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Currently writing for AKOTSK and HOTD
Currently working on | drabbles and headcanons, taste of you (ormund x wife!reader)
Recent posts | How the AKOTSK men would react to you wearing their shirt, Scent of you, Everything i do, i do with reckless abandon, The sun will set, Seafoam, mine, golden III, My man on Willpower, Sweet nothings, where is my husband!, AKOTSK men attachment style and love language, AKOTSK men courting autistic!reader
Masterlists
House of the dragon
A Knight of the seven kingdoms
Game of thrones
A court of thornes and roses
The Pitt
Throne of glass
personal favourites
False god (Maekar x targ!reader)
Pretty in pink (Maekar x Florent!reader)
Golden (Baelor x Lannister!reader)
The Stags Knight (Ser duncan the tall x Baratheon!reader)
The Rose and The Hammer (Baelor x tyrell!reader)
Solace (Jace x targ!reader)
please, please, please (aegon x targ!reader)
seduction (Jace x Targ!reader)
none of my work is beta read!
post last edited: 14th July 2026
dividers by @zaldritzosrose and @saradika-graphics
Hey guys, soo last week I was attacked and chased. Iβm not going to go into detail of it but I am okay and wasnβt harmed physically. But it has really messed with my mental health, so I will be talking a small break from writing for now. Hopefully Iβll be ready to write again soon.
But I am okay so donβt worry I just want you all to know that if I disappear for a bit thatβs why. I donβt know when Iβll be able to focus on writing again but I have so many ideas to write for so hopefully Iβll be mentally ready soon.
summary: you can't stop your mind from spiraling about why your husband doesn't seem to agree with you giving him pleasure, does he not want you?
c/w: 18+ mdni, palming that hightower dick, oral sex (m and f receiving), p in v, gwayne with teary eyes and wrecked face and reluctant whimpers (yes this man whimpers)
It was some of the many moments you feel that whole happiness in your own heart, the warm and complete feeling in your chest when your father called you to his solar and tell the news that he asked for your hand in marriage.
Gwayne Hightower.
You were overjoyed. You've been paying more attention to him than other men from great houses, the way he speaks with that firm mannerisms and the honorable story people whisper about. You dream about the way he looks at you with sweet tenderness and the way he puts the strands of your hair behind your ear.
And most scandalous, you dream about the way he touches you. It's the least expected for such a lady to have that thought cross her mind, but you can't help yourself. You saw the veiny path in his arms by no intention and you cannot escape from the desire it sparks.
To be courted and taken a wife by such a chivalrous knight from a great house is such a blessing itself, but what you repressed most from becoming is the very shreds of anticipation you feel toward your wedding night. The way he'd whisper soothing words in your ears while his fingers caress you tenderly in places no man ever reaches, and the way he'd murmurs praises in your ear about how you're taking him so well. The mere thoughts make your cheeks warm.
The wedding night came and most of it was what you expected. You heard some wicked stories about husbands who force themselves on their wives. Luckily, Gwayne is not like that. No, never that.
Quite the contrary, he prepares you so well before he takes you. He whispers gentle and sweet words while taking his time making you tremble in his arms. All goes well except his hand stops your wrist when your palm reaching for his trousers. Your shocked, worried eyes fearing for rejection soothed by a tender kiss to your wrist.
"Let us be one, my lady. Let your husband give you what you're most deserving of." He says with a gentle smile before palming himself and pushing in slowly to your soaked heat. He did kiss your discomfort away, relying on interlacing his fingers with yours as he praises you.
"You're taking me so well, my dear. Look how fitting you are of me." He rasps as his wide palm caressing the tender spot under your breasts where he's placed his marks before.
From then on, your nights with Gwayne are glorious, filled with tangled sheets and warm puffs of breaths against each other's mouth. You discover a lot of things about you and himself, like how you favor his praises while he's pushing into you and how he prefers you underneath him so he can watch the way you shatter so beautifully because of his doing, that one time he tells you himself.
The only problem, well not quite a problem if you're talking about the whole thing, is that Gwayne dismisses your wish to touch him after he does you. He usually would kiss your confusion away as he distracted you with his hands and mouth and before you knew it, you're already in his arms panting and moaning his name.
Gwayne relishes when you do that. He even encourages you by touching all your sensitive spots that he learns fast and making you feel overwhelmed with pleasure that you have no choice but to cling to his shoulder and calling his name.
"Husband, please..." Your face is flushed with sweats as your body clings to him desperately, the way a wife seeks comfort and indulgences to her husband, as he would fondle your breasts and press his thumb to your swollen bud.
"What do you need, my love?" He asks in that low voice that exists only when one of you is on the edge, while managing to wear the loving expression on his eyes.
"Please, I need toβ" Your words are cut as his warm mouth envelopes the peaks of your nipples that have been staring at him and begging for his attention. With just a few minutes, your thighs clench around him and the world becomes mute to your hearing, the only thing you can feel is the way he thrust deeper before he joins you in ecstasy and you feel warm spurts inside you.
