talking to the recruiter again. "God, she is insatiable," You grumble.
"You'd be too if your child died before you did." Alan speaks to you directly for the first time since arriving. You nearly jump at the sound of his voice, "She'd give anything in the world to have him back. You and the kids movin' on just hurts her feelings. She hopes Eli can fulfill her dead son's one wish of going to Michigan for hockey."
"Well that's up to Eli to decide." You state, "And I hope as his grandparents no matter what he chooses you'll be happy. And I can't help that my kids and I mourn differently. I can respect her sadness but I will not accept her disrespect."
Just then there is a scream by concessions. You and Robby jump up to follow the source. A crowd starts to form but Robby pushes past with you following behind. "I'm a doctor, everyone I need you to take a few steps back please."
As he kneels down, you fall to your knees in the center of the crowd. Viv lays on the floor with her eyes closed.
"Can anyone tell me what happened?" Robby asks as he checks her pulse.
"W-we were waiting in line together when she stiffened up. I let her go to see what happened when she started seizing. I've never seen her have one before." Her friend explains.
"She's not epileptic." You sniffle as you touch her cheek.
"She fell and hit her head on the floor." The friend says.
"Pupils equal and reactive. Viv, can you hear me?" He rubs her sternum and her chest raises, "Show me a sign, Sweetie, letting me know." There's no response.
"Oh god." You pull out your phone and dial 9-1-1.
"Tell them we have a head trauma and fall from a seizure." He says. Tears well up in your eyes as you explain to the operator what happened and the location of the incident.
Soon after, paramedics arrive to the scene putting her on a back board then the gurney. As they wheel her to the ambulance, you follow holding her hand tightly as tears fall from your eyes. "Go with her." Robby urges you.
"N-no you should go with, you're the doctor." You croak.
"No, what she needs right now is her mom to be with her. I'll meet you there." He rushes to his car.
You get into the back of the ambulance with Viv and hold her hand the entire ride. "C'mon baby. Don't go too. Please don't go." You whisper as tears continue to fall from your eyes.
You arrive to PTMC and are immediately overwhelmed with the feeling of deja vu as you watch your daughter enter the same room her father died in. You hesitate at the door taking shallow breaths before entering. The nurses and doctors are working promptly for the task at hand getting vitals and getting her prepared. Prepared for what exactly, you didn't know.
Abbot enters the room brushing past you to see Viv. When he recognizes her face, he turns to you, "Robby's girl?"
You nod slowly, unable to speak.
One of the other doctors tells him the story from the paramedics but Abbot looks at you, "What can you tell us, Mom?"
"She… she had an ear infection for the last few days," You sniffle, "She said she was feeling better and that her ear didn't hurt but towards the night she started feeling bad again."
"Okay, then she had the seizure at the hockey game."
"Yes, her friend said she may have hit her head when she fell backwards."
"Good to know. Robby, nice of you to join us. Tagging in on this?"
You turn to see Robby and almost fall into his arms. He returns the hug as he feels you tighten your grip. "I'm just here for support."
"Okay, what are we thinking… Nazely?" Abbot looks at the smaller doctor.
"Past infection could mean it has spread? Has your daughter been vaccinated?"
"Yes. My kids are up to date on vaccines, she gets the flu shot every year." You say.
"Could be another kind of infection, and to find that out we need to…"
"We should do a spinal tap and order a CT."
"Smart thinking, Dr. Toomarian. Mom?"
"Do whatever you need to do." Tears make a mess of your face. You move closer to see Viv's serene face with an oxygen mask strapped to her face, "Just make her feel better. Let her come home."
"We'll do everything we can. She is in a stable condition. We will do a CT for her head injury and a spinal tap for the infection." Abbot turns to his team, "Let's move, people."
"Let's go sit." Robby whispers.
You're feet feel like cement as you watch them turn your daughter on her side for the tap. You trudge forward and walk away with Robby to the family room. Once inside, you can't sit still. You pace from corner to corner. "Come sit." Robby says gently.
You don't listen, you stop to pull out your phone to call Birdie. No answer. "I should have been the one to monitor her. She wasn't actually getting better. She lost her appetite." You scoff, "I should have known but my stupid squabbling with Birdie filled my head."
"You can't blame yourself for this."
"Why not? She's my daughter and I failed her like I failed my…" You cover your face and fall onto the couch.
"That's not true. You know that isn't true." Robby comes to the couch and grabs your wrists to pull your hands away, "She's going to be just fine. The doctors are doing everything they can right now." He pulls you into a hug and rubs your back as you cry on his shoulder.
Several minutes later, the door to the family room flings open. "Mom?" Eli enters the room dripping in sweat still in most of his gear from the hockey game. He's panting with a scared look on his face, "Where's Viv? Is she okay?"
"She hasn't woken up yet. They're running tests to figure out what's wrong right now." You hug him, "What are you doing here?"
"I heard in the locker room Viv was taken by an ambulance and nobody knew what was going on." He sniffles, "Rochelle gave me a ride. Grandma and Grandpa were trying to stop me but I didn't care. I don't want to be on the ice again while you guys are hurt." He bursts into tears. You rub his back, bringing him to the couch for comfort.
Soon, Abbot and Nazely enter the room, "We have an update. We took a scan of Viv's head and it does show some swelling from the head trauma as well as some fluid around the brain."
"Wh-what does that mean?" You ask.
"It means we have a clearer idea of what she may have and would like to start her on some IVs. We won't have a definitive cause until the spinal tap results are back." Nazely explains.
"What's in the IVs?"
"Just some steroids, they act like a anti-inflammatory that will help with the swelling."
"Thank you." You finally smile in relief.
"She has a quiet room if you'd like to see her now."
"Yes, please, and thank you." You and Eli follow Nazely to one of the central rooms where Vivian lays.
"What do you think it is?" Robby asks.
"Meningitis. The bacteria from her ear most likely reached her brain stem. When the ear infection ended the immune system was still weak. Loss of appetite, probably sleeping all day. She just couldn't recover fast enough."
Robby sighs, "Glad you caught it."
"Always cleaning up your messes." Abbot pats his shoulder, "Go see your family. I'll find your honey when I get the results.
Robby finds you in central ten. Eli leans back in a chair against the wall as he finally succumbs to exhaustion. You stay beside Viv, holding her hand as she sleeps, "I'll never hear the end of this."
"Don't worry about them right now." He says.
"They're bound to arrive any minute now and they'll say I ruined everything."
"Babe, please don't worry about them, okay?" He says. He puts his hand on your shoulder and places a kiss to the top of your head, "I'll take care of it."
You lay your head on the side of the bed and sigh. You're still holding tight to Viv's hand.
A bit later, there's a knock on the door. In enters, Birdie and Alan but you are too exhausted to move from your spot. Robby stands against the wall eyeing them carefully.
"Oh look at the poor thing," Birdie pouts, "Why didn't you come get us, Hun? We had to hail a very expensive taxi."
"Things got a little scary for everyone, Birdie. Can you give it a rest right now?" Robby speaks for you.
"Tsk, like you were any help, Doctor. You know, Hun, you could have at least drove her to the hospital instead of the ambulance. You know how expensive those things are. It also distracted Eli from his game. Hopefully the coach from Michigan saw enough—"
"Birdie, stop talking." Robby says.
"Excuse me?"
"He said shut up." You sit up and look her dead in the face. Your tears now dry and your voice still soft, "All you have done this week is belittle me, my house, how I raise my kids, how I mourn my dead husband. So let's just lay it all out, shall we?" You stand up, "Your son was shit husband. That's why it was so easy to move on. I devoted my life to him and had to beg to get anything in return. Honestly, a little of me was happy he died because I thought I would never have to endure you two again. All you ever cared about was hockey for Eli. You would never show up for Viv and her skating. Hell, look how long it took you to get here."
"That's not fair." Birdie says
"Shut up! You keep inviting yourself into my life and taking all that I am. You took his things, his photos, you sold the things I thought were beloved. You took over his wake at MY house. You have done nothing but take and take just like he did, Bernadette. I see where he gets it from all these years later." You take a breath, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to sit with my family and pray my daughter wakes up."
Birdie looks at you aghast. She opens her mouth to speak but Robby steps in front of her, "I think you should leave. This visit has become inappropriate. I can escort you or I'll call security to escort you."
"Fine." Birdie and Alan turn on their heels and leave the room. Robby follows them out.
"You did this to her. She was never like this with my son." She sneers.
"Have you consider the consequences of your actions?" He scoffs. They reach the waiting room door, "You guys should look into getting a hotel room for the night."
"What?!"
"I thinks it's for the best that you make yourself scarce until you leave back to Florida," His gaze darkens. Then he clears his throat, "If you need money for another taxi I'd be happy to give it but you should not be home when we get there."
Birdie looks taken aback, "We can get our own taxi."
"Good." He gives them an unnerving smile then walks back to the room. He finds Elijah awake by Viv's side you're nowhere in sight.
"She said she needed air." Eli mumbles then closes his eyes again.
He heads out into the hall again looking for you. As he comes to the hub he finds you hugging the wall trying to catch your breath. He holds your waist and takes you outside. "You're okay now. Take a deep breath."
You do as he says gulping as much air as you can. "I can't believe I said all that."
"It was a lot. You were feeling a lot." The two of you sit on the concrete planters.
"I was expecting to feel better after saying it but I don't." You admit.
"What do you feel?"
"Guilty?" You look at him. "Guilty not doing it sooner. When she tried to criticize you for not helping Viv it made me so mad. I know in my heart of hearts that you would do anything for Viv, or Eli, or me. I needed to protect you. I care so deeply about you, Robby. I didn't want you to be scared away by her."
"She could never scare me away. I love you."
"Move in with me." You say.
"What?"
"All I thought about this week was how I wish you were at my house every day and every night. Had you been in my bed all this time, I would have had a better week. Knowing you'd be coming over excited me. I looked forward to it. I want to look forward to it every day going forward."
"I'd love to." He smiles harder, "You've become my family. I can't imagine my life without you guys."
The two of you sit in each other's arms until Abbot walks out to find you. You notice him first and stand up. He smiles, "We got the results from the spinal tap and we can begin treating Viv."
"What is it?"
"It was bacteria from her ear infection that caused meningitis."
"But it's treatable?"
"Yes, we are putting her on IV antibiotics right now." He says, "We also recommend everyone in the house with her also get a vaccine against the bacteria."
"Oh my god. I just sent her grandparents away and I don't know if they'll pick up the phone."
"I can call them." Abbot says, "Give me there numbers and I'll be sure to call. A nurse is inside that can administer your vaccine."
You give him Birdie's number then head inside. Before he hits the call button, Robby puts his hand on the phone. Abbot raises an eyebrow.
"You called them and they didn't answer. It went straight to voicemail and the inbox is full." Robby says.
"Robby, they are at risk."
"Just this once look the other way." Robby stares deeply into Abbot's eyes. Reluctantly, Abbot sighs and puts his phone away.
"I called them and they didn't answer. It went straight to voicemail and the inbox is full." Abbot repeats the lie.
They both then head inside so Robby can get his vaccine and rejoin his family. "Do you want to help me move next weekend?"
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
synopsis. Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought.
contents. smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider and is so spoiled that she has never seen a baby chick before, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, grief, show elements but also canon divergence, sex pollen, oral (f recieving), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, bath sex, reader is comically oblivious at some points, gwayne needs you so bad
a/n. 13.5k words wow big day for me, spoilers for the show?, inspired by a request i got (thank you very much anon wherever you are), inspired by the film lady chatterly’s lover at some points, takes place directly after jace dies and rhaenyra takes the throne
It was a glum day, the day you were told your brother was dead, and you were alone with the usurper’s uncle. The dread—that feeling that something was just wrong—settled deep in your stomach before the words came out of his mouth.
The Hightower army had found you many months prior, nearly deceased following an attack on your dragon, Silverwing. You had told her to fly home to Dragonstone, to leave you, and you have lived off of the hope that she made it back safe.
They took you as prisoner that day, and in spite of all you thought of them, they did not treat you too horribly. You believed it was like preparing a pig for slaughter, though, so you never wavered in your loyalty to your mother. You would die as a Black. It was not going to take the threat of death to let a word of the Green agenda come from your mouth.
Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.
Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.
He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.
Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.
You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.
The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.
Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.
You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.
“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”
The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”
He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.
He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”
Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.
Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.
“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.
You knew it was not a jest.
You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.
He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”
It pains him?
You will show him something that pains him.
There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.
Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.
Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.
day one
You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.
The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.
If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.
Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.
Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.
You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.
“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.
When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.
“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.
He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”
“Tell me one,” you counter.
All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.
Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”
“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.
day two
You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.
“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.
You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.
“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.
“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.
“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.
Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”
He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”
“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”
Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”
“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”
A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”
You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.
“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.
You nod. “I could.”
The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.
It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.
If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.
day three
The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.
Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.
You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.
He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.
When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.
“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.
Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”
You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.
He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”
“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”
“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”
You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.
The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.
Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.
Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.
And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.
“Ser?” you whisper.
“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.
You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.
“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.
He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”
You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.
Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.
“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.
Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”
“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.
Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.
You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.
He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.
You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.
The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.
You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.
Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.
“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.
Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”
You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”
“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”
His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.
You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.
The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.
“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”
That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.
You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.
day four
Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.
The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.
You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.
It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.
“What are they?” you whisper.
“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”
“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.
Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”
“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.
He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.
“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.
You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.
“Can I touch one?” you mumble.
He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”
You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.
Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.
Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.
He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.
The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.
His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.
You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.
Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—
Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.
“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.
“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.
“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.
You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.
He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.
“Don’t cry,” he comforts.
You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.
day five
Gwayne did not like to see you cry.
He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.
He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.
Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.
You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.
He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.
Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.
He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.
The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.
“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”
You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”
Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”
“Then why have you asked?”
He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”
“You jest.”
“I do not.”
You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”
“That is unneeded for you to know.”
“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”
His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”
“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.
“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”
“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”
“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.
You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”
“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.
“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”
Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?
“Do you remember his name?” he asks.
“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”
He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”
You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”
“What happened to him?”
You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”
He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”
“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.
“I suppose so.”
day six
The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.
It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.
“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—
“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”
Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.
He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”
The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.
“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.
His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.
The walk to your room is silent.
Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.
“I’m sorry—” he begins.
“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.
He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.
You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.
You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.
As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.
“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.
“It is,” he agrees solemnly.
You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.
Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.
“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.
Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”
Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.
“I fear the same.”
You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”
He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.
“As you wish, my princess.”
day seven
Your horse stops before you instruct it to.
In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.
You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.
You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.
“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”
“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”
The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.
You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.
Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.
Where is Gwayne?
You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.
His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.
He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.
You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.
“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.
Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.
You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.
“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.
“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.
You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?
He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.
The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.
“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.
“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”
You want to keel over and die.
You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.
Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”
“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”
“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.
“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.
We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—
Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.
Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.
He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.
In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.
Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—
His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.
You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.
Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.
You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.
He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.
“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.
It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.
He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.
Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.
“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.
He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”
And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.
The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.
His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.
You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.
His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.
Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.
The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.
It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.
The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.
You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.
Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.
He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.
“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”
You nod, but it is not enough.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.
Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.
You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.
You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.
His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.
You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.
He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.
Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.
He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.
“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.
You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.
He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.
“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“
You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.
It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.
You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.
You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“
You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.
You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.
“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”
You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.
Still, you breathe out a chuckle.
day nine
The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.
Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.
He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.
You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.
His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.
You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.
He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.
“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.
Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”
“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.
“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.
His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.
He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.
“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”
You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”
“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”
“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”
At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.
“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.
“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.
He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”
“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.
So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.
You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.
But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.
You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.
His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.
Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.
“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.
You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.
Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.
“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.
He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.
It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.
His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.
You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.
“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.
Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.
He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.
He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.
“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”
You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.
“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.
“Why not?” you breathe.
His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”
You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.
“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”
Ah. In that case—
Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.
It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.
Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.
Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.
You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.
It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.
He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.
It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.
His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.
You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.
“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.
He nods once. “As you wish.”
And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.
He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.
He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.
You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.
Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.
You think you might faint.
day fourteen
Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.
It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.
But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.
If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.
Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.
He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.
You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”
Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.
Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I want us to wed.”
Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.
“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.
“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.
“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.
Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.
“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”
“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”
“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”
Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.
As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.
“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.
Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.
You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.
He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.
The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.
The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.
“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”
You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.
Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.
He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.
“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.
It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.
He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.
One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.
The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.
His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.
There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.
He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.
In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.
“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.
day sixteen
When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.
You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.
Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.
You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.
You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.
When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.
He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.
“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.
His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”
For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.
Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.
You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.
It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.
“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.
Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.
You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.
“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”
His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.
The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.
“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.
She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.
You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.
But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.
The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.
day thirty five
You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.
The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.
It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.
But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.
You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.
If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.
He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.
You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.
But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.
These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.
If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.
A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.
You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.
༉ summary. during the midst of your wedding celebration, you seek silence outside on a hidden balcony. not expecting your now husband, valarr targaryen, to come find you.
༉ word count. 5.7k
༉ contains. arranged marriage, inner worry/doubt, kissing, fluff, pining, inaccurate stark family line, idk
༉ authors note. this is just one small, fun, and different thing i wanted to write and i have a variety of different interest. the beginning part is a bit weak before valarr shows up, bear with me. not proof read.
. . ⋆ ˖᯽ ݁
This wedding is meant to be a joyous affair.
And it is, for the most part. There's music and laughter coming from every corner of the hall. You guess that it's more rowdy than anything else these southerners have seen. Your father, Beron, had traveled with a ton of northmen to this wedding.
He was proud of you and wanted people to see it.
You've been playing with the bandage around your hand, protecting the cut you made earlier during your vows.
As Valarr takes a sip of his wine you can see the bandage around his palm as well. It's an old House Targaryen wedding ritual, the blood from your hands joining together symbolizing two fleshes becoming one. How Valarr can drink wine confuses you, the cut you two also made on your lips still stings as you sit on the high table.
You spoke to more people than you could count, more than you could name. That was what it meant to be the prince's wife, the future Queen.
You shook hands, drank many sips of wine that people toasted for you. You did all that was required of you now.
Except you refused to dance with them.
You saved that pleasantry for only your family. Your father, mother, and brother, all dance with you. Once all together. The thing about the North was when you danced, it was free. There were no poised choreographed dances. Just jumping, swinging, and twirling, something that let all the turmoil of the world fade away.
Valarr however, was now a part of your family. Technically your new family that would possibly eventually grow.
So you dance with him
It's slower than with your family, a given as you looked at how all the people from the South danced.
Your bandaged hands hold one another, though you can still feel the heat from the small skin to skin contact.
Valarr keeps looking down at his feet, nervous to hold more than five seconds of eye contact with you.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" You ask, quite enough so only Valarr can hear.
"I am now," he responds.
You smile shyly at his response, "I'm glad."
The dance with Valarr is nice. He holds you closer than anyone else would, it brings a flutter to your stomach. He dances like he is from the South. It's a poised choreographed dance, one that would bore you and turn you away if it were anyone but Valarr.
Eventually Valarr gets swept away by a Lord's small daughter into a dance and you walk back to your seat. You had taken it upon yourself throughout the wedding to move from your seat at the high table with the Targaryen's to the table the Stark's are seated at.
Valarr had looked at you when you did, a small nod was exchanged between the two of you. Understanding that being around your family was important to you.
Eventually now since they were all going to travel back North without you in three days.
Your five paces away from your seat when a woman blocks your path.
She's dressed in green with a tower symbol on her chest. House Hightower.
"Lady Targaryen." A rush shivers down your spine as she refers to you as Targaryen and not Stark.
"How has the wedding been?" She asks louder and happier than anyone would. She's trying to be extra nice, trying to win over your grace since you're now a Targaryen, as she pointed out.
That's what was wrong with the South, they're fake. Yes, people in the North were respectful and kind to your father and brother, but it was out of respect, not duty.
"It's been well. Thank you," you respond, trying to keep it short, wanting to return to your family.
"Yes I would imagine, being with a man like Valarr." Something bitter enters your body as she says that, unaware as to why.
"You know as they say, the Gods flip a coin when a Targaryen is born. It seems they favored Valarr when in the womb. Giving him plain features. Who knows, he's still young, time for him to grow mad." You look at the cup of wine in her hand and understand suddenly as to why she's saying all this openly to you.
The wine has made her bold. What she's speaking about is borderline treason, plain featured, she said. As if Valarr wasn't an angle to look upon.
Though something in her tangent struck you. The Targaryens are an odd bunch. Just in this generation, you have Targaryens who if spoken to would make you cry, someone on purpose.
Would Valarr end up like that?
He is your husband, and has authority as to what you do, what he does.
You know Valarr is a kind man who would never. But you can't stop the deep pit in your stomach from forming, worry that brings her drunken words to life.
And all of the sudden, the music that's playing gets louder. The Lords and Ladies chatter grows rowdier. Your wedding dress shrinks into your skin and cuts off your breathing.
All of the sudden you need to be outside. Away from the noise, away from the stares, away from everything.
You look at the main entrance, the doors could fit twenty people standing in a straight line. It takes you five seconds before you realize you couldn't walk out through them.
It takes you five more seconds for you to see the smaller door guarded by white cloaks.
Before you can second guess your decision, you walk towards the significantly smaller door. The guards don't oppose and you assume it's because of the dragon symbol you now wear.
You had come to know the halls of the Red Keep, but they'd never been as empty as now.
There's a few maids and cooks walking around. They look at you funny and you realize the very obvious wedding dress you're wearing.
If there's anything you've learned, the gossip that flows around the Red Keep is started from the maids. You already hear them saying the Targaryen bride was walking around the halls during her wedding breathlessly.
You spot the balcony doors and for the second time today you walk through the doors before you can second guess yourself.
The air immediately causes your breathing to steady.
As you walk to the edge of the balcony you can feel the wind. It almost feels like snow blowing in your face back in the North. The railing under your hand almost feels like ice as you try and fight back the sting in your eyes. Not letting the tears fall.
You don't want to cry, mainly because you know you have no logical reason to cry. Your marriage with Valarr will be fine, he's too kind for his own good.
"It's ok, you're ok," you repeat out loud to yourself.
You start breathing loudly and your hair starts sticking to your neck. Your hands move to the back of your head to gather it and put it up.
“My lady.”
You jump. Your hair falls.
You turn and see your now husband, Valarr Targaryen. He stands just at the entrance, hands at his side, afraid to move any closer.
You take a step forward, just one, unsure if he’d be upset at you for leaving the celebration.
“Your grace.” You bow.
“I could not find you,” he says.
He could not find you and you smile at the thought. Most men wouldn’t bother looking for their wife, too busy drinking their cups or indulging in the women around.
But the way Valarr says it, with genuine concern. You almost let yourself believe that he was concerned for your well being. But he was a prince, and this was his your guys’ wedding. Your disappearance would set a bad precedent for him, Valarr Targaryen the heir’s heir who could not keep track of his wife.
“My apologies your grace, I simply found myself needing some... air,” you say. Truly you wanted space and quiet, you wanted to be away from all the wandering eyes that sat upon you.
“Do not apologize, I understand. All the staring can be a lot.”
The smile you give to his responses doesn't quite meet your eyes. Yes, of course the man who grew up as a prince would understand what it's like to have thousands of people staring at you.
Valarr, seems to understand your unease, if he had come to find you to bring you back to the party he goes against it, fully stepping onto the balcony, not before shutting the doors behind him.
“I hope I am not imposing on your silence?” He questioned, moving to sit on the couch. His expression was soft, almost as if he was analyzing you, the entire situation.
For months you had gotten to know Valarr. You learned Valarr was a shy, honest man, he didn't have the arrogance that most princes had.
Everything about him was real.
“No your grace,” you repsond.
“Valarr,” he replies. "I wonder how many more times I must remind you?” He jests. "We are married now and I'd prefer it much more.”
When you were both betrothed, Valarr had asked you to call him by his first name. You remember he'd said "it would make things less awkward" before he paused before saying "and possibly have us grow more fond of one another." You remember because when you turn and look at him the brightest shade of pink took over his face.
It had brought the warmest sense of relief because you had come to the assumption that this marriage would be nothing more than a duty. A few nods, a couple public outings with one another, and eventually an heir plus a spare.
You sigh, “Yes I suppose we are now.”
“You need not say it with such disgust.”
“No!” You shoot. “Valarr I didn't—”
You're certain the cold from the metal bars you're gripping is helping ease your blood pressure right now. In all honesty, if you were to marry a prince you're happy it's Valarr. The idea of being bound to a drunken or mad man made you yourself want to adventure over the wall and never come back.
“I simply jest,” he interrupts.
"You could come sit y'know?" Valarr suggests nodding towards the empty space next to him. "If it pleases you, of course," he adds, something he always did, put your needs and wants first.
As you move closer to him you can see his features more clearly. Yes, you usually tell him he looks great, and he always did, but you said it on instinct before looking at him, not truly meaning it.
But as you look at him now, the small orange hue hitting his face from the torch lighting up the balcony, and his hair slightly blowing from the wind, it made his white streak more prominent than ever. He, in your opinion, had never looked better.
His light freckles, ones you won't be able to notice unless you're as close as you are right now. Or the dimple that he only has on the left side of his face. More importantly, his purple eyes with a sliver of brown in one. It seems his Valyrian and Dornish sides were competing with one another while he was in the womb. His eyes, not the color, but the look are what made you less worried about this union when you'd first met. The warmth and kindness he carried in them disintegrated your worries into oblivion.
"You look beautiful today." He looks at you with a genuine smile on his face, and the kindest look in his eyes. "Everyday but... in red,” he says, softly.
You laugh a bit. Valarr just confessed that he liked seeing you in his house colors. He liked that people knew you were his now, officially.
"As do you,” you reply. "Truly,” you add, aware of the fact that it didn't sound as genuine as his compliment.
Nonetheless, Valarr blushes.
"You seem to be the kindest person in the South Valarr," you say instead. Aware the compliments about his looks sound like they hold no value when exiting your mouth. You only hope he understands that you do reciprocate his fondness.
"You seem to be the only person I can trust here," you add trying to drive home the fact that he means a lot more to you than you put on.
Valarr's cheeks pink at the compliment.
"As are you," he replies. "Truly," he adds.
His laugh joins yours after that. It’s a poor attempt to poke fun at you.
Your laugh dies down as you realize how close you are to Valarr. Both your knees are touching each other. If you moved your hands an inch, they'd be right on top of Valarr's lap.
Valarr's laugh also dies down, suddenly aware of how close you two had gotten to one another. He looks down at your lips and fixates on them. Your breath hitches, looking at his eyes that are staring at your lip with nothing but hunger.
It reminds you of the first time you guys met.
It was at the red keep. You'd been there to celebrate Aerion Targaryen's name day. The arrogant prince had declared he wanted everyone, in his words: of importance, to show up.
You decided to leave the festivities and sit underneath the godswood tree on a bench, making a daisy chain. A rare almost impossible thing to do back in the North.
"I liked your dancing."
The interruption causes you to jump.
The man was standing with his hand at his front, rubbing his thumb over his pointer finger, clearly nervous. His eyebrows are shot up straight, clearly confused as to why he said that out loud.
