I have been struggling lately with a painful lack of inspiration, so I've decided to open up writing and drawing requests!
Characters I will draw/write for: Gwayne Hightower (love of my life), Alicent Hightower, Criston Cole, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Laena Velaryon, Helaena Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Daeron the Drunken, Duncan the Tall, original characters!!
Characters I WON'T draw/write for: Daemon, Aerion, Aegon, Viserys (any of them), Otto
Maybe characters (character's I'm not personally that into but I will write/draw if I'm feeling inspired): Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, other character's who haven't been specifically mentioned as no's i.e. I've forgotten about them
I will write: fluff, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort
I will NOT write: noncon, dubcon, kinks that involve too many bodily functions e.g. piss, incest
I will draw: full body, half-body, bust, headshot (is there a difference between bust and headshot? I'm not sure), multiple characters, ocs (I love ocs)
I will NOT draw: nsfw content
I will write and draw some ships but they must comply with all the rules I've stated above (no incest, no non/dubcon, no characters I won't draw/write for)
Drawing requests will probably take a very long time, example drawing's below (completed, half-done, sketch):
Tags ✶ arranged marriage (sort of), marriage for political gain (on both sides), mild playful banter, smut, playful and passionate lovemaking, erotic undressing, masturbation, mild teasing, p. in v. sex, riding
Wordcount ✶ 3,925
Sent to escort your half-brother Daeron to Oldtown where he is to ward, you learn that you are to remain there and wed into the Hightower family. Despite your initial outrage, you realize that a match with the queen's brother could obtain you some influence.
Gwayne Masterlist
The Tower was usually silent at this hour of the morning, as it was the time for prayer, but not on this day, Gwayne remarked as he made his way from his rooms to his uncle’s library. The door to Lord Hobert’s sitting room was open and hushed, firm voices were spilling into the hallway like the whisper of a stream, which prompted Gwayne to make his way up the stairs, intrigued.
He thought he recognized the voice of a woman, which was unusual as his uncle was a private man, and rarely received calls in his quarters, but as soon as he came upon the threshold, he saw that the unexpected caller was you, still dressed in your morning clothes. He gave a polite knock and entered, wondering if he could be of assistance. His uncle gave him a tired nod, allowing him in.
Following Hobert’s line of sight, you turned, exhaling indignantly when you saw who the intruder was. “Were you aware, Ser Gwayne?” you immediately inquired, poised but noticeably upset. “Surely your father or your sister has written to you.”
“Whatever the matter is, princess, I am sure that I am not aware,” he replied, and his amused tone came across as arrogant, making you scoff.
“Prince Daeron carried a letter from the Lord Hand,” Hobert explained.
The day prior, a small party had arrived with careful instructions from his sister the queen—she had sent her youngest son Daeron, who was eight of age now, to ward in Oldtown. It seemed that for all its coin and privileges, the capital was not the most salubrious environment for boys to be raised into young men, and thus had sent her last son to her uncle in the hopes of salvaging his education and values.
Gwayne was rather proud and looking forward to participating in his nephew’s education, however he wondered how it related to you. As the second child of King Viserys, a daughter brought into this world on the very day Queen Aemma had passed on, you had come as an escort to young Daeron, the boy’s dragon being too small to be ridden.
“I am to remain here in Oldtown and rely on House Hightower to find a husband, and I am sure my lord will have a perfect suggestion,” you said sarcastically, turning to his uncle again. “Your eldest son is still unwed, is he not?”
Hobert smiled placidly. “Indeed,” he confirmed. Gwayne understood then and there, the true purpose of your coming here. While he understood the ways of noble and royal arranged marriages, he could imagine how difficult being sent away from your home without a say was, and he regretted that you had not been informed until after the arrangement had been made.
“I will not let the Lord Hand choose my husband,” you said firmly before turning on your heels and leaving the room.
At his desk, Hobert sighed. “She is the dragon’s daughter indeed,” he said, a polite phrasing for the headache he no doubt expected.
“Do not worry, uncle, I shall take it upon myself to make sure the matter is resolved without any more fuss,” Gwayne said amicably. “Father will be satisfied.”