You are satisfied with being held closely to the safety of your husband like that, sated and your body warm from the afterglow. Gwayne would caress your body lovingly, giving generous kisses on the crown of your head as you drift off to dreamland. But tonight, you can't.
You're determined to find out the reason why your husband won't let you touch him and you'd make sure the next time you can convince him to allow you. You arrange the secret plan you're about to navigate while Gwayne gently runs his fingers through your hair, his breathing slow and steady. He's just happy and sated having his wife laying on his chest while peppering her with his affection.
That night, you wear the usual gown you do before your sleep. Gwayne just comes to your chambers, his presence familiar and pleasant to you now. He greets you with his ordinary tired smile and a loving kiss to your head.
The atmosphere takes turns faster than most, with you now panting for air after he brings you to your first release of the night. You watch him take off his trousers with heavy breathing, his hand faking composed but you can see the urgent desire in each finger.
Before he leans down to push it in, you catch his wrist.
"Let me pleasure you, husband." You say carefully, watching reactions from his eyes.
"There's no need, my love." He tries to dodge your wish and divide your focus to the tender kiss to your lips.
"Why wouldn't you let me?"
The air is thick with silence as he can sense the weight of your question.
"Do you not wish me to touch you?"
He lets out a sigh, then you feel his knuckles brush your cheek, a gesture so tenderly it makes your heart melt.
"It's not like that, my dear."
You look him in the eye and you can see the moment his wall breaks as you learn very well your husband cannot resist with that particular eyes of yours. He closes his eyes before speaking his truth.
"I merely didn't want to startle you."
"Startle meβDo you think of me as fragile, husband?"
"No, my heart, never that." He quickly reassured you with gentle kisses on your cheek. He closes his eyes before the decision settling in. He brings your palm to his standing, hard cock.
The first contact of your more soft, small hand brings jerk to his hips. You can see the breath hitched from his chest as you stroke him up and down. Heavy, restrained sound of rumbling that he holds in thin control.
Grasping the effect you hold over him, you manage to try something a little bolder. You lean down to bring its tip to your mouth, and that's when you hear it.
Not a grunt that he usually lets out in moments like this, no. Under that heavy sighs is a shred of whimper, a reluctant and accidental sound of whimper, but it is definitely one.
You look up at him as you try to take him deeper, and his face crumpled in the way you've never seen before. The composed expressions he wears with ease now completely disappear. What's left is a weak, painful frown on the line on his eyebrows as he can't bear the pleasure you give him just with the slick of your mouth.
"This is what you deny me, husband? The beautiful sounds coming out of your lips?"
Gwayne's cock twitch hearing the filth of teasing words from his wife's sweet lips. You were never like this, bold and teasing. But now that you've got your hold on him, apparently he's not immune to your little tricks and cruel teasing.
His breathing is ragged as he's getting close to his release. The veins in his neck grow obvious and his unintended moans saying your name like a prayer for he never experienced a thing like this.
You look so divine underneath him, taking your husband's long cock in your mouth devotedly, and he mutters how grateful and lucky he is as his broken voice murmurs compliment to your sweet and dedicated nature.
That's the last thing you hear before Gwayne's whimper goes off and his hips are still in place. Then you can feel the new warmth rushing to your mouth and you eagerly swallow it. Your lips swirl around his redden tip before he leans down to support his body on his forearms.
You pull out your mouth and watch him find the rhythm of his breath beside you. His eyes closed and his painful expression still proceeded on his face.
"Are you alright, husband?"
At your sweet, teasing voice he brings his weakened state to glance at you and fails to hide the amusement on his lips.
"You are dangerous, my dear." He says as he gathers you to the sanctuary in his arms. He lays down to calm his breathing and his eager cock that's greedy for more.
"I shall give you that often in later times." You say as you give a tender kiss on his sweaty chest that you lay on.
You can feel him exhale his anticipation of this before he caves and gives long, gentle press of his lips to your hair.
"I'm veritably ruined by you, my love."
a/n: hii do people yearn for more, if yes say it in the comments!!
hiii! could you do some akotsk headcanons about how the men would react if their wife stole their clothes and wore their shirts? maybe she thinks their shirts are way more comfortable than her own dresses, or she just likes the feeling of wearing something that smells like them. sometimes the shirts are obviously too big, but she walks around like itβs totally normal. how would they react the first time they notice her in one of their shirts? would they be embarrassed, flustered, amused, or secretly happy about it?
AKOTSK Men reacting to their wife wearing their shirt
For Baelor, Maekar, Lyonel x wife!reader
not proofread, sexual innuendos, reader is implied to be shorter/smaller than men. no descriptions given.
Baelor (<200 words)
βWhat are you wearing, my dear?β Baelor asked, watching as you readied yourself for bed, choosing one of his shirts over your many night gowns.
You shrugged, turning to face your husband with a smile, βItβs more comfortable.β
He smiled, patting your side of the bed and urging to come to him, βi can see that,β he mused, reaching for you as you sat beside him. βI like you in my clothes,β he hummed reaching over to place a kiss on your cheek, you smiled as he did so, reaching for the book in his lap and placing it on his bedside table.