The beaded dragon over his heart causes you to still.
As you look at him more clearly you're wondering how you didn't notice he was the prince at first.
Back in the great hall you saw him sitting next to the Hand of the King. He held himself as any price would, attentive, poised, and collected. When he spoke to, who you assumed was his brother, his white streak showed. The famous bit of hair that was talked through the seven kingdoms, the Targaryen features hold on through King Daeron's line by a strand.
You see now why the Blackfyre rebellion is in uproar. The Starks are loyal, but southern wars are not the top priority back at Winterfell. But a great push for the Blackfyre rebellion was over the fact that the heirs for the iron throne were no longer Targaryen. Both represent their Dornish features more. Though, from what little you've seen of the young prince in front of you, he seemed like he wouldn't make a half-bad king.
"Your grace." You bow now noticing you spent too long staring at his hair.
"You need not bow my lady," he says.
"Apologies, I just..." You trail off, not sure what to say.
"I understand," he cuts the silence off. "May I?" He questions pointing to the open spot next to you.
You don't understand why the realms prince has decided to move his attention onto you. You only hope that whatever this is, doesn't extend outside of this garden. A prince's attention is feeble, short-lived, you don't want to find yourself being a prince's plaything that he throws away when inconvenient.
You respond anyway, because he is a prince, "Yes your grace you—.”
"Valarr, you can call me Valarr," he cuts you off again.
"I do not believe that appropriate," you reply, unsure of why this small interaction had given you, what you assume is the privilege, of referring to the prince by his first name.
"We are alone." He looks around the garden, to validate what he says. "I believe."
"I suppose we are," you reply.
"I uh... I saw you dancing. Earlier. In the great hall," he says, sitting down closer to you than necessary, still fidgeting with his hands.
"I apologize, I hadn't noticed you," you say in all honesty, uncertain of why you'd felt so confident in being honest with a prince.
"No I take no offense, you looked like you were having fun..." He wanders off, staring into the sky. "With your betrothed and everything," he adds, with a slight hint of embarrassment.
"Brandon? My brother?" You say, with what only you can describe is the most disgusting look you've ever had on your face.
He's the only person you danced with today. You couldn't stand all the other lords from the South and there, for lack of a better word, stupid sons. You suppose Valarr's Targaryen mindset had led him to believe you were a sister-wife, but even then, the only people used to that custom were the Targaryens throughout history.
"Oh..." he replies. "I hadn't... I just... I'm sorry."
You laugh at the response. The look in his eyes, a sheer hint of humility and the hue of rose on his face. He shakes his head back and forth while laughing, clearly happy that he made you laugh. Here was the first time you noticed the small freckles on his face. They almost make him feel more... human, less like that dragon persona all the Targaryens carry.
"May I ask why you're here my prince?" You question.
He pouts his lips, unsure. "As I said, I liked your dancing. I thought you should know."
"Right," you respond, now looking down at the forgotten daisy chain in your hand.
Silence overtakes the bench you and Valarr are sitting on. Valarr, for reasons you don't know, came up to you yet he doesn't know what to say.
"What do you think of the south?" He asks, breaking the silence.
"I think the men here could benefit from a visit to the wall," you reply, way too abruptly.
That surprises you almost as much as him saying he liked your dancing. To be so brutally honest with a prince who you just met. Well, you don't know what's gotten over you.
"Apologies... my prince," you say, still not comfortable with addressing him by his first name."
"No, I prefer it. Honesty. It's easy to tell you're from the North." He laughs at his last sentence.
You didn't inherit many Stark traits. You were shy, didn't much prefer fighting but you knew how to hold your own. The best traits you had gained was loyalty and honesty. Though sometimes the latter got you in trouble. You're only grateful that Valarr hadn't found your honesty offensive.
He actually seemed to enjoy your company, and honesty. Not some lord who was just pleasing you and your interests for show. No. He was honest, real.
Eventually Valarr's hand moves towards yours, still holding the daisy chain. His finger touches yours lightly. It brings a shiver over your whole body.
"May I ask what it is you're making?" He looks at the daisy chain in your hand. You're sure there are tons of girls who live in the red keep, how Valarr has gone without seeing one you don't quite understand.
"It is a daisy chain," you say, bringing it up closer to his face as if that would make him suddenly understand.
"Would you like one?" You ask shyly.
"Of course." His response is a little too fast and exciting than it should be, though you don't mention it.
You debate with yourself on whether to make him a bracelet or necklace. But as you move your fingernails over the stem of the flower, you know exactly what you should make.
You both sit in silence as you make the chain. But you can feel Valarr staring at you. It takes everything in you to not look back at him. From your peripheral you see his eyes dart back and forth between your face and your hands over and over almost as if he was unsure which was more interesting.
"Perhaps not the most beautiful thing a prince like yourself has owned," you say once finished.
"In years to come you'll get a better one, but for now you can enjoy this," you say, placing the flower crown on top of his head.
Valarr looks up as you place the crown on this head, following your hands. His face has become the same shade of pink from when he randomly decided to proclaim he liked your dancing.
"I much prefer this one," he replies now, finally looking at you.
"Yes, I suppose this doesn't come with all the real problems a king may face in his lifetime."
"Yeah..." He waits, "Exactly." Though his tone doesn't sound as sure as his words.
He keeps eye contact with you as he says it. Though for one fleeting second, he looks down at your lips. So fast, if you weren't looking so deeply in his eyes you wouldn't have noticed the slip.
Though you decide at that moment to disregard it as nothing of importance.
You and Valarr engage in simple conversation after that. You do your best to keep it simple and polite so if a bystander were to overhear they couldn't spin this into something it's not. Though by the ways of the Red Keep, the whispers could convince people that a beetle was really a butterfly in disguise.
You learned mostly about Valarr's horse.
A black mare with the tiniest strand of white hair on her mane. Perfect for him. Though he sincerely doubted that, the first half-year with her she'd refuse to let Valarr mount him. If he did manage it, it was no more than five minutes until she shook him off of her.
He named her Meraxes.
Named after an ancient Valyrian God that you knew nothing about. Though you thought it was sweet that Valarr still held on to that part of his history.
His best memories of riding her was when he went out of the castle with Matarys. Most times they fled from the guards riding behind them, leaving them in a pile of worry.
You'd mentioned that she should meet your horse.
He seemed extremely pleased at the idea.
After a while Valarr had mentioned heading back to the hall. Valarr, ever the gentlemen had offered you his hand to escort you back. Though you advised against it, you knew it wasn't the best idea to enter the hall filled with dozens of lords and highborns with the prince.
After he left you sat underneath the godswoods tree for ten more minutes. One, to not let anyone get any ideas. But two, to understand what had just happened. Prince Valarr came up to you, for seemingly no good reason. And you had enjoyed it, the conversation with him felt good. Real.
He was the most honest person you had met in the South.
As you walk back into the hall, you see Valarr seated at the high table. His father Baelor to his right and brother Matarys to his left. But more importantly you see the daisy chain crown still sitting on top of his head.
"Y/N?" Valarr's hand is now on your shoulder, bringing you back to the present.
The physical contact makes your whole body warm.
"Hmm?" You say.
"I asked..." Whatever it was he was going to remind you of before you got lost in your mind, he goes against it. "Are you alright?"
"Yes I was just..." You pause, debating to share your honesty.
You remember though that the relationship you had with Valarr was built on honesty. It was what made you trust him since the first day you met. It was what gave you hope for this marriage. That if love did emerge, at least he would be honest with you, and you him.
So you tell him the truth.
"I was thinking back on the first day we met. Underneath the godswoods."
"I remember it," he replies.
Your bluntness had already gotten you this far, so you test it a little further.
"Why did you approach me that day? Do not say it was because of my dancing," you ask.
"But it was," he replies simply. "When you were dancing with your brother, your smile was the biggest I've ever seen. You looked happy."
He sighs and continues, "Most dancing that takes place through the Red Keep is a chore more than anything else. To make it seem like everyone is having a great time," he says with a heavy sigh, unhappy with the reality.
"Politics and judgment tend to wear off on people's spirit. The only person I'd ever seen that happy while dancing is Matarys. But you, you danced like no one was watching, like the people in the South were dirt found on the bottom of your shoe." They are, you thought.
"I thought it attractive," he says.
"I thought you attractive." The way he says you, like it was saying something as simple as the sky is blue, made your heart flutter.
Valarr had never told you this. You knew he was looking at you while you were dancing, that he admitted himself the first time he spoke to you. But to retell it to you now, to admit that he was analyzing you, you felt scared and admired simultaneously.
"I wanted to see what could make a person so happy," he admits. "That's why I approached you."
"You should've told me."
If Valarr had told you this, it would've made you way more happy and relaxed throughout this betrothal.
"I didn't want to frighten you."
"You'd never frighten me."
Yes you were frightened. Frightened of moving away from the North, away from your family. Frightened of the court and it slowly pulling you into its andal traditions. Frightened of one day becoming Queen of the seven kingdoms. Frightened of bearing children, children who will become King. Frightened of being in a loveless marriage.
But never frightened of Valarr.
Valarr has been the kindest and welcoming man since this proposal. How Valarr stood from you not more than five feet away these past months with not an ounce of doubt in his face. Maybe it's because he's a prince and knows this is his duty but the way he handles it with such composure, it's mostly unreal.
The warmest and kindest smile takes over Valarr's face. Which surprises you because he says, "I have not been fully honest with you."
He has got a mistress is your first thought. That's how he's been so happy with this arrangement. He knows he doesn't have to fully commit to you, he has an outlet to get away from you.
"My father, the king too, they were not the ones who requested this betrothal."
Oh.
What?
The shock and confusion of your face is what makes him explain himself further.
"I did."
"You...?" Your question fades, still not sure what he's hinting at.
"After the godswoods when I came back into the hall. As my father described it, my face looked as if a child had smeared pink pigment all around it."
Valarr laughs at the memory before he continues, "Mataryas, he... he laughed and pointed at the flowers on my head. He tried to take it from me and I removed his hand more harshly than I should have."
The image of Valarr harming his brother over something you crafted. A simple thing that you've made, something that any girl in the Red Keep knows how to make. It warms your heart, you'd barely known Valarr and yet he kept the flower crown.
"I placed the flower crown on the table beside my bed that day," he continued.
"The next day father had asked me about it but I didn't... I didn't tell him."
He didn't want to make a spectacle of you, of your guys' conversation for the court to know.
"Coincidentally, that day was when the small council decided it was time I got a wife." Valarr shys as he continues with the story, "All the ladies, they were kind but I..." He laughs at himself yet still going on.
"Don't laugh at me," he tells you.
"I kept ending those days in bed staring at the flowers, thinking back on that day in the godswood with you."
"And well..."
Valarr reaches into his pocket, what he pulls out takes your breath away. It's a flower crown, the flower crown from the godswood tree.
It's shriveled up, no longer chained in a circle together, it's balled up. Almost like Valarr had held it in his fist since that day. Most of the petals have turned almost brown, if you'd have shown it to anyone else, they wouldn't understand what it had originally been.
But you do.
You understand that Valarr has held on to a piece of you this whole time, the first thing you'd given at the garden.
"I went to my father and told him if I were to be betrothed to anyone it'd be to you."
Valarr's eyes are filled with nothing but honesty. A small hint of apprehension, like you reject him and his affection.
It's overwhelming how close you are to one another. Like the space between you two was an insult that needed to be exiled from the seven kingdoms.
So you exile it, you lean forward and kiss Valarr. Your arms wrap around him, pulling him as close as you could maneuver, the only barrier being your wedding clothes. Kissing him like your life depended on it, hoping it told Valarr everything words couldn't.
You've kissed Valarr before, once back North. Valarr, his father Baelor, and his brother Matarys, had all made a trip to the North 3 months after your first meeting with Valarr underneath the godswood tree.
You had not become a small fun play-thing to Valarr. From what you were told his father had requested a betrothal between you and the young prince to your father; Beron.
Requested was a nice way to put it because really when one is presented with a betrothal from the royal family, you don't decline it.
But for the three months before he arrived, you both had sent letters back and forth to one another. You'd learned many things about Valarr, and he you. He loved daisies, his brother was his best friend, he preferred discussing politics as opposed to fighting over them, though he never turned down a tourney, and he preferred the winter over summer.
You sent him one too many letters after that complaining he had never seen a true winter and no such room to speak on it.
And when he finally arrived to the North, though not during winter, he didn't seem to like it as much as he claimed.
You'd taken him to the hot springs, thinking it would help him with the cold.
It was there sitting on a rock that you had kissed Valarr. You both sat shoulder to shoulder, knees touching and his face had been more pink than ever. You remember laughing with him, seeing the same look in his eyes that he always has when he sees you, and leaning in.
It lasted no more than 10 seconds, possibly less.
And it wasn't your first kiss but you had been more nervous than ever. The feeling you had gotten around Valarr was different than any other. It was what made you bold enough to lean in and initiate the kiss.
You remember walking back to Winterfell a spread a pink across your face, matching Valarr. Occasionally giggling when you both make eye contact with one another.
The second time you two kissed was back at the wedding ceremony.
It was after cutting one another's lips and sipping on the wine. It was a simple kiss, proper yet sweet enough for everyone watching. Though they would never know how much the kiss stung.
But it was nothing like this.
No. This was completely different.
The kiss was firm, you were both more confident this time. There was no plague of honor hovering over the two of you stopping you from doing more. There was no crowd, staring at you two like dragons that had been hatched again after fifty-six years forcing the kiss to be formal.
The kiss wasn't rushed, it felt like longing and seduction in one. Months of bottled-up feelings from two people who were too shy to speak about how they felt about one another.