While you had reacted in anger in Lord Hobert’s sitting room, the truth of the matter was grief. Since your birth you had never quite found your place in King’s Landing, or within your own family. For the king, you represented the passing of his wife, and for Alicent, you were the shadow of the queen that had preceded her. For your sister Rhaenyra, even though she cherished you, you were the walking reminder that your mother had died for a lost cause.
Some days you wondered what your life would have been like if you’d been a son. On the rare occasions you allowed yourself to contemplate it, you knew there was only one path your life could have taken. You would have been made Prince of Dragonstone, and would have likely been betrothed to a daughter from House Velaryon from a young age. In those moments of contemplation you realized the choice wouldn’t have been ours, as your own parents’ marriage had been arranged.
Son or daughter, you were submitted to the will of the crown, under the weight of obligation.
However the Gods had seen it fit to have you born a girl, and now that you had recently come of age and the queen was seemingly eager to use you as leverage and to keep you under her influence by sending you to wed one of her kin. Upon departure you had not understood you would not only escort your youngest half-sibling, but would only return once wed.
For near a fortnight you lived with your newly discovered fate, until you came to the conclusion that resisting it would be your undoing. The choice was between acceptance and madness, and the third option was inconceivable to you—to go against your father’s order and defy the very customs by which you lived.
One morning after prayer, you were strolling the gardens and mentally going through a letter you would later write to him, when you came across Ser Gwayne. It almost seemed to you as though he was waiting for you at the end of an alley, but you dismissed the thought.
“Ser Gwayne,” you greeted politely, surprised when he fell into step with you, arms crossed behind his back primly.
“I have been wanting to speak with you, princess,” he said amicably—he had meant to come to you sooner, but he had not wanted to provoke your anger further. “I wanted to assure you, I was not aware of my father’s agreement with my uncle.”
Seemingly surprised, you looked at him intently before answering, and he hoped you could see he was being genuine. “I believe you,” you said, perhaps more curtly than you ought to, but you did not entirely trust his intentions.
“While my situation was much different than yours, I can sympathize,” he offered, hoping you would be receptive to his sympathy.
“How so?” you inquired, slightly incredulous.
“I was very much a young boy when my father came to King’s Landing to serve King Jaehaerys, and took my mother and sister with him, but chose to leave me in my uncle’s care,” he explained, and while you had known of his situation, it was still discomforting to hear it from him. “I was never given any sort of explanation as to the reason, nor any choice.”
“I am sorry,” you replied.
Ser Gwayne gave you a small smile, and the two of you walked in silence for a moment, as though he was expecting you to speak again. In the end, you proved him right. “I suppose you could not petition the queen or the hand to retract their arrangement with your uncle,” you said.
He tilted his head towards the sky slightly, looking up at the looming shadow of the Hightower, and gave you a self-deprecating smile.
“I am afraid not. It is beyond the scope of my influence,” he replied, trying not to sound too bitter. “In other matters, I would have gladly been your champion.”
While he seldom spoke of it, and instead centered himself around his duties here, serving his uncle and training young squires sent by the Hightower’s bannermen, he sometimes wished for a more prominent role. Oldtown might have been the voice of the faith and the richest city in the realm, he longed to be trusted and influential, to make his own mark in the world.
“There isn’t much for me to do, but make peace with the situation, then,” you continued, sounding resigned and defeated more than truly convinced. “I have written to my father, and it is his definite wish that I find a good match here. So I shall obey my king. Even though I suspect the queen whispered the idea into his ear.”
At that Ser Gwayne gave you another pained smile, and you realized that perhaps, you had been harsh with your tone and implication. “My apologies, she is your sister,” you were quick to add.
“Do not trouble yourself,” he reassured you—he might have been the queen’s brother, he knew of the ruthless reality of court. “It is a political calculation, that is certain. Bonds between families are what make the realm.”
With another sigh, you raised your eyes to the blue sky and the flocks of seagulls circling overhead, coming from the bay of Whispering Sound. It was a clear day with a gentle sun, one you intended to spend contemplating the choices offered to you.
“Whether to a Hightower or another lord, I was always to be married for political influence, I have known that fact since I was a child,” you said bitterly.