βPerhaps I should forgo my gowns and wear your shirts instead,β you hummed , sitting in the bed to face him.
βI believe you should wear only my clothes from now on my dear.β He chuckled his hands settling in your hips as you leaned down to place a kiss on his lips, βparticularly my shirts and nothing else,β
You smiled laughing at his words as you reached down and placed another kiss to his lips.
Maekar (350 words)
βWife, have you seen my shirts?β Makear called out, searching his drawers for his shirts, only to find nothing.Β
A small laugh sounded behind him, a gleeful laugh that had the stern look on Makearβs face faltering. He turned to where you were readying yourself for bed, your body donned with Maekarβs shirt, your own nightgown nowhere in sight.
βIs that my shirt?β he grunted, prowling towards you as you toyed with the ends of his shirt, a smile on your face as he reached for you. βAre you the thief that has emptied my drawers?β
You cocked your head. βMayhaps,β you hummed, reaching up and pressing your lips to his, βi much prefer them to my own clothes.β
βSo you chose to steal mine?βΒ Maekar shook his head. βWe could order you clothes the same as mine; you need not steal them.β
βBut they feel better stolen,β you hummed, your hands flying to his as they rested on your hip.
Maekar clicked his tongue, eyeing you with a bemused look. βHow so?β
You smiled, reaching up to place another kiss on his lips. βThey smell of you.βΒ
Maekar thought of a smile, his eyes assessing you as he took in the shirt on your form. It was much too big for you, almost comically so. And the fact that you had stolen them made it clear that you had no plans on giving them back, at least until they stopped smelling like him.Β
βHow long have you been wearing my clothes?β
βJust your shirts, β you hummed. βYesterday, the maid had placed one of your shirts in my own drawers, and I had decided to wear it. It was nice to have a piece of you all day, no matter how annoying it can be to deal with your overly large shirts,β you hummed, your hands moving up with Maekar as they caressed your body.Β
Maekar smiled, βI suppose we could share my shirtsβ¦if you reveal where it is you have hidden my shirts?β
You laughed, nodding your head as Makear tugged on his shirt, pulling you closer to him.Β
Lyonel (<300 words)
Lyonel watched as you walked around the library, his shirt hanging loosely from your body as you reached to place a book on the shelf.Β
βWife,β he laughed, watching as you tripped over your own feet. βWhat is it you are doing?β he asked, coming up behind you and grabbing the book from your hands.Β
βI'm organising the library, it has been left alone for far to long,β you hummed, turning to face lyonel as he reached around you to place the book in its place. He laughed, as he did for everything.Β
βAnd is that why you chose to wear my shirt, to not messy your own gowns?β
You blushed, backing away from him slightly as you reached for the pile of books you were organising, walking as if it were no oddity to be walking around in a shirt too large.β Not at all,βΒ
Lyonel laughed, is eyes assessing the library as he took in all you had done, before his eyes landed back on you. βIs that so?β
You turned to your husband, blushing at his gaze. βThey are comfortable,β you hummed, βand they smell like you.βΒ
A large smile took over his face at your words, his hands moving back to your waist as you moved up the ladder you had leaned against the endless bookshelves, pulling you off the ladder and tossing you over his shoulder. βWhat are you doing?β you laughed as Lyonel walked from the library to your chambers.Β
βYou wish to smell like me, yes?β
βYes,β you agreed, attempting to look over your shoulder to catch sight of your husband.
Β βThen im going to make sure you smell just like me,β he laughed, throwing open the doors to your chambers, his hands already reaching to peel his shirt from your body.
Being parted from your husband is never easy, for you or for him. You always crave to keep a piece of him with you, and he craves a piece of you. Itβs only fitting you send him off with a gift. (1k+ words)
Ormund Hightower x wife!reader
Content: MDI, 18+, pantie sniffing, male masturbation. Aka Ormund jerking off to his wife sending him used unwashed underwear. Smut. Scent kink. This is pure filth. Brief mentions of pregnancy. Ormund is his own warning. I am gross and perverted. Donβt know what came over me but this idea has been in my head since the second he sniffed that vile and somehow pantie sniffing has now turned me into a rapid animal. Not proofread.
βI miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.β
Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.
You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.
The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.
But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least thatβs what he reassured.
So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.
He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.
Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.
Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.
You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.
My dear wife,
I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.
The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.
I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.
I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.
I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.
Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyraβs 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.Β smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyraβs eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwingβs 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 chatterlyβs 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 usurperβs uncle. The dreadβthat feeling that something was just wrongβsettled 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 wasnβt relaying every conversation youβd had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.
Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He was rudeβand vainβand 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 Kingβs Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowagerβs 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 Kingβs 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 doneβnot 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 theyβll be calling for Daeronβs capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for himβget 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 agoβhe 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.
βThere was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,β he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to Kingβs Landing. βWould you prefer to read it, or shall I?β
The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. βProceed.β
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. βThe 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.β
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.