Your hands moved to his shoulders, gripping for support. Valarr groaned at the slight nip you made to his bottom lip. He pulled you in closer, one hand at your waist and the other in your hair, deepening the kiss. Almost afraid of this ending, scared this is his only chance so he soaks up all he can get in this moment.
When you pull back to get some air, your forehead rests against Valarr's. A sigh escapes your lips, and before you can speak, Valarr pulls you into another kiss.
This time it's more rushed. Your hands move to Valarr's neck also not wanting the moment to end. You'd guessed if you weren't outside, you'd sit on top of Valarr. Wanting to be as close as possible to him at this moment.
Finally, you pull away. Your hands are still on Valarr's neck, wanting to still feel him beneath you.
Valarr's face is one you want to commit to memory. He looks like a man who's been granted everything in life and then some.
The wind picks up at this moment. The torches flicker and move from the heavy wind and the silence between the two of you causes you to hear the music, stomping, and cheers from people celebrating back in the great hall.
The doors that separate the people celebrating the marriage between House Stark and House Targaryen and the two of you sitting outside.
Away from the politics, duties, and gossip that the Red Keep brings. From this small balcony outside you can just have a real normal conversation with Valarr. You can confess your fears and love to one another without fear.
You can look at one another with love without people being able to see and analyze the two of you.
And now all of the sudden, you aren't as afraid of being married to Valarr Targaryen.
ʚᯓ ᴀʙʙᴏᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ x ʀᴏʙʙʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ who absolutely can't stand each other, but are forced into close proximity because their fathers are best friends. — WC; 1.8k
tw; adoption mention (reader is adopted by robby), alcohol mention
cred; @cannedibal on tiktok
pt. i
Benjamin was an asshole to say the least, and an absolute fucking douchebag to say the most.
If your father didn't have a practically codependent relationship with his dad, Dr. Abbot, you would not be here right now, sitting on their couch while your dads cracked open the third beer of the night.
Ben was sitting beside you, manspreading like his life depended on it, and playing some random first-person shooter game.
You scoffed and curled closer into yourself on your corner of the couch and fumbled with your phone in your hoodie pocket to try and occupy yourself.
"Hey, kid, what's wrong?"
Your head perked up at the voice, your father, of course. His footsteps were practically silent compared to Dr. Abbot's whose gait was slightly off and would clink with his prosthetic.
"Nothing, Dad, just.. tired," you sighed, tucking your phone into your lap.
Your father cocked a brow and stared at you over those ridiculous glasses he always wore. "You're lying," he commented without hesitation. The man always found your tells and could see right through you.
You looked between him and Ben briefly before fixing him with a look, your silent signal for "I want to go home, I don't like him".
Your dad nodded in understanding before ruffling your hair and patting your shoulder, his own silent signal for "Hold out a little longer and try to get along", before walking back to the dining room where Jack was giving him a curious look.
Ben finally died in his game then and looked over at you with a furrow in his brow and an upturn in his upper look that conveyed something like annoyance. "You made me lose with that freaky silent talk thing you do," he complained.
You raised a brow. "Then you must suck if silent talk made you lose your game," you retorted with a scoff before grabbing your phone from your lap to return to mindless entertainment.
Ben stared for a moment longer at your uninterested expression before mumbling something eerily similar to "piece of work" under his breath before returning to his game.
A few minutes of silence passed until that familiar gait caught your attention and you looked up to see Jack coming behind Ben's spot. The idiot was too immersed in his game to realize his father was behind him and he jumped when Jack's hands smacked right against his shoulders, making him lose instantly.
"Bro! You're actually so lame, Dad!" Ben groaned as he turned to face his father.
The two were so identical, it made you wonder what his mom looked like because her genes put in absolutely no work. Ben was every bit his father except his hair was a mousy brown shade while Jack had long since been salt-and-peppered and Ben had significantly more freckles from time in the sun– no one could fault Jack for that though, then man ran the night shift and therefore was a night owl.
"Tell our guests bye and go up to shower. I swear you haven't had one in two weeks," Jack replied, his dry voice holding a hint of teasing.
Ben's cheeks pinkened and he stumbled over his words before placing his controller down and looking over at you for a moment. "Bye," he muttered.
You nodded in acknowledgement before unfurling from your crumpled spot on the couch to leave. "Bye, Mr. Jack, see you later," you spoke politely before rounding the edge of the couch to find your own father in the foyer, pulling his shoes back on.
"Bye, kiddo!" Jack called back before looking back to his son and smacking him across the back of his head.
You stifled a laugh as you slipped your shoes back on and followed your father out of the Abbot's house and to his truck.
The night air was cool against your cheeks and you shivered lightly, more than eager to enter the warmth of the old pickup.
"So, Benji's having his birthday party next week. You should go," your dad spoke once the two of you were settled in the truck.
You quirked a brow. "Dad. No. No way–" you scoffed, trying to figure out if he was actually being serious.
"Oh, c'mon, kid. It won't be that bad. It'll be hot, they have a pool, plenty of Jack's barbecue," he began to list, trying to convince you.
"Dad, no– why would I want to go to his birthday?" You argued.
You had gone to Ben's birthday every year since you could remember because Jack and your dad were convinced the two of you would be best friends because they were. Every birthday party ended with the two of you fighting, though.
On his tenth birthday he pushed you into the pool and you pulled him in with you, leading to the two of you almost drowning by trying to fight each other to the surface.
On his fourteenth birthday, you slammed his face into his cake after he threw a water balloon on your new lace dress you had gotten from a box of your birth mother's things.
And of course you never forgot on his seventh birthday when he found out you were adopted and made fun of you with all his friends. You rode home crying that night and didn't see Jack or Ben for almost three months.
Your father sigh from the driver's seat caught your attention again and you looked back at him.
"I know you don't like him, kid.. but give this party a chance," he requested, looking over at you. "For your old man?"
You huffed as he pulled that card. Of course he would.
You laid in your bed that night, contemplating it. It was his eighteenth birthday and the two of you were graduating this year. If you went, this would be the last of his birthdays you'd ever have to go to and if he humiliated you, at least you'd barely see him around and could live down the shame at a college out of state where no one went to.
You rolled over to stare out the slightly ajar window before sighing. You would go. If only for your dad's sake.
The party was lively, and the scent of Jack's cooking wafted through the back yard that could barely contain the sheer amount of people invited.
Of course the extended Abbot family was there, but also so was the entire football team it seemed. You brushed past people, attempting to stay close to your dad so you didn't risk the chance of running into Ben.
"Hey! There's my bonus kid!" Jack grinned as you and your dad found him. The two shared a brief hug before Jack hugged you as well– always one to be affectionate to the ones he cares about.
"Look at this, all grown up," he sighed as he pulled back to grasp your shoulders. "Don't let any of these boys here ogle you," he added in a mock authority tone before patting your shoulder and going to his conversation with your father about kids growing up so fast or something along those lines.
You hovered, but looked around awkwardly, trying to find familiar faces that weren't people who asked you for the answers during class.
As you were preoccupied with searching the crowd, Ben came up to his dad and began asking questions about food.
You turned at the sound of his voice and saw him in just a pair of swim trunks, torso glistening like he'd just come out of the pool. Despite yourself, your gaze lingered, eyeing the slight chub on his bones from bulking and trailing the thousands of freckles that littered his skin. You were about to look away when his head turned and he met your gaze.
Fuck.
He smirked, because of course the idiot smirked, and returned to his conversation like he didn't just catch you sizing him up like he was a porterhouse.
You felt your cheeks get hot and you looked away to try and take your mind off that interaction because why did Benajmin John Abbot make you flustered? This was your mortal enemy! The bane of your existence that called you a piece of work!
But God, he was a really sexy enemy who grew into his body really well.
You shook the thought from your head before deciding maybe a dip in the pool would do you some good.
You headed inside and walked upstairs to the bathroom so you could set your clothes somewhere they'd stay dry and safe.
While you were tucking your clothes away in a safe spot in the cabinet with your purse and shoes, you heard a knock on the door.
Assuming it was a stranger, you cleared your throat and called out, "Occupied!"
There was a small chuckle on the other side. "It's me. Are you decent?"
Ben. Because of course.
Your brows furrowed and you felt your pulse leap into your throat. "Still occupied!" You yelled again.
"Dude, just let me in, I wanna talk," he replied. The words were followed by a small thud that sounded like his forehead hitting the door.
You sighed and closed the cabinet door before opening the door to reveal Benjamin standing there with a shit-eating grin, wet curls sticking to his forehead and a towel thrown around his thick neck.
"Wow, nice rack," he muttered, staring down at your bikini top, leading you to shut the door in his face. "Hey I was joking!" He called from behind the wood.
You contemplated shutting yourself in the bathroom for the rest of the party for a moment before slowly relenting and opening the door.
"Thank you," he hummed once the door opened again. "Besides, I only think it's fair from how you were looking at me earlier," he added in a teasing tone.
You sputtered for a moment, trying to come up with a valid excuse for practically drooling at the sight of him.
"Hey," he began defensively, holding his arms up. "It's a compliment from Miss Hates Me," he continued with another grin, this one softer.
Your cheeks burned again and your grip on the doorknob tightened. "Do you want me to slam this door in your face again?" You spoke, trying to keep your voice steady.
"No, sorry–" Ben quickly replied, rubbing the nape of his neck.
You rolled your eyes before looking at him, expecting him to say something– fess up the real reason he was here, for one.
Ben just stared unknowingly, brow quirked. "There– you're doing that freaky silent talk thing again!" He pointed out, making you groan.
"Why are you here?" You asked bluntly this time.
Ben's face morphed into one of realization before he grinned again. "Because you like me."
summary: robby tries to ask you out however you are still denying your crush on him. mars helps him get on your good side by convincing you to bring him camping for the weekend.
a/n: this is a slower burn than little miracle but mars likes robby and wants to be his friend.
tags: fluff, camping, mars' dad is a pos, exposition of reader being preyed on by boss, first kiss, mars and robby having fun moments
wc: 3.3k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
After Robby met Mars, they had a fast friendship grow between them. There were times when you would come down to the ED for something and Mars would be sitting at workstation or talking to Robby. You have no idea how it happened or whether or not it was a good thing. But it wasn't just Mars that Robby was getting close to. He also wanted to get close with you.
One day, you come into work and there were flowers in a vase on your desk. You look around confused then notice a card among the flowers. It was from Robby; an apology for missing a meeting. You scoff before tossing the card in the trash. "Rude." A voice startles you from the door. You jump and spin to see Robby standing there, "Don't like the flowers?"
"They're nice but as an apology for the meeting? Not nice enough." You shrug, "Sorry, I don't make the rules."
"I'll do better next time." He holds out a cup of coffee to you.
"Oh, I don't drink—"
"You don't drink coffee, I know. It's black tea." He smiles
You tilt your head suspiciously as you take the cup, "How did you know that?"
"Uhm…Gloria told me?" He says. You eye him once more before sitting down and taking a sip. It was perfect, made with enough milk not to make it too tart, "That's part two of the apology."
"Okay, apology now accepted." You smile, "Now don't you have a job to do?"
"I've got a little time. I wanted to ask, do you have plans this weekend?" He sits across from you at the desk.
"Why?" You scoff, "Planning to put a hit out on me?"
"No," He chuckles. "I'm just curious."
"I have plans." You say flatly, "I don't know what you were planning so I'm just going to pass."
He nods, "Okay… Then I'll just take my leave."
He was feeling confused if whether or not you had a crush on him. After the rendezvous to the roof to see the stars you've kept your distance. Your flirting never left the hospital. Maybe because of your past you didn't want him to get close. But that was hard when Mars had attached himself to the older man.
Robby returns to the ED feeling defeated. He had asked Mars about all the things you liked. The kinds of flowers you liked, preferring tea over coffee, your favorite colors, what you liked to do. How you liked to mix metals when you wore jewelry. Something he noticed when you'd come to ED. Your son knew alot about you but for Robby it still wasn't enough.
"Having a hard time, Romeo?" Dana asks.
"She's coming around." He shakes his head, "She's got her reservations, for good reason."
"But her son doesn't seem to." She says pointedly.
"Maybe he should. I've been told I am a bad influence." He gets handed a chart from one of his residents.
Later in the day, Mars come into the ED. "Hey kid." Robby smiles as the boy rushes over to the supplies storage. He opens the drawers and pulls out some bandages, gauze, hydrocortisone, and triple antibiotic ointment. "Uh, Mars?"
"Can't talk. Have to prepare." He blocks the other drawers with his body.
Robby shuts them and blocks the storage with his body, "Talk now. Prepare for what?"
Mars frowns when he looks up at Robby, "My mom is taking me to this new campsite this weekend. I did some research on the camp and most people hurt themselves in the creek nearby and it's over grown with poison ivy this time of year so we could contract a rash. You can't be too careful."
"Camping… That's the plan for the weekend." He smiles.
"Did your mission fail? Did she not say yes?"
"No she said she had plans for the weekend."
"Right," Mars looks at him apologetically, "I should have told you so that you could plan better. Did you get her the flowers and the tea?"
"Yes and yes," Robby sighs, "I don't think your mom wants to date another colleague."
"False. She doesn't want to date her boss again." Mars clarifies, "She likes you. There is evidence of that. We just need to prove it." Mars paces around before snapping his fingers, "I've got it!"
"What?" Robby raises an eyebrow.
"What's better preparedness than bringing a doctor!" Mars smiles, "You can come camping with us!"
"Mars… that's a little crazy. Your mom would kill me if I asked." Robby shakes his head.
"I'll ask her! I want you there." Mars pulls on Robby's arm, "It'll be… dangerous she can't say no. I need a doctor there, just in case."
"Alright. If you can convince your mom to say yes, then I'll go."
"That'll be a piece of cake." Mars smirks.
-
"Please! Please, please, please!" Mars lays on the floor of your office flailing his little body around as he begs.
"No! Mars, why do you want him to go so bad?" You sit back in your chair and fold your arms.
"Because he is a doctor. It'll be safer! The camp is by bacteria infected water. And poison ivy has fatalities— although rare— it could happen! Having a doctor there would be safe!" Mars explains.
You are still unconvinced. Between the gifts earlier and your son's begging you were becoming more skeptical of the situation, "There are other doctor's here we know and can ask. What about Dr. Richie?"
"Ew, gross, mom." Mars grimaces.
Richie was someone you had dated during the early month of your time at PTMC. He wasn't fully committed on the highly intelligent kid knowing more than him. He also chewed with his mouth open which gave you and Mars the ick.
"Robby is cool. He rides a motorcycle." Mars sits up, "Chicks love motorcycles."
"Chicks, huh? Am I a chick?" You laugh
"You like him don't you?" Mars tilts his head, "You still have the flowers he got you."
"How'd you know they were from him?" You narrow your eyes, "I knew it! You told him what gifts I like!"
"What's the harm? It's nice isn't it?" He rests his head on your lap, "He wanted to know because he likes you too."
"Okay," You squish his cheeks, "and then what, Mars? He comes on this trip and then…"
"He has so much fun, becomes my best friend, and you both fall in love and we become a happy family." He smiles innocently.
You laugh at the thought. You were grateful that although he knew alot he wasn't jaded by society and could still think up scenarios like that. He bats his eyelashes, still hoping for you to say something other than no. You let out a resigning sigh.
"Yes!" He jumps to his feet.
"Most of that is not happening by the way." You add.
"It's okay if he doesn't have fun. Camping isn't for everyone." He runs to the door, "I have to go tell him right now!"
-
You didn't believe that Robby would agree and come but here he was in your car. On your way to the campground for the weekend. Mars was buzzing in the back seat with excitement as you get closer to the camp.
"I just want to say thank you for inviting me." Robby says.
"Thank Mars. He made a good argument to have you come." You dismiss his gratitude
"But you had the final say, right?: He smirks.
"Don't think too much into it." You say.
You arrive to the tent section of the campground. You get a small plot to park your car and pitch a tent. You picked a plot that was in a clearing so Mars could get clear sight for his telescope. It was also near the creek and trail for you to walk during the day.
You and Mars have gone camping plenty of times. Usually at a different campground. You would pitch the tent alone as Mars was off collecting specimens from bugs to the local flora. By nightfall you would finally finish. Just because you went camping often didn't mean you were good at it.
However, this time you had Robby to help. You pull the tent out of your trunk and he grabs it from you. You blink in surprise before telling him where to put it. Together you work towards getting it up. "So, Robby, have you gone camping before?"
"A few times. In my youth, I loved being out in nature." He reminisces, "It's hard to now. Not time to get out."
"And yet you've made time." You point out.
He shrugs, "I guess I never wanted to until now."
You continue putting the tent together then proceed to set up some chairs around the pit and stove you brought from home. You finish before the sun is even past the middle of the sky. You feel odd after getting this newfound freedom. Usually it was dinner and bed for you but now what did you have planned? You could do whatever you wanted.
"So, what's next?" Robby asks.
"Uh… I don't actually know." You say at a loss. You look around to find Mars and seem him digging in the dirt most likely for bugs of some kind. Your attention moves to some kids staring at him too. They're whispering and gawking.
"It doesn't bother him." Robby notices the kids too, "He knows he's not normal. He doesn't let it stop him from doing what he loves."
"He's a child. It's gonna bother him." You lament.
You stand up and walk over to Mars . Your shadow blocks the light over his hole causing him to look up at you. "You finished early!"
"Yep, c'mon let's walk the creek trail."
"Okay, let me get my jar." He runs to your camp to get his specimen jar.
The three of you walk the creek trail. You pass other families that stand in the water splashing and swimming. You try not to show your disgust as you pass but Robby catches your frown as you make distance. "Don't like the creek?" He chuckles.
"I just know what's in it." You shudder, "Perks of a son who does his research."
"Oh yeah, we see our fair share of infections from contaminated water consumption." Robby says.
"Gross." Your sour face returns, "Mars likes to scoop up the water and inspect it."
You tilt your head to your son just ahead. He cautiously approaches the water and fills his jar with it. He holds it up to the sun and inside you can see all the water insects zipping around in the water. He holds it to his chest as you continue to walk.
You approach the end of the loop before it sends you back up the other side of the creek. You cross a bridge over a small waterfall. Once across the path becomes a rocky decline and you step wrong as you descend nearly falling into the brush. Robby, luckily, catches you holding you to his chest and away from the bushes.
"Mom! Are you okay?" Mars stops and looks back after hearing you yelp.
Yeah, I'm fine." You separate from Robby and mutter a, "Thank you."
You finish the route and head back to the camp as the sun sets. You turn on your single propane stove and put some hot dogs in a pan. As you cook, Robby sits with Mars as he looks through his jar.
"What's all in there?" Robby asks.
"Mostly baby mosquitoes." Mars says, "It's what on the microscopic level that matters though. E. coli, Giardia, Cryptosporidium, and so much more."
"Those all sound familiar. Do you have a microscope at home?"
"No," He shakes his head, "My school does and my mom takes me to the microbiology lab at the hospital sometimes."
"I'm jealous." Robby looks over at you as you make plates for everyone. He gets up to help, taking one from you, "I didn't want to interrupt." You apologize.
"It was nothing. Just wrapping my head around how smart he is… still." He sits in one of the chairs by the fire pit. You sit in the other and call over Mars. He comes over and has a seat at your feet.
After dinner, you and Robby sit around the now lit fire in the pit. Mars looks through his telescope as you two watch. You catch Robby stealing glances as you as you focus on the sky and Mars. "Why did you come?"
"I was invited." Robby says.
"And you go wherever a child tells you to?" You chuckle, "Be honest."
"You first." He smirks.
"I have no clue what you're talking about." You roll your eyes.
"Whatever you say." He surrenders.
"Robby! Come look at the moon!" Mars beckons him over. Robby goes over to the telescope dropping the conversation.
Later in the night, when you're all asleep, Mars shakes Robby awake. The tent was spacious with you and Mars. With Robby, there was just enough room. He turns over and opens his eyes, "Mars?"
"I need to go to the bathroom." Mars whispers.
"Okay, we can go." He sits up. Mars grabs your electric lamp and unzips the tent. They walk to the bathroom in the darkness. "I don't think your mom actually likes me, Mars."
"Sure she does. She kept your flowers." Mars says, "Anytime my dad sends her flowers she throws them away."
"But that can just mean she doesn't like your dad." Robby contends, "Or she just liked my flowers more."
"You've never seen the bouquets my dad gets." He counters, "She doesn't like my dad, that is true, but she likes you. I am sure of it."
They reach the communal bathroom. Robby waits outside his stall as he goes. He washes his hands when he's done.
As they walk back, Robby carries the lamp. Mars slots his small hand in Robby's free one. "Would you still be my friend? Even if my mom doesn't like you?" Robby looks down at the boy sympathetically.
"Of course." Robby gives his hand a squeeze.
They return to your tent. You were laying in your sleeping bag facing the center of the tent. Mars crawls in beside you and Robby on the other side. Mars seems to go straight to sleep but Robby has a harder time. You open your eyes and ask, "Was he okay?"
"Yeah… Just needed the bathroom." Robby answers.
"Thank you," You smile.
"Of course." He sighs as he tries again to settle.
"I'm not very good at this." You speak again.
"Good at what?"
"Letting people in." You sigh, "Letting down my defenses about me feelings… towards you." You finally admit it. You did like him.
Robby doesn't gloat. "Understandable," He says instead.
"You have somehow impressed Mars, and all the nice things you are doing. I guess it stands for something."
"I'll take it as a compliments."
You giggle, "It's new for me, okay? Last guy I let get close, embarrassed me so bad I am barred from the industry. I just don't want it to happen again."
"Luckily, I don't have that kind of influence." He chuckles, "Mars tells me, you kept my flowers."
"They were nice. Thoughtful." You say, "I didn't peg you as a romantic."
"I do what I can." He shrugs.
"Show me then." You smirk.
"Gladly," He sits up, "C'mon."
He unzips the tent and takes his sleeping out. You follow him out, bringing your blanket. He opens the bag and lays it in the grass like a picnic blanket. You can't help but smile before you sit down beside him on the bag. "How's this for romantic?"
"You're getting there," You lean against him.
He rests his head on yours as you look up at the stars, "So, you liked space first."
"A severe overstatement." You snort, "I liked space movies. Going to the Smithsonian. Things that are way more casual. I just thought it would be cute to name my kid after a planet. By no means am I smart like Mars."
"Well, he got it from somewhere." Robby chuckles.
"Maybe. I doubt it came from his dad." You laugh, "His other kids are proof."
"You don't have a lot of good to say about that man." Robby raises an eyebrow.
"You wouldn't either if you met him," You mumble. Robby waits for you to elaborate. You sigh, "He was a lawyer at this law firm downtown on the partner track. He was older than me. Handsome and chivalrous… predatory. He saw me as young and impressionable and took advantage of me. Complimented me, a little sweet talk, showered me with expensive gifts. He'd take me to swanky places like expensive restaurants, trips to New York, the Hamptons, and the Florida Keys."
You take another breath," I was young and stupid. I thought he liked me… he just liked the sex." You gaze up at the stars as they shine back down on you, "It went on for months until his wife came back from her time in Europe. She caught me in his office telling him I was pregnant. She slapped me across the face and calling me a slut. She had a right to be angry."
"She didn't have the right to hit you." Robby rubs your arm for comfort, "That must have been a lot to go through."
"It was. They harassed me through the pregnancy. Tried to throw money at the problem. When that didn't work they tried to take him away. Then after all that they finally gave up and admitted they didn't want him that much. That's why he only goes a few weeks in the summer." Robby feels your hot tears on the fabric of his sleeve, "I don't regret it though… I wouldn't have my best friend if I gave in."
Robby holds you closer for comfort, "Thank you for telling me. To have to go through that yourself. I understand why you have your reservations."
"I might as well tell you if you're planning to stick around. Either I would or they would." You shrug.
"Are you suggesting that those people would find me and tell me?" He looks at you baffled.
"Wouldn't be the first time." You mumble. Then you wave your thoughts away, "Let's just enjoy the stars now." You wrap your blanket around the two of you as you star gaze.
As your eyes bounce from star to star Robby's eyes are on you. Slowly, he takes you by the chin to face him, "I like you for you." He whispers, "I like when you are snarky and mean. I like when you are gentle. I like how you are with your son. My intentions— I hope— come off to be just chivalrous and not predatory," You laugh, "The flirting, the teasing— it was real. My feelings for you are real under all of it."
Your eyes trail from his eyes to his lips. Cautiously, you lean closer to him. As your noses touch, you hesitate before pressing your lips against his. Robby deepens the kiss, tenderly. You hum sweetly against his lips.
When you separate you lick your lips and smile. Robby smiles in return, "You'll be rude in the morning after this, right?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" You tease for a moment but you give him a chaste kiss, "I won't but work is a different story."
"Oh I'm depending on you to." He smirks.
After a quiet moment, you both go back into the tent to sleep. As you all settle, Mars peeps one eye open, "I told you." He whispers into the tent. Neither of you dare to speak to give the boy his rightful satisfaction.
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader who gets everything she wanted (plus one) ✿ 1.9k words
summary: your promenade with Lord Lupin ends with the promise of a proposal, a first kiss, and the first of many important conversations
cw: bridgerton-inspired au, fem!reader, no sirius in this one though they do talk about him obvi
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one two three four five six seven eight
The promenade doesn’t solve everything. It does, though, allow Lord Lupin to regain your mother’s favor.
A (very large, very expensive) bouquet of flowers, a beautifully rehearsed apology, and open talks of a proposal will do that. By his departure, which is far later than it should be given he is a respectable gentleman and you are still an unmarried woman, your mother’s face is glowing with a smile of pure joy that almost matches your own.
“You will return in the morning?” She asks him, her eyes very pointed. There’s a silent question of ‘with a ring?’ behind them, and Remus gives her a nod and a knowing smile.
“Yes, I will be here as early as you will allow me inside.” This makes your mother laugh, but your own lips stay silently locked in a grin, eyes solely on him. It’s like you haven’t even heard his words, instead just relishing in the feeling of pure, ecstatic joy. You’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted, and more than you’ve ever thought was possible.
“Mother,” Your voice chimes like church bells when you speak, and your mother looks toward you. “I would like a moment alone with Lord Lupin, please.”
Four eyebrows shoot up, Remus’ own matching your mother’s, at your request. It’s especially bold given that your mother was originally upset with him because you had been alone with him unchaperoned previously. When her head slowly tilts, and her shoulders fall just slightly, you seem to realize she’s going to allow it, taking a step closer to him.
“I promise we won’t leave the main hall.” You know exactly what to say to convince her, and your mother gives a resigned sigh. She agrees, though reluctantly, and informs you that the staff will be listening, and any unsavory behavior would be reported to her and stopped immediately.
Your victorious grin should perhaps be a warning sign to Remus. The fact that you seem to always know exactly what to say to get what you want should make him concerned, but it doesn’t. In fact, the shine in your eyes reminds him of Sirius in that moment, and his heart softens instead.
You step closer to him the instant your mother’s footsteps are out of your hearing range. Your eyes, shining up at him with joy and love, trace over his features before you ask in a gentle whisper, “You are not toying with my heart? You will propose tomorrow?”