βIs this a jest?β 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,β he said instead. βWe shall depart at first light.β
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 notβwould notβlet fall in front of the enemy.
day one
You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you werenβt the daughter of the Queenβor 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. Youβre fierce enough to ride aloneβgods, youβre essentially already riding alone, Gwayneβs 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 couldnβt 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 onceβcaught him off guard and swept him out from under his feetβwhich 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 memoryβspecifically Aegonβs stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for itβand you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.
βDoes something amuse you?β he mutters.
When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.
βI understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.β You look forward at the road ahead.
He scoffs out a laugh. βI have many fond memories.β
βTell me one,β 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. βI do not have to.β
βThat is what I thought.β 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.
βI take it you did not care much for Jace.β 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.
βWhat makes you say that, princess?β he asks.
βYou are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for themββ you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.
βI believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,β he interjects sharply.
Your head shakes. βEveryone has a choice.β
He huffs. βWhat do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?β
βI would.β You look back at the road ahead. βI should.β
Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. βWe both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.β
βEssos is said to be nice this time of year.β
A short laugh escapes him. βEssos is said to be nice all times of the year.β
You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. βWould it not be nice? Iβm sure they donβt care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and Iβ¦β your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.
βYou could be a scribe,β Gwayne says sincerely.
You nod. βI could.β
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 werenβt 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. Silverwingβwho had surely made it back to Dragonstoneβwas 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.
βHave you gotten your own room?β 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. βIt was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.β
You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. βHow many fucking puppeteers are there?β you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.
He scoffed out a laugh. βMy princess, it isnβt exactly the largest inn.β He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. βYou will live. I will sleep on the floor.β
βAre you sure? Canβt you speak with the innkeeper?β
βThere is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?β he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. βDo not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.β
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.
βSer?β you whisper.
βIs something wrong?β 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.
βAre you comfortable there, on the floor?β you question, smile piercing through your words.
He scoffs. βYou jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.β
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.
βWould you like to put that to the test?β you say without a second thought.
Gwayne clears his throat. βI would not want to invade on your solace, princess.β
βThere is plenty of room for you.β 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. βAnd it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.β
βAre you sure of it?β
βI am.β 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 Gwayneβs 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.
βAre you cold as well?β you mumble.
Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. βSlightly.β
You chuckle mirthlessly. βI am.β The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. βMore than slightly.β
βI can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.β
His earlier words flash back to you. βThere is no need to draw any more attention to us,β you repeat.
You see the corner of his lip turn upward. βWhat do you reckon I do, then, princess?β he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.
The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.
βYouβre warm.β You move closer to him. βIf we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.β
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 werenβt flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.
It wasnβt long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.
βWhat are they?β you whisper.
βChicks,β he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, βbaby chickens.β
βTruly?β you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.
Gwayne stares at you. βHave youβ¦ never seen chicks before?β
βNo, onlyβ¦β you turn your head to him, βchickens.β 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.
βYou truly are a princess,β he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.
You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.
βCan I touch one?β you mumble.
He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. βGo on, then.β
You reach down to one of the animals, but you canβt quite seem to get a good grip on it. You donβt really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.
Gwayneβs 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. βGently,β he murmurs, and youβre 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 hateβ
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.
βMy princess?β he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.
βIβm sorry,β 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 brothersβoh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.
βItβs all right,β 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 doesnβt.
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.
βDonβt cry,β 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 hadnβt been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadnβt 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 armyβmuch to your dismayβas 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 innocentβand 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 wouldnβt 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 hadnβt 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.
βYou are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?β
You look at him, puzzled. βHe has been with the Stranger since the war begun.β
Gwayne nods curtly. βSo Iβve heard.β
βThen why have you asked?β
He inhales a heavy breath. βI feel it my duty to tell you of this.β He clears his throat. βBefore your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.β
βYou jest.β
βI do not.β
You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. βAnd what did you have to say in the matter?β
βThat is unneeded for you to know.β
βWhy? Because you encouraged them to?β
His voice picks up immediately where you left off. βNo, because I fought against it.β He scoffs a laugh. βThe One-Eyed Prince isβ¦ he is mad.β At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. βYou must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.β
βYou are his uncle.β You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.
βAre you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?β
βI do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.β
βGood. Now you tell me something in confidence,β he presses.
You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. βWhy would I do that, ser?β
βWhat else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.β His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.
βAlright then,β you look to the sky in mock ponder. βWhen 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.β You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. βI was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.β
Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?
βDo you remember his name?β he asks.
βIt 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.β
He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. βThatβs quite young, isnβt it?β
You nod. βIndeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.β
βWhat happened to him?β
You exhale a breath, and look down to your horseβs head. βHe 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?β
He huffs. βGods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.β
βTherefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,β you state.
βI suppose so.β
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.
βSquire, let us retire to our room, yes?β 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 knightβ
βThat is no squire,β the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. βThat is a girl.β
Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the manβs gambeson.
He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. βIf it pleases you, sheβs my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.β
The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.
βBlessings upon King Aegon.β 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.
βIβm sorryββ he begins.
βHow may I distract you tonight, ser?β 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.
βIt is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,β you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.
βIt is,β 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 werenβt 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.