He raises an eyebrow, but his smile is soft, “Do you not believe me?”
“Of course I do.” You gently shake your head and give him an equally soft smile in return. You reach out to fix his jacket, fingers trailing over the fabric that lays atop his chest. Far closer than you should be, far later at night than it should be. You two are already destined to have people talking, let alone when you bring in a scorned heir as a third.
He gently grabs your wrist, “I am going to ask your father for your hand.” He flattens your palm against his chest, your pulse fluttering under the pads of his fingers, “And then I am going to ask you to be my wife.”
“And I’m going to say yes.” Your smile has turned cheeky, and in that moment Remus knows he’ll never have a second of peace in his life with you and Sirius around.
“Yes, but I still have to ask.” If he puffs up his chest a bit under your hand, he’ll never admit it. “For propriety’s sake, you understand.”
You giggle softly, and step even closer. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to him, to any man, ever. It’s intoxicating, even just the scent of him alone. Something spicy with a hint of musk. His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t pull away. In fact, his other hand moves to your back. Not too far down to be considered indecent, just barely below where it would be if you two were dancing. Some deep part of you wishes it would move lower.
“You’re so beautiful.” His fingers leave your wrist in favor of brushing some hair from your face. His touch lingers there, and you lean into it.
“Remus…”
“You have bewitched me, body and soul.” The corner of his lip perks up as he recites the Pride and Prejudice quote, the same one you’d quoted to him once when he’d called on you during tea. It hadn’t been a subtle hint when you’d said it, though you can’t find yourself to be anything other than in love with him when he repeats it now, not an ounce of embarrassment found in the swell of your emotions.
Your hands find his cheeks, cupping his face between them. You don’t seem to find yourself shy in touching him like this, though given how long he’s taken to finally produce a proposal, maybe you’re a bit impatient. His eyes close for a moment and he inhales like he’s breathing you in.
“We have a lot to speak about.” You say, brushing the pad of your thumb over the apple of his cheek. You lower your voice to a whisper when you continue, “The three of us.”
Remus’ lips raise in a soft smile, and you can feel the movement of his cheeks under the skin of your palm.
“Quite.” He agrees. “Though I think there will be ample time for the three of us to speak properly fairly soon.”
You wish that moment could be right now. You want to keep speaking like this, with his body so close to yours that if he pressed any closer, your hips might touch. The thought makes you feel hot, and there’s a million things you wish to ask him but none of them make it past your tongue.
The only one that slips through is, “You’re sure you’ll be returning in the morning, yes?”
Remus presses his lips forward, a gentle kiss bestowed on the edge of your thumb, and it makes your whole body tingle. His eyes meet yours, assurance and love so clear within his irises.
“As I told your mother, as early as you will allow me inside.”
“Will you be returning to London tonight?” Your other question is hidden below it, silent in order to be safe from the potentially prying ears of the staff: Will you be returning to Sirius tonight?
Remus nods, his long fingers coming to gently circle your wrists, guiding your hands to the nape of his neck. “I will.”
Your fingers feel the soft tufts of hair there, and your eyes trace over his features. You’ve been close to him but never in a way that has lit up your insides the way they are right now. Your heart feels like it might explode and there’s an odd warmth in your lower belly that only seems to grow as Remus leans closer. His lips brush the slightest bit against your own when he whispers and you have to force yourself to listen.
“I think he will be quite pleased that you’re agreeing to my proposal.” As he whispers, one of his hands slides to your back again, lower than before. It makes your breath catch and your voice is airy and strained when you respond.
“I am sorry for… running away.” His nose bumps yours and your brain struggles to form coherent words. “I was just… overwhelmed.”
“I am sorry for how I handled it.” Remus pulls back just enough so that he can look between each of your eyes, a sincerity shining so strong within his own that it somehow makes your heart ache even worse. “I should’ve been more honest with you. Especially given that I was already planning to make you my wife.”
“But how could you have been?” Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and his eyes follow the entire movement. “I know you both must think me naive, but I am not naive enough to think that your relationship with Sirius is something you can just… share. It was unexpected, and I did not… know that was a possibility. But I am not upset.”
A sound that must be a sigh of relief presses out of his parted lips, the slightest bit of tension easing from his shoulders. “The Heavens have truly blessed us with you. I was prepared to stow Sirius away somewhere for the rest of our lives, only seeing him when I had time to escape life in Mayfair. Which would not have been fair to him or to my wife.”
You don’t know what possession must come over your body as you look at him, a boldness that shocks even yourself, but you close the gap between you instead of responding.
Your first kiss is not how you assumed it would be. You’ve thought about it thousands of times, especially late at night trying to fall asleep, your mind creating beautiful fantasies instead of counting sheep. You wondered if it might be at your wedding, dozens of people watching. You wondered if it might be hidden away, a secret shared between you and someone far below your stature, love overcoming the anxiety of being caught. You’ve even wondered if it might never happen, especially after your first (and second) season when not a single one of the men caught your eye.
It comes to you as easy as breathing. Remus’ lips are slightly chapped, the barest hint of brandy still on his lips.
It is chaste, though still highly improper. Remus pulls away first, much to your dismay, but then he presses his lips to your forehead in a way that settles you and is so sweet it almost brings tears to your eyes. You swallow back the lump in your throat.
“Well, it is good you finally saw sense about me, then.” Your voice is more stable than it should be given how weak your knees feel. You can feel his breath on your face when he chuckles lowly.
“Sirius would have convinced me to propose to you even if I hadn’t already decided. He’s quite taken with you.”
You can’t help the smile that takes over your lips. “Have you seen my painting?”
Remus shakes his head. “No. He won’t let me see it until it’s perfect, he says. He’s asked if I can whisk you away so you can be his muse and he can perfect his work.”
“I already believed it to be perfect.” You say and Remus nods at your words like he agrees with you.
“Sirius is very hard on himself, the harshest critic I have ever encountered. But his art is magnificent each and every time, including your painting, I’d wager.”
You miss Sirius, and you find yourself impatient for the day that the three of you can have a conversation alone. You feel like you’ve wasted an opportunity running away from Remus’ London apartment, but you cannot fault yourself for having ended up here, engaged to him.
“I will see you in the morning.” Lord Lupin bows his head in your direction as his carriage pulls up in front of the door. The sun has long vanished below the horizon, the moon shining brightly from its place amongst the stars.
“I will be expecting you.” You tell him, unable to hide your grin. “I cannot wait.”
I hate the mischaracterisation of Dennis Whitaker.
Dennis Whitaker isn’t a fragile baby. That man is such a secret dom. Friendly and sweet to everyone else. Yet, to you he is authoritative and demanding. In a sense that he knows what he wants.
He’s so domestic and would also do anything for you. Cooking, cleaning, handywork. You don’t even have to lift a finger when he is around. When he isn’t, it painfully frustrates him that you have to ‘get your hands dirty’
He loves bringing you everywhere he is. You both have that kind of love where you are best friends too. Both of you are suckers for a routine. You listen to all his farm stories and watch multiple animal documentaries together. Multiple exchanged baby animal TikToks.
“Awe den look at this one!” You squeal
He looks and it’s a small kitten falling into milk crying. He smiles. You frown staring at the screen. You quickly look at him then back to the whining kitten. “Kind of looks like you! I’m sending this to Trin”
His coworkers adore you and always want you around for work parties and get togethers. You constantly hear new stories of Dennis on shift. You smile knowing you have the most perfect and caring boyfriend.
Dennis Whitaker is a munch. He loves going down on you. Kissing your stomach and trailing love bites up your inner thighs. His tongue focuses on your clit while he listens to how you react to each lick, suck and nibble he takes. Gently, he circles your clit with his thumb. Pushing his tongue into you and fucking you like that. He loves tasting you.
Often he picks you up and throws you around into any position he wants you in. Making sure to leave gentle kisses on your body and caress your curves. As he wraps his hand around your throat - “sweetheart, you are so pretty”
That midwestern charm brings you to your climax every-time. Dennis Whitaker, your strong dominant farm boy.
I hate the mischaracterisation of Dennis Whitaker.
Dennis Whitaker isn’t a fragile baby. That man is such a secret dom. Friendly and sweet to everyone else. Yet, to you he is authoritative and demanding. In a sense that he knows what he wants.
He’s so domestic and would also do anything for you. Cooking, cleaning, handywork. You don’t even have to lift a finger when he is around. When he isn’t, it painfully frustrates him that you have to ‘get your hands dirty’
He loves bringing you everywhere he is. You both have that kind of love where you are best friends too. Both of you are suckers for a routine. You listen to all his farm stories and watch multiple animal documentaries together. Multiple exchanged baby animal TikToks.
“Awe den look at this one!” You squeal
He looks and it’s a small kitten falling into milk crying. He smiles. You frown staring at the screen. You quickly look at him then back to the whining kitten. “Kind of looks like you! I’m sending this to Trin”
His coworkers adore you and always want you around for work parties and get togethers. You constantly hear new stories of Dennis on shift. You smile knowing you have the most perfect and caring boyfriend.
Dennis Whitaker is a munch. He loves going down on you. Kissing your stomach and trailing love bites up your inner thighs. His tongue focuses on your clit while he listens to how you react to each lick, suck and nibble he takes. Gently, he circles your clit with his thumb. Pushing his tongue into you and fucking you like that. He loves tasting you.
Often he picks you up and throws you around into any position he wants you in. Making sure to leave gentle kisses on your body and caress your curves. As he wraps his hand around your throat - “sweetheart, you are so pretty”
That midwestern charm brings you to your climax every-time. Dennis Whitaker, your strong dominant farm boy.
summary: some things i think dennis would do w/ his girl :))
content warnings: f!reader, fluff. lots of it. and one smutty hc at the end ☺︎
bf!dennis who gets so smiley when he returns to his apartment after a shift to the sight of his lady tangled up in his bed, fast asleep. bonus points if you're wearing his shirt or boxers.
bf!dennis who ensures you always have a fresh bouquet of flowers in the pretty purple vase on your kitchen island.
^^ he always steals 1 flower from the bouquet and keeps it so that he can tell when you're in need of a fresh set
bf!dennis who is attached as your partner in your period tracking app. he has the app on his own phone so he can see your cycle and know exactly when you need a little extra loving
bf!dennis who loves when you text him, asking for help picking out your next nail set. he loves nothing more than choosing exactly what nails will be on your pretty hands. he always sneaks in the letter "D" onto one of your nails.
bf!dennis who will NOT shut up about you while he's at work. "gosh, guys. i just love my girl. gonna make her my wife someday." "she's just so beautiful. have ya seen her? here, i'll show you a photo." "bar after shift? suit yourself, trin. i, personally, have a very pretty lady to go home to, so..."
bf!dennis who everyone praises for being so gentlemanly in your relationship. little do they know how deep he bullies his cock into you every night, cooing at your babbling and whining.
summary: Lord Jason Lannister and Lady Johanna Westerling’s union proved fruitful, as they had three daughters and a son, even if it is reported that theirs was no marriage made out of love. The most remarkable out of their children was, obviously, the third borne daughter, who was known amongst the smallfolk as the Golden Princess and later on would have been remembered as the Lion Queen.
pairing: jacaerys velaryon x lannister!reader
word count: 6.4k
warnings: childhood friends to lovers trope, mention of slavery, common asoiaf violence (broken arm), swearing probably, just very sweet, reader is a crybaby (it's okay, so am i) but she'll get better, tyland and jason are kinda assholes, that's it!!
author's note: there better be at least five minutes of screentime for cregan this season or else i WILL crash out. rip jace my glorious curly haired king 👑 might come back to proof read this again later but that's a problem for future me... dividers from @uzmacchiato!
the ballad of the lion and the dragon
the lion | the dragon | the ballad
You’re six when you visit Tyrosh for the first time.
Your father, Lord Jason Lannister, is invited to the Archon of Tyrosh’s residence; it is not uncommon for your family to receive invites from all around the Known World, but it is rare for your father to accept them. Most of the time he either goes by himself or sends someone in his stead, but for some reason he has decided to bring you all this time. You all meaning you, your mother and your sisters, Cerelle and Tyshara.
“I heard your father is searching for a good knight who is willing to watch over you,” your septa tells you, merely days before your departure. “That’s why the arrangements for the voyage are taking so long.”
You are not a difficult child by any means. You behave, listen to what your nurses and septa tell you, and you do everything that they ask of you. It’s just that you have… a tendency.
Adults can be boring sometimes, and you’re always quiet, rarely interrupting their conversations. Oftentimes you find yourself involved with them simply because your father wants to show off his youngest daughter, the child who’s the perfect picture of how a Lannister should be. And oftentimes, if not always, you simply find yourself… just wandering off, once the attention isn't on you anymore.
You’re so quiet hardly anyone notices your disappearances, usually, but when someone does, it’s chaos. Your parents have a talent for always thinking about the worst scenarios possible, so, if you’re missing from a feast, then surely someone must have kidnapped you. Only for you to be found napping in the garden, curled on a bench like a cat not even ten minutes later.
You have yet to receive any harm from this tendency of yours, and when it’s between Casterly Rock’s walls, there’s hardly any risk of harm, since it’s well guarded and there’s hardly anything dangerous in there. Tyrosh, however…
“How many times does she have to sneak off before something bad happens?” Johanna always complains to her husband. “Yes, we are guarded, but who knows who could be hiding within these walls — there's men out there that would do anything for a single golden coin, and we surely don’t lack in that regard. When she sneaks off, nobody notices– and that’s because she’s quiet, and small, and easy to bore. But she is your daughter, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day we couldn’t find her after a feast and a request for ransom is found in her stead.”