Gwayneβs 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.
βIt is rather cold this night,β you mutter.
Gwayne nods curtly. βIt is.β
Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. βI fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,β you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.
βI fear the same.β
You look up at him. βIf he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.β
He takes a turn to meet your eyes. βIf you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.β
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. βMay I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?β you muster.
βAs you wish, my princess.β
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.
βNo, princess,β he says, exasperated. βWe cannot go off trail again.β
βThe flowers,β you breathe. βIt is beautiful.β
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.
βSer?β you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. βMy dress... pleaseβ¦ help me get it off.β You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.
Gwayneβs 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.
βStopββ he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. βDo not move. Please. Just stay there.β He avoids your gaze.
βWhat is it?β 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 purpleβand was it red?βflowers. 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 Greenβit 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.
βGwayneββ you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. βIt is sweltering.β 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.
βPlease, donβt.β His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. βI do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not whenβ¦ fuck.β
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. βWhat do you want to do?β
βI am unsure.β He still cannot look you in the eye. βIt is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.β
βI am all right with it.β 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 hungerβbut the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.
βWe cannot,β you mumble. βWe should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.β 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 presenceβ
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 specificβhow 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 littleβ
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 anotherβs, 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.
βLook at me,β 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 otherβs 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.
βYβyes, serββ 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. βNot ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.β
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 Oldtownβthe 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 didnβt 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.
βGwayne,β you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.
βWhat is it, sweet girl?β he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
βI want you to fuck me.β
He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. βYouβre sure of it?β
You nod, but it is not enough.
βTell me,β he commands.
βI want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?β 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 furtherβpulling 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 againβnot 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.
βIs this all right?β 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. Youβll 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.
βI said to look at me,β he grunts. βI want to see your eyesββ
You open them back up at that. Theyβre glossed over again, with tears, and youβre 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. βGods, GwayneβOh, gods, Iβm gonnaββ
You donβt finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isnβt 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.
βI am deeply sorryββ he says in between quick kisses, βto have taken your maidenhood.β
You shake your head softly. βIf it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.β 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 seeβand feelβhis 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.
βHave you something to say?β he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.
Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. βJust observing.β
βMust you observe so far?β he mutters.
βI must,β 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.
βI am truly apologetic,β he starts. βFor taking your maidenhood. βspecially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.β
You scoff. βWould you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?β
βIβd have preferred you comfortable.β
βI was comfortable. I am comfortable.β
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.
βAre you a maid, ser? Wellβwere you a maid?β you question, feigning a look of innocence.
βI havenβt been a maid for a long time, princess.β His head hangs low.
He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. βAre you ashamed of the fact?β
βI am ashamed that I am not,β 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 himβboth 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.
βFuckβsweet princessββ 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. βOh, gods,β you whimper into his hair.
βSer? Gwayneββ you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. βAre you mine, Gwayne? Tell meββ 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. βI am yours, princess. Fuckββ 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 graspβwhich 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.
βI love you.β 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 maidenhoodβhe does not care if you were or notβyou 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.
βMy princessββ he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. βLook at me.β
You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.
βI cannotβI cannot cum inside.β He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.
βWhy not?β you breathe.
His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. βYou could get with child.β
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.
βMy breasts are sore.β You inhale sharply. βI shall bleed soon.β
Ah. In that caseβ
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 shoulderβyou 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. βLet us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribeβI your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.β Your breath still hasnβt 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. βPerhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.β 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 havenβt 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.
βPlease, Gwayne, let me cumββ 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. βAs you wish.β
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 cumβhis cumβand 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
Tonightβs 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 Kingβs 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 youβwell, 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 daysβnoting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to Kingβs Landingβand 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. βAre you feeling well?β he asks.
You look to him for a moment. βI feel fine.β
Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. βYou mustnβt need to lie.β His voice is soft.
Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. βI 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.β
He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. βWhat would you like to talk about?β
βI want us to wed.β
Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.
βI 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.β His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.
βYou cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?β he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.
βI cannot.β You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.
Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. βThe agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.β His hand envelops one of yours.
βMy mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.β
βYou speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.β He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. βIf you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your motherβs 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.β
βShe knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.β
Gwayne grins at your words. βShe also knows she must satisfy her council,β 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.
βWill you kiss me?β 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 elementsβwhich have been terribly cold nearly the entire journeyβas they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayneβs 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 anotherβs mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.
βWould youββ Gwayne pants, βlike me inside?β
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.
βKeep movingββ 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.
βYou are more than a beauty,β 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 Kingβthe 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 himβthey 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. βYou are home, and you are safe, my princess.β And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.
βMust you go?β 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. βIt is the deal.β
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 togetherβand 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. βI do not want you to go,β you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayneβs 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.
βI have done my duty, my princess,β 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.
βStay,β is what you can manage. βPlease, Gwayne.β
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 hairβyour mother and her husbandβinch closer to you and Gwayne.
The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.
βMummy,β you mumble. And she smiles.
She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. βSweet girl,β 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 thingβthe thing he warned you he would always doβand 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 motherβs 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 overβif 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.
Hi! Sobbing like a baby anon here, I just read your post where you said you were attacked/chased, i know you said you were physically unharmed and not worry but well...kind of hard not to, how are you now? I've kind of been in a similar situation so i know how scary that must have been,I'm sorry you went through that, hope you're doing good, take all the time you need
Aww thank you βΊοΈ
Youβre so sweet for asking and sending this. Itβs been a rough few weeks but Iβm feeling better now and the itch to write again and be motivated to do anything is returning!
Lowkey yes but also no. If you have an idea feel freee to send it. It might take me a while but you can always send them in and Iβll write whatever one I get inspiration for first new or old.
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, neverβ"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
One more week, and Ormund Hightower is beginning to suspect his greatest trial was never war, but surviving the sweet torment of his betrothed's teasing. He gives you a taste of what's to come.
ππππππππ: explicit sexual content, oral (female and male receiving), jealous!ormund, fingering, sexual content so minors dni.
The feast is alive with laughter, music, and clinking goblets, yet Ormundβs attention never truly leaves you.
Even as he listens to the lord beside him speak of harvest yields and coastal trade, his eyes drift, inevitably, stubbornly back to you.
Across the hall, you are a vision of practiced innocence.
You stand near Aemond Targaryen, speaking to him as though the world has neatly arranged itself into polite conversation and harmless courtesy. Your posture is composed, your voice soft enough to be lost in the music when you choose for it to be.
And yet your eyes betray you.
You look up at Aemond through fluttering lashes, slow, deliberate, almost angelic in their timing and then you smile, the kind of smile that suggests you are listening closely, but perhaps thinking of something else entirely.
Aemondβs expression remains unreadable, as ever, but he tilts his head slightly toward you as you speak, acknowledging your words with that precise, measured attention he gives to everything. His focus is steady, almost unsettling in its calmness.
Across the hall, Ormundβs grip tightens imperceptibly around his goblet.
He sees it all.
The tilt of your head, the soft curve of your mouth, the way you angle yourself just slightly toward the prince, as if the rest of the feast has faded into something unimportant.
A lord beside Ormund continues speaking, unaware that he is talking to a man who is no longer listening.
Ormundβs gaze does not leave you.
It sharpens instead.
When your eyes flick back toward him for the briefest moment, as if you can feel the weight of his attention even from across the hall, you meet something far less patient than before.
Only the quiet promise in his stare:
I am still watching.
And when you turn back to Aemond, smiling once more as if nothing has changed, Ormund finally exhales, slow, controlled, and dangerously restrained, like a man deciding exactly how much mercy he intends to grant you later.
You had been insufferably smug all evening, offering him knowing smiles from across the table, brushing your fingers against his sleeve whenever you passed, then pretending complete innocence whenever his gaze sharpened.
By the time the feast wanes, he catches your wrist with quiet confidence, drawing you just close enough that only you can hear him.
βYou are either remarkably fearless,β Ormund murmurs at your side, his smile pleasant enough to fool the hall, βor spectacularly determined to test the patience of the man you're meant to marry. Tell me, sweetling, which is it?β His gaze slides to yours, sharp with warning. βKeep provoking me through this feast, and I may have to remind you that wit is best wielded with caution... especially against a Hightower who is just as capable of giving it back.β
But Ormund does not stop there.
βI am a faithful man. I am a patient man,β he murmurs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. βBut my little sweetling, you are temptation made flesh. So do not test my restraint further, lest I decide to remind you precisely why you are my betrothed.β
His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, possessive without causing a scene.
βYou delight in making me jealous,β he says, amusement and warning woven together. βAt a feast, of all places. You tilt your head, smile that innocent smile, and somehow expect me to believe you do not know exactly what you are doing.β
A quiet chuckle escapes him, though there is a dangerous warmth behind it.
βVery well, enjoy your victory while the musicians still play.β His eyes meet yours, unwavering. βYou delight in testing my patience as you shall have all of my attention and I suspect you will discover that provoking a Hightower is a game best played with care.β
Then, with effortless composure, Ormund releases your hand, returns to the feast as though nothing had happened, and leaves you wondering whether you have won the exchange at all.
βHe seems quite protective over you,β Aemond murmurs quietly beside you, βmakes a man want to work harder.β
And that's when you make the mistake, one simple, single mistake that makes Ormund Hightower forget every fucking oath he has ever made.
You laugh, throw your head back and fucking blush, βHe is to be my husband, Your Grace, I would think any man would be protective.β
The hall doesnβt seem to notice the shift at first, music still spilling from the musiciansβ corner, laughter still skating across polished stone, but something changes anyway, subtle as a blade turning in light.
Ormund hears you and thatβs the mistake.
Your words land clean and careless, dressed in innocence, wrapped in that soft little laugh as you tilt your head back, a blush still warm on your cheeks as though youβve said nothing more dangerous than a passing compliment.
For a heartbeat, Ormund doesnβt move.
Not because he hasnβt heard you, but because he has, too clearly and the goblet in his hand stills mid-air. The laughter in his chest dies before it ever becomes sound. And whatever oath he has been carefully, painfully living under, courtesy, restraint, duty, reason fractures in a way that is almost silent.