So the search for a sworn shield began. Jason is mostly looking for already experienced knights; it probably won’t be a hard job, they’ll just have to follow you around — plus, he pays good coin. If the knight really wants it, then he can surely act like a nursemaid for you.
After good research, Ser Morren Westerling is chosen. He’s one of your mother’s distant relatives, an old man in possession of just a title, who fought in the Stepstones and has won a good amount of turneys and melees since then for your father to repute him a good enough candidate.
Ser Morren is introduced to you the same day you're supposed to leave for Tyrosh. He's a man well in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard, tanned skin and an ugly scar on his chin. He wears the newly made armour your father had commissioned for him and a red coat with silver linings, also a gift from your father. Clearly, he wants him to be recognisable.
He looks you up and down, then looks to your father. “I assume I’ll escort your three daughters?”
Your father shakes his head and gently pushes you in front of him. “No, just her. She's my youngest and tends to wander off. Be careful to follow her and make sure she doesn't get hurt or taken.”
The knight blinks. “Ah.”
Your father raises an eyebrow, amused. “‘Tis not what you were expecting?”
He shakes his head. “No, no, it is just… I think this is the most peaceful job I have ever taken.”
The Lord shrugs his shoulders, moving a hand up to smooth his cape. “Be good at it and you'll be allowed to stay in my castle as a guard for as long as you'll like. Or, depends, for as long as my daughter likes.” he turns his attention to you, kneeling down to your level. “This is Ser Westerling. He'll accompany you during our time in Tyrosh. Be good for him.”
He leaves you with a pinch on the nose and a kiss on the forehead, and you're now in the care of the nursemaid, Ser Westerling and under the watch of your sisters, who are more than happy to coo and play with you. They're way older than you, now almost two-and-ten each, but always ready to dress you up and make up stories for you to play with your dolls.
The carriage ride to Lannisport is quick compared to the weeks of traveling by sea that take to get to Tyrosh; you discover that you get terribly seasick, so most of your time on the boat consists in puking in a bucket and crying while being comforted by your parents, your sisters or the nursemaid. Your mother sings to you, even if seasick herself, while your father tries to console you by telling you all the gifts he'll buy you once you reach the Free Cities, which by now to you look like a mirage. But they aren't.
You arrive at Tyrosh at night, when you're already passed out from the nausea that's been plaguing you since the voyage started, and get welcomed by the Archon’s advisor, who shows you your chambers for your stay.
Tyrosh is as your father promised: shiny, full of merchants with marvelous products and crystalline sea waters. By day you explore the city with the Archon as chaperone, and your father makes sure to make up for the voyage by buying you double the things he had promised to get you. But Tyrosh has a big problem.
There are people in cages.
You don't understand why they would be there, but when your mother sees them, she makes sure to make you look the other way. That is, until you look the other way and you see something that catches your eye.
There are two little lion cubs. They're dirty, thin and a bit mangy, surrounded by mosquitos and other bugs, sleeping but looking dead. One cry from you is all your father needs to be on high alert, immediately turning around. “What is it, love?”
You just whine, finger moving to point at the little cubs. “Daddy, I want them.”
Your father raises an eyebrow, the Archon joining you all. “What might the matter be?”
“She wants those… kittens over there,” Jason replies, wincing, clearly not too fond of flea-infested lion cubs. “I'll buy you bigger and better kept lions back at Westeros if you want them, love. Those are dirty, malnourished and probably ill.”
The Archon nods. “Those are kept for arenas. Usually they're bought with the intention of mostly starving them for games with gladiators.”
You sob. Your mother glares at your father, who raises his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, we'll take them.”
The cubs are a girl and a boy, so it is only fair you name them Jonquil and Florian, after the mythical lovers that Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys were once compared to. They're dirty and full of fleas, but your father has them cleaned by the staff of the palace so that their fur — the parts of it that isn't ruined, burned or fallen off — almost shines gold.
You try to play with them in the evenings, under the watchful gaze of Ser Warren, but they don't seem to trust you. They flinch back every time you approach and barely even accept the food the servants leave for them. They wince every time a loud noise is heard and hiss when anyone tries to pick them up, baring their teeth like wild animals — which, you guess, they are.
You start taking your meals in your chambers, only to take the beef out of your plate and bring it to the little cubs. Slowly, they start eating from the plate, soon enough from your hands — and before you even know it, they let you pet them. The boy purrs when you scratch his belly, while the girl meows happily when you caress her head and have her try on your sisters’ necklaces, which are small enough to fit on her neck.
As they get plumper and healthier, they start following you around, hiding under your skirts and rubbing against your legs, looking for scratches and treats, climbing your gown with their little nails and meowing loudly when you don't give them what they want. Your sisters make sure to keep away from them, as they are pretty skittish and the kittens are still pretty uneasy around people other than you, and the same thing goes for your mother. The only one who actually has the courage to speak up against the cubs is your father, who gently approaches you one day about leaving them behind — either reselling them or leaving them for the Archon to deal with.
The start of your crying is all it takes to make him relent. So, Florian and Jonquil go back to Westeros with all of you, with brand-new shiny golden collars around their necks, depicting the Lannister emblem on the medallion.
Not even two moons later, a feast in honor of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon’s seventh nameday is held.
You’ve never been to King’s Landing before — you’ve never really traveled that much since before this summer, actually. It’s just that you’re finally old enough for your parents to bring you along wherever they go. And, of course, wherever you go, Florian and Jonquil follow.
They’re now four moons old — at least you think, by what the vendor had told your father — and they are growing quickly. They both still have some belly fat and are always looking for cuddles, and mainly for that, they are your best companions during the day and night.
They sneak under the covers of your bed at night and follow you during the day; they play with you, attend lessons with you — usually sleeping or tearing down the drapes — and they even sit by your feet at the table during breakfast, lunch and supper. They have now become your favorite and most loyal companions, and the same thing can be said for Ser Warren, who never lets out so much as a cough as he silently follows you throughout the day, never complaining nor saying anything against you. So it is only fair they all follow you on the journey to the Crownlands.
The voyage is less burdening than the one to the Free Cities, as it is completely done by carriage, and you are happy to babble all you know about the Capital to Ser Warren, who only pretends to be annoyed by it, you're sure. You repute yourself pretty good at reading people, and you just know he’s actually interested in all the facts you know.
You are welcomed by your uncle Tyland, who’s Master of Coin in King Viserys’ Small Council. You jump into his arms before your parents can stop you, and he gleefully catches you, holding you tight. “Ooh, look at you! How you have grown, my girl!”
You giggle, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Hi, uncle Ty,”
Tywin is your father’s brother and your favorite uncle — not that you have any other than him. All their brothers died before you were born, so even if they often have some discrepancies, they hold each other deeply close to the heart. Your uncle always showers you and your sisters with gifts, cherishing the little time you spend together, as he has no kids of his own and probably never will. That being said, every occasion is the right one to dote on you three.
The days at the Red Keep are mostly spent in the gardens with Florian and Jonquil, under the watchful eyes of your mother and the other ladies of the court, occupied in gossiping and drinking tea as their husbands go on hunts and talk about politics and discuss business. Most of the ladies are with their children too, some younger, some older, all playing together — princes included. As the Queen has made it clear to your father that she doesn’t want your cubs anywhere near her, her family or her entourage, Jonquil and Florian are let out of the room specifically organised for them only for walks in the hill behind the Castle.
Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra are never at the small parties on the same days — usually when one is present the other is absent, a thing the ladies have noticed with particular amusement, speculating about the hate going on between the two.
You mostly keep to yourself, too shy to approach the other kids, and often tend to the flowers in the gardens, teaching Ser Westerling the meaning and provenience of each one like he’s a particularly interested botanist and not a guard tied to your side by a contract. That is, until one day you are brutally and unmannerly interrupted by the Prince himself.
Prince Jacaerys is the main reason your family is in King’s Landing, and also in line to the Iron Throne as his mother’s heir. He is rowdy and loud, like children his age tend to be, so it’s not a new thing to see him covered in mud from head to toe. He has his hands behind his back, blushing furiously under your confused gaze, as Ser Warren raises an eyebrow, glaring in an unamused way at him. The children snickering and whispering behind the Prince, combined with how red he is and the flowers the knight can see he holds behind his back, give away his intentions immediately.
“I– I…” the Prince stumbles upon his words, “W– would you like to be my princess in the game?” At this, he holds out the flowers he has clearly just ripped from the garden, some still with dirt and roots attached. You gasp, and being the lover of knight tales as you are, of course you accept, cheeks rosy. You take his flowers and let him drag you to the ‘fortress’ you’ll be held prisoner at — a big bench at the center of the garden — where the ‘dragons’ — meaning two boys you don’t even know the names of — try to fight off the ‘knights’ — also known as princes Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Three girls sit far across from you, huffing and puffing, probably angry that they weren’t asked to be the princess.
You sit in your fortress-bench, counting your flowers’ petals and humming songs as the boys fight in the mud with wood swords, screaming and insulting each other. Your mother, Princess Rhaenyra and the other ladies watch from their table, chuckling between themselves — especially when it’s Lucerys who manages to get out of the scuffle first, condemning his brother to fight the other two boys alone, taking your hand in his and declaring eternal love and protection for you.
Rhaenyra starts laughing uncontrollably, looking at your amused mother. “Looks like the children get along!” she muses. That is until Jacaerys manages to free himself from the hold of the other two kids and smacks his brother as hard as he can in the head.
“I was supposed to save her!” he screams, glaring at his brother, who smacks back. “Well, then you should have fought harder!”
You dramatically gasp, sensitive and easy to scare, and all it takes is a whimper from your mouth for Ser Warren to come to the rescue, taking you by the armpits and bringing you to your mother as you start crying while the boys continue fighting. Johanna coos and wipes your tears, chuckling a bit to herself. “My girl, there’s nothing to cry for.”
Princess Rhaenyra has gone to scold her boys, demanding an apology on your behalf; Lucerys sheepishly asks sorry, while his brother — cheeks all red — gets on his tippy toes and leaves a wet, awkward kiss on your cheek. His mother gasps. “Jacaerys!” she hisses. “That is no proper way to behave! Aren’t you ashamed?”
Your mother laughs it off, as you’re as red as a tomato, giggling to yourself and fiddling with the velvet of your gown, staring at the kid — completely enamored . “That is no problem, my Princess; she doesn't seem to be bothered by any means.”
A kiss on the cheek is all it takes for you to glue yourself to Jacaerys’ side for the days that come, clammy hands usually tied together, a smile on your face and a pout on his. The Prince is quite spoiled and grumpy, you’ve discovered in the time you spend together, but he is also pretty funny — especially when he plays pretend as King Jaehaerys and insists on you being Queen Alysanne.
So, when one day he invites you to the training yard to see his sword skills, you can’t find it in yourself to say no — because, as your mother says, you may have a tiny, itsy bitsy crush on him. It’s probably the whole knight thing that has swooned you, because you love knights and the stories told about them.
Ser Warren grumpily agrees to accompany you, not before openly stating his dislike for him. “I just wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up, my Lady,” he says, a bit gruff. “Boys at this age tend to be a little… inconsiderate of a lady’s feelings.”
You don’t even seem to hear him, little feet scrambling to get a good look at the knights down in the training yard, looking for Jacaerys. There are a few other ladies on the balcony, swooning over the actual knights, giggling and blushing while whispering to each other. You take a good look at Ser Harwin, the captain of the City Watch, and even if you’re barely six summers old and definitely too young for him, you get them. Absent-mindedly, you hope that Jacaerys will look like him when he grows up.
“So, it is true,” Ser Morren murmurs, leaning over the railing to get a better look, talking to himself — clearly not thinking you can hear him. “Good ol’ Breakbones does look like the brat. Seven Hells,”
“Ser Morren,” you tug at his cloak, “could you pick me up? I can’t see really well from here.”
He complies, holding you steady against him but making sure you can see the training yard properly. You can see Jacaerys and Lucerys holding up wood swords against two other boys with platinum hair — the other princes, you guess — as they spar, mud coating their boots while the Lord Commander yells corrections and tips on how to perfect their stance and combat skills.
And while Lucerys exits his battle in triumph, holding the edge of his sword to Prince Aegon’s neck while unashamedly turning to look at the ladies — his brother is not so lucky.
Jacaerys lands in the mud on his side as his arm makes a loud crack, screaming out while Prince Aemond’s grin quickly twists into something more grim. You gasp, Ser Morren immediately ripping you away from the sight as the knights go and hover around the Prince, who’s whimpering, to examine the arm resting in an unnatural position. In the distance, as your guard drags you away, you hear someone call for a maester.
While this situation doesn’t present any actual real danger for you, Ser Morren knows you well enough by now. You’re a sensitive girl — you once cried because you accidentally stepped on a bug — and if his instinct is right, what he fears most might come any time now–
You burst out crying. Ah, there it is. At least you’re out of earshot from the princes — he wouldn’t want them to start picking on you and calling you a crybaby. He tries to ignore your gut wrenching sobs as he focuses on just finding your mother.
Once Lady Lannister is found — surrounded by the other ladies of the court, of course, who coo sadly at you and glare at your protector like he’s the reason you’re bawling your eyes out — she shushes you pretty easily, holding you close to her breast and patting your back soothingly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet girl, whatever has happened to make you so sad?”
Not even a moment passes from when Ser Morren finishes telling her what happened to when the ladies start to gossip. “Oh, have you heard of what happened just yesterday in the Dragonpit? Prince Aemond must still hold a grudge against the princes.”