His gaze finds you across the hall like itβs been pulled there by force rather than choice.
Possessive in a way that has nothing to do with courtly expectation and everything to do with the fact that you are smiling like that, like you donβt know what youβre doing to him.
The court goes on breathing around him, oblivious, but Ormund Hightower doesnβt, because in that moment, the idea of βany man being protectiveβ stops being a polite sentiment and becomes an insult he suddenly cannot tolerate.
His jaw tightens once, controlled. Once more, less controlled.
And when he finally sets his goblet down, it is not gentle.
Across the hall, his attention never leaves you and this time, it isnβt restraint holding him there.
Ormund moves with the intention of a man bordering on making a decision he knows he'll soon regret. βYour Grace,β he murmurs as he bows his head towards Prince Aemond, βI hope my bethroted hasn't been dull company but it appears she has indulged in too much wine so if you'll excuse us, I'll bid you a good night.β
You frown, lips parting in quiet protest as you glance between the two men. Heat still lingers in your cheeks from the wine, but your mind is far clearer than Ormund seems willing to believe.
βI have had two cups,β you say, smoothing an imaginary crease from your skirts with exaggerated dignity. βHardly enough to render me incapable of conversation.β
Your eyes lift to Ormund's, narrowing just enough for him to recognize the familiar spark of mischief that always seems to find him.
βYou make me sound as though I am moments away from climbing onto the banquet table to sing for the court.β
A faint murmur of amusement ripples from those close enough to overhear.
You fold your hands sweetly before you, all innocence despite the challenge gleaming in your gaze.
βIf you simply wished to steal me away, my lord,β you murmur, smiling with infuriating softness, βyou needn't blame the wine. I would have followed you regardless.β
The words are gentle, almost affectionate but you know exactly what you've done.
You've exposed him.
Not to ridicule, but to everyone with eyes enough to see that Ormund Hightower was not rescuing an inebriated betrothed.
He was claiming what was his.
βI intend to make you scream my name, later, my sweetling.β Ormundβs voice was a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to echo in the very marrow of your bones as he guides you away from the hall.
Ormund didn't wait for a response. His hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his grip possessive and unyielding as he steered you away from the lingering eyes of the court. The transition from the bright, echoing expanse of the hall to the dim, narrow corridor was abrupt, mirroring the sudden shift in his energy. He wasn't just walking you, he was claiming you, his stride long and purposeful, pulling you along with an intensity that left you breathless.
The moment the heavy oak doors of your chambers swung shut, the silence of the room was shattered. Ormund didn't waste a second. He slammed the door closed with a resounding thud and shoved you back against the wood. The impact wasn't violent, but it was commanding, pinning you between the hard surface of the door and the heat of his massive frame.
He loomed over you, his presence suffocating in the best way possible. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched your face, tracing the flush on your cheeks and the frantic beat of the pulse in your throat. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, that low rumble returning as he spoke, his voice now a dangerous growl.
βYou've spent the entire evening playing a game, sweetling,β he murmured, his lips grazing your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. βTesting my patience. Pushing me to the very edge.β
One of his hands slid from the door to your throat, not squeezing, but cupping your neck with a firm, dominant pressure that forced you to tilt your head back. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, while his other hand descended, gripping your hip and hauling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing through his trousers, straining against the fabric, demanding entrance.
βThe teasing ends now,β he groaned, his voice thick with desire. He crashed his lips onto yours in a bruising, hungry kiss, his tongue forcing its way inside to claim your mouth with an aggressive passion. It wasn't a request, it was a takeover.
He tasted of wine and raw longing, his kiss mirroring the intensity of his grip as he sought to devour you right there against the door, but knowing you deserved better, Ormund guided you further into the room, devouring every gasp that tumbled from your lips.
The patience he had worn like a cloak for so long finally snapped, replaced by a raw, hungry desperation.
βYou are fucking mine,β Ormund murmured as he pushed you down unto the bed, fingers bunching up the skirts of your dress as he sank to his knees, his eyes never left yours, burning with a possessive fire that promised both devotion and total ruin.
He didn't waste another second as his large hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin to hoist your hips upward, spreading you wide and exposing your dripping heat to the cool air.
He let out a sharp, guttural groan at the sight of your swollen folds, glistening and ready for him.
βMy sweet, beautiful temptation,β he murmured against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers racing up your spine as he pulled aside your smallclothes, and then, he lunged. His tongue lashed out, a thick, muscular muscle that found your clit with unerring precision. He didn't start gently, he flicked his tongue upward in a rapid, rhythmic motion, sucking the sensitive nub deep into his mouth.
The sensation was an electric shock, forcing a loud, jagged moan from your throat as your back arched off the surface beneath you. βFuck, Ormund!β
Ormund was relentless. He used his tongue to part your lips, diving deep inside you, licking your walls with long, sweeping strokes that mimicked the motion of a cock. He slurped at your juices, drinking you in as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you in place so he could continue his assault.