What happened, you guess, must be one of their famous squabbles. They’re pretty common between Queen Alycent and Princess Rhaenyra’s children, you’ve found out. “That is in no way a sufficient reason to do such a thing– while Prince Aemond is one-and-ten, Prince Jacaerys is yet to turn seven summers old! It seems clear to me who’s in the wrong, don’t you think so, ladies?”
The back and forth between the gossiping courtiers goes on until your mother spots Princess Rhaenyra behind the colonnade that heads into the garden and quickly shuts her company up with a single, terrifying glare, petting your hair as you let out soft whimpers, still a bit shook from the earlier experience.
Princess Rhaenyra approaches the group and waves a hand in the air when some of the ladies are about to get up and bow, smiling sweetly at your mother– actually, smiling sweetly at you. “Hello,” she hums softly, trying not to scare you. “My son Jacaerys is asking about you. Would you like to come with me? He’s fine now.” she holds out a hand, offering it to you.
You look hesitantly at your mother, who nods, then hesitantly hop off her lap and take the Princess’ hand, brushing sheepishly at your dress with your other hand as she guides you into the castle, Ser Morren dutifully right behind you until Rhaenyra’s personal guard takes over.
Princess Rhaenyra’s hand is warm but firm and she looks a little disheveled — and you wonder if she spent the last thirty minutes yelling at the servants and knights like your father does when you or your sisters get hurt. “He broke his arm,” she tells you quietly, like she’s talking to a babe, “but the maester has already fixed him up. He seemed more worried about the fact that you saw him defeated than about the fracture.”
Your lips tremble, and you look at her with your big, sad eyes. “I don’t care that he didn’t win,” you whine, “I’m sad because he got hurt, and I don’t want him to hurt.”
She looks endeared. “Well, then, you tell him that.”
Jacaerys is laying on his bed when his mother opens the door to his room, Lucerys’ sitting by his bedside, moping, as the maester scolds him half-heartedly about the dangers of sparring in the mud-covered surface of the training yard. “I’ll make sure to have a word with Ser Harwin,” he seethes, “oh, yes, he’ll have to hear me because there’s no–”
“Maester Gylde,” Rhaenyra interrupts, spooking him out of his mind and bringing Jacaerys out of his stupor; he grins embarrassedly when he notices you. “Please, let the boy off his shackles. Having to sleep with that thing on his arm for the next three weeks is going to be enough.”
With that thing, she’s referencing the tight bandage wrapping around Jacaerys’ arm, bulging with a wooden log to keep the bone from fixing crooked. All it takes you is one look at it and bam– you’re ugly crying again.
It surprises both Rhaenyra and the princes, who all startle when you start sobbing. Panicked, Rhaenyra tries to shush you by taking you in her arms and cooing softly, but it is all for naught as every time she manages to wipe away your tears, more come out as a replacement — and suddenly she understands why your personal guard always takes you to your mother as soon as you start to tear up, instead of trying to console you himself.
“‘Tis nothing!” Jace raises his arm, hiding a wince of pain, “Look! I am perfectly fine!”
His mother gently sits you on the bed covers, heart swelling at the thoughtfulness of her son, who still puts your well-being first despite his own injury. With his good arm, Jacaerys drags you in his arms by your sleeve, cheeks red but not nearly as puffy as yours. “Why do you always have to cry about everything?” He grumbles as you smear tears and snot over his doublet. “‘Twas nothing serious! I’d never let Aemond seriously hurt me, and you should know that a true knight never whines about pain and whatnot."
Actually he just let his uncle hurt him, and he’s still very far from being a true knight, but that's not his concern right now. His concern is making you stop crying as soon as possible — before you drown in your own tears, at least. “But your arm’s broken!” You whine, hands gripping the front of his doublet as you pull him to and away from you like you’re trying to knock some sense into him.
“It will heal,” he puffs his chest, feigning offense, “are you trying to tell me that I am not a true knight — and that my injury might last forever?”
For a moment, you stop crying — just to look him in the eye. Then, you pull at his hair swiftly, and get off the bed with an incredulous huff. “A true knight never thinks of a lady’s tears as a selfish whim!” You stutter, lips still trembling — he has no idea where you’ve read that, nor where you got the idea that he was trying to do that, but he’s too stunned by the way you pulled on his strands to say anything. “I’ll find somewhere else to dump my tears! Bye!”
Before leaving, you furiously bow to the Princess, then let the door slam closed behind you — at least, as slammed as it can be by the force of a six-year-old. Rhaenyra blinks. “…Did she really do that?”
Lucerys, pleased, nods happily. “She did.”
Worried, Jace frowns. “Does she even know her way back to the gardens?”
You don’t. He finds you two hours later, crouched in a fetal position in one of the corners of the castle, crying and talking to a little flower that sprouted between the cracks of the rocky pavement. You’re babbling to the plant like it owes you a reply, lower lip sucked in your mouth when you muffle a sob, and Jace doesn’t even know if you’re still crying because of him or because you can’t find your way back to your mother.
Without saying anything, he pokes you over your shoulder, smiling when you turn to glance at him, and takes your hand in his without too many questions. You’re back in the gardens in less than five minutes, and you throw yourself at your mother’s gowns, breath uneven. Ser Westerling looks at the Prince like he wants to skin him alive, but other than that, no harm is done.
Later on, the seamstress has to make certain alterations to his nameday chemise and doublet to make sure that the whole bandage, wooden log included, properly fits so that at least it’s not completely clear to anyone who spares a look at him that his arm is broken. The day of the feast is close, and his parents are all but happy with the fact that he’ll spend it with one of his limbs basically useless, but it is what it is.
When his nameday finally rolls around, you’ve already forgotten all about your little spat, and spend all morning in your mother’s chambers with the latter and your sisters, who coo and swoon at the copious amount of jewels that Johanna has brought here from Casterly Rock for the occasion. Florian and Jonquil purr at your feet as your mother continuously swaps jewels and makes you try on new necklaces, rings and earrings, finally settling on golden ornaments decorated with rubies, so shiny that they make you giggle once you finally see yourself in the mirror.
You twirl in your pink dress, happy as ever, as your sisters still stress about their clothes in the background. While this may be just a feast to you, for them it’s the possibility to scour the various lords and their sons, as in a few years they’ll be reaching the age where the women of your family begin to look for a husband.
You play with Florian and Jonquil until the time for the feast to start comes, and throttle your way to the gardens right in front of your mother, Cerelle and Tyshara — your uncle is already there, discussing hushedly with your father, who lights up when he sees you. As you always do, you throw yourself in his arms, and he catches you without a hitch, settling you over his hip. “You’re getting too old for this,” he teases, poking your stomach as you squeal. “Just another nameday, and you’ll have to start acting like a proper lady.”
”I am a proper lady!” You insist, nudging him with the back of your hand, “Look! Mommy gave me one of her kissy rings and let me wear her sparkly things!”
He guesses that the kissy rings are the ones people are supposed to kiss over her hand in greeting, and just to play along he kisses the back of your hand. “A proper lady calls her parents father and mother, doesn’t jump to be picked up, doesn’t have two lion cubs as pets…”
But you’re already not listening anymore, playing with his hair to make a braid as you babble about your sisters fighting for a collier earlier, then nudging at his earring and asking why it is devious of any sparkling qualities. Your uncle laughs, but he does not look as amused as he usually is. “You’ve made acquaintances with the Prince, niece, have you not?”
You frown, then look at your father. “Daddy, what does ack-uain-tans mean?”
”Acquaintance, darling,” he corrects you, scowling at his brother. “Uncle Ty’s asking if you’ve become friends with Prince Jacaerys.”
Your eyes light up, and you clap your hands excitedly. “Yes! He crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney, and he said that we’re going to get married one day.” The tourney where he forced his younger brother to be the horse, by the way. A very attendable tourney, if you were to ask him.
Your father pales a bit, but not as much as your uncle, who has to hide a nervous chuckle in his fist — something that could easily be passed off as children playing dress up as adults seems to trouble him deeply. “Pardon– married? Aren’t you too young for that?”
”I am now,” you say sagely, “but I won’t be soon enough, and then we’ll get married, and we’ll live in a big castle, even bigger than Cas-ter-ly Rock, and we’ll have lots of babies-“
”Yes, yes, that’s enough for today, have a little pity on your father’s poor heart,” Jason interrupts, coughing like just the thought is enough for him to feel ill. You coo and press a wet, soundly kiss to his cheek, “Noo, daddy, don’t feel bad, I’ll still love you!”
Some of the courtiers are staring by now, chuckling with no real malice as Lord Jason Lannister gets consoled by his own brat of a daughter, and he pats your back, trying to loosen your hold on his neck. “Yes, yes, I know, honey– listen, Uncle Ty wanted to ask you something.” He then sends a pointed look to his brother, almost glaring at him.
Tyland coughs again. “Prince Jacaerys, in retrospect, is not the most ideal friend you could make in this court,” he nudges toward the other end of the gardens, where Jace’s uncles — Aegon and Aemond — stand, seemingly having a conversation with other boys their age. The oldest has a wine goblet in his hand, and from the redness of his cheeks, it doesn’t take a fortune teller to confidently say that he’s probably already drunk. “Queen Alicent’s kids, however, will surely pay off one day.”
You frown at way-too-old Aegon and cruel, mean Aemond, and you can’t help but think that while it was the latter who broke Jace’s arm, the oldest didn’t do anything to stop him. Besides, in your eyes, he’s far too scary to even approach, as he’s way much taller than you and has a constant snarl on his face. “They’re old, uncle,” you say in the end — because that's what an eleven and thirteen year old look to you — tightening your hold on your father for support. “And mean. They pick on Jacaerys and Lucerys, and even their little brother Joffrey. And he’s a babe.” you add that with a little indignant huff, like you can’t even imagine how someone could bully babes.
And it is true — whenever they are around, it’s unbearable. You wish you could just play with little Joff in peace while also hoping to give a break to the Princess and various nursemaids, but no. They always have to be around, tormenting his older brothers, and once they even tried to snatch the babe from your arms before your cries alerted Ser Warren — who promptly dragged the boys by their cuffs to meet their sister Rhaenyra, who scolded them for half an hour about their unrighteous treatment of their baby nephew and how such behaviour would not be tolerated, lest they wished to follow their younger brother Daeron to Oldtown.
(Of course, their behaviour never really stopped, because as soon as Queen Alicent was made aware of the situation, she made sure to always be overlooking when her sons pestered their nephews so that nobody would dare utter a word. At least they mostly left you and Joffrey alone for now, and you were free to continue playing house with him under the careful watch of Ser Westerling.)
Tyland huffs. “Well, you see– not everything revolves around what you’d like to do and people you actually enjoy, and maybe it would be best if you found out sooner rather than later.”
“Tyland,” Jason warns, “now you’re going too far. She’ll deal with that when she’s older.”
His twin clicks his jaw, bowing his head slightly. “However you wish, brother.” He disappears in the crowd soon after without saying goodbye, and your mother and your sisters join you as soon as you lose sight of him. “Husband,” Johanna greets, tense, “what was that about?”
Your father pats your back reassuringly as you rest your cheek on his shoulder, “Nothing,” he assures her, even if his irritation is clear as day to someone who’s been married to him for a decade and a half, “it’s just… you know how Tyland is. It seems the Royal Court has just worsened his constant concerns and scheming.”
A lot of whispering later, your mother winces the slightest bit. “We’ll continue this conversation later,” she hisses to her husband as you play with the golden accents of his tunic, “however, you cannot avoid admitting that it is, let’s say… peculiar for Targaryens to have dark hair.”
“‘Tis not the place nor the time to speak about that,” your father hisses in response as your sisters feign particular interest towards the flower beds, “I don’t want to hear another word about any of this — understood?”
It’s not a secret that your parents’ union was not one born from love, and even if in the years they have built a good relationship based on mutual respect and trust, your father never refrains from reminding her to stay in her place — that is, being his wife. You look at your mother, at the hidden resentment in her eyes that she always holds for your father, and can’t help but think that you never want to end up with a man like your father — one who even after three children still hasn’t properly warmed up to his wife.
Jason Lannister is a good father, when he wants to be — which, fortunately, is often. Unfortunately, he rarely tries to be a good husband.
Jacaerys is welcomed warmly by the guests of the feast — and most importantly, he’s accompanied by his grandsire. You curtsy like your septa and sisters taught you to, even if your balance is still not the best, and soon enough the gathering continues without a hitch — just with King Viserys I strolling around like this isn’t just a child’s nameday celebration, but a full-on political event. You guess that after all, it is one of his heirs that just turned eight.
Even so, for children like you, pretenses are easy to forget: soon enough, Jace is poking your shoulder and pointing to the far end of the courtyard, where other children are already playing, and takes your hand to drag you with him.
As they watch you go play with the Prince, Tyland whispers to your father, “You must understand, this is not the best friendship she could form.”
Jason laughs. “One with a prince? Tyland, she’s the same child who befriended wild lions.”
His twin’s voice is low, so that Jason might be the only one who hears, when he says, “Lions and royal bastards are two very different things.”
Your father’s spine straightens. “No more of this, Tyland, you hear me?” he hisses. “Royal blood is royal blood. And we’re not going to get our tongues cut just because you can’t bear to see children play.”
Tyland shakes his head, “Children,” he spits, “when are princelings and young ladies ever considered to be just that?”
When Did You Get So Hot? - Animal Kingdom SMAU Masterlist
+18 MDNI
summary - you've been friends with deran and craig for forever. andrew "pope" cody has always intimated you, until one day you start to see him in a new light.
pairing - fem!reader x pope cody
content - (varies by chapter) reader is an awkward mess around pope, reader is both scared and horny, lewd conversations, age gape relationship (reader is around deran's age), characters are ooc, the plot is not going to follow the show (we're having fun here), my cringe sense of humor.