He shifted his focus, swirling his tongue around your clit in tight, agonizingly perfect circles before suddenly sucking it hard, creating a vacuum that sent waves of white-hot pleasure crashing through your pelvis. You began to shake, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
βYes, break for me,β he growled, his voice muffled against your pussy. βCome undone for your husband.β
Gods, he's already speaking like he's already yours and the promise of marriage, spoken in the heat of the moment, only fueled the fire. He increased the pace, his tongue vibrating against your clit while his fingers slid inside you, stretching you open and pumping in sync with his mouth. The friction was overwhelming. You felt the tension coil tight in your gut, a pressure building that demanded release.
βYou are mine, my sweetling, and by the gods I will make sure everyone knows just exactly who is fucking his tongue into your tight little cunt.β
Just as you reached the precipice, Ormund looked up at you, his face smeared with your cream, a predatory smirk on his lips. βRemember this feeling, my love. Because once I have you as my wife, I will spend every night making sure you cannot walk. I will fuck you until you forget your own name.β
With one final, powerful suction on your clit and a deep thrust of his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. You screamed, your internal muscles clamping down hard around his fingers as a violent orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered uncontrollably, your vision blurring as you came in great, pulsing waves, completely undone beneath the tongue of the man who had finally run out of patience.
As the aftershocks of your orgasm continued to ripple through your thighs, leaving you breathless and trembling, you looked up at Ormund. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, the scent of musk and arousal radiating off him in waves.
Driven by a sudden, primal urge to taste him, you reached down and gripped his thick, throbbing cock, through his breeches, βFuck, what the fuck are you doing?β
You cocked your head, still breathless, βIsn't it obvious, sweet boy? I wish to make you rethink every decision you have ever made,β you murmured as you tugged, Ormund letting out a sharp, guttural gasp as you guided the head of his length to your lips. You didn't hesitate, swirling your tongue around the leaking tip before sliding your mouth over him, sucking him deep into your throat.
Ormund froze for a split second, his fingers digging into the mattress beside your head. A loud, strangled moan ripped from his throat as you worked him, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked the head of his cock with a greedy intensity. The sensation of your warm, wet mouth was almost too much for him to bear.
"Fuck... fuck!" he swore, his voice a raw, jagged rasp. His fingers twisted deeper into your hair, not to pull you away, but to pin you there, his hips twitching in frantic, involuntary jerks. "Gods, you little tease... you're trying to kill me, aren't you?"
But you didn't stop. You sank lower, taking his shaft to the root, nose brushing the coarse curls at his groin. Your throat stretched around the fat head, muscles rippling as you swallowed him whole.
Your tongue lapped at the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed against your palate, while your cheeks hollowed with each deliberate, wet suck. You pulled back just enough to let his cock pop free, glistening and slick with your saliva, then plunged down again, faster, harder, taking him deeper than before.
A broken groan tore from his chest. His thighs tensed, the muscles cording under his trousers as he fought to hold still. His grip in your hair tightened to the point of pain, but you welcomed it, let the sting anchor you as you worked his length, your jaw aching, your throat burning with the need to please.
He bucked.
A wild, unguarded thrust that buried himself to the hilt. His balls drew up tight against your chin, and you felt the first hot spasm rocket through his cock. A thick, salty flood erupted straight down your throat, pulse after pulse of heavy, creamy cum, each one painting your tongue and coating your gullet.
You swallowed greedily, throat working in rhythmic gulps, never breaking the seal of your lips around his base. His hips ground against your face, grinding out every last drop while you milked him dry, your fingers digging into his thighs to steady him.
When the last tremor faded, he slumped back against the wall, chest heaving, his cock softening but still held captive in your mouth. You lapped at the sensitive head, cleaning him with tender strokes, until he finally eased his grip, stroking your hair with a trembling hand.
He suddenly pulled back, breathless and shaking, his cock glistening with saliva and pre-cum. He looked down at you, his expression a volatile mix of absolute devotion and raw, animalistic lust.
But Ormund was a man of discipline and tradition, and the weight of his devotion to you acted as a tether. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted the sanctity of the wedding night to be the moment he truly claimed you, marking you as his in every sense of the word.
βI want to fuck you so bad I can taste it,β he groaned, leaning down to press a hard, bruising kiss to your lips, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. βI want to stretch you open, fill you to the brim, and hear you scream my name while I drive myself into your gut. But I'm going to wait. I'm going to do this right.β
He shifted, his hard length brushing against your soaking wet pussy, teasing the entrance but refusing to enter. He looked into your eyes, his gaze burning.
βA fucking week, just one more week and when the doors are closed and the vows are spoken, I am going to fuck you proper. I'm going to spend hours breaking you down, exploring every inch of you, and making sure you know exactly who you belong to. You won't be able to walk for a week when I'm finished with you.β
He gave your clit one last, teasing flick with his finger, leaving you aching and desperate for the very thing he was denying you until the ceremony. βGods, please, Ormund.β
βSweetling, just one more week. You'll be a good girl for me, won't you? Such a good fucking girl.β