“We must all serve in the way our birth dictates,” Gwayne replied in turn, this time sounding more bitter than he was comfortable with.
At that you seemed to frown, but quickly smoothed your features over elegantly. “Ser Ormund is a logical match,” you told him then, almost regretfully—part of you loathed to agree with the Hand’s plan, out of pure spite. “What can you tell me of his character? After all, who would know him better than his cousin.”
For some reason he could not comprehend at that moment, Gwayne was not entirely comfortable with the question, but still answered as honestly as he could. “We are brothers, in all but blood,” he explained. “He is intelligent and confident in himself. Pious, but a touch arrogant at times, I must admit.”
His answer seemed to satisfy you. “Would he make a good match, tell me, Ser Gwayne?” you inquired.
Gwayne gave you a small nod, a pang of discomfort in his chest. “An excellent one.”
Weeks went on leisurely, the weather of the Reach agreeing with you. The city was far more agreeable than the capital, and you enjoyed being out of the queen’s scrutiny, even though you still felt her eyes through those of her uncle.
All were anxious for a decision on your part, even though it seemed everyone’s understanding that you would eventually choose Ser Ormund, and you loathed that the choice you were given was only an illusion.
While Ser Ormund appeared to be the man his cousin described, you could not bring yourself to accept a betrothal. For weeks you observed him, quickly dismayed by the way he showed Daeron so little patience nor interest. However it seemed Ser Gwayne had taken to him as an older sibling would.
The young man took pride in having a new wardrobe made for him in the Hightower colors, and if not for the color or their hair, the two of them looked so alike they could have been brothers, or father and son. They spent their mornings in the training yard, and when the summer sun became too bright in the afternoons, retreated to the library where they studied.
Ser Gwayne introduced him to poetry and ballads, and it seemed Daeron manifested an interest in music and playing the lute, which his cousin encouraged.
Whether it was what you had seen of his character or the spirit of spite very much alive in you, you slowly came to a decision regarding Ser Gwayne. One early evening you asked him to your chambers, having prepared arguments as one would in a negotiation. You were being forced into a political match, therefore you would treat it as an entirely political matter.
When Gwayne entered your chambers, he noticed you were dressed for the night already, with a long nightgown that grazed the floor and an embroidered robe in the Targaryen colors, fastened at the waist.
It was later than was appropriate for a man to pay a call on a young woman, but he had been too curious to resist your unusual request.
“I have a proposal,” you said rather decidedly before he could speak. “I thought we could serve each other’s interests.”
Gwayne was taken aback by your offer, unsure what it was supposed to entail. “You are the queen’s brother, and I am the king’s daughter,” you observed, to which he nodded. “As such, you have the queen’s ear, to some extent, as much as I have the king’s.”
Understanding dawned on him, a prickling at the back of his neck at how bold you were being. He took a step forward, tilting his head in interest. “Indeed.”
At that, your polite smile grew into a delighted grin. “Marriage is a consolidation of assets, would you not say?” you asked, slightly breathless.
“I would say,” he replied, slightly amazed at your offer. “Each on our own we might not have much influence, but together we will have a stronger voice.”
Since the very day he had interrupted your conversation with his uncle, he had wondered how to turn the situation to his advantage—you were a beautiful young woman, with a countenance and temperament he could see himself enjoying in private, and you could easily be the way to advance himself.
After all, he was only the son of a second son, and stood to inherit very little but a small sum of money. He was a knight of impeccable reputation, which brought him pride, but he owned no castle and land. All he had was his good name and his reputation on the tourney field, but with you as his wife, he could hope for more for himself, but also any children you would bear him.
“Before we agree to this, I shall need some guarantees,” you said, looking awfully serious.
“Such as?” he asked.
A heavy pause settled over you, then, slowly, your eyes travelled from his face down to his trousers, then up again until you were holding his gaze straight-on. “I will not spend my life tied to a man whose touch I cannot stand and whose sight I cannot bear,” you said severely, which made him swallow his chuckle.
Still, he found himself utterly charmed by your forwardness. “Have you made the same proposal to my cousin?” he answered, biting his lip to restrain his smile.
“I will, if you are to disappoint,” you said in a flat tone, your expression impassive, but he thought he saw a glint of amusement in your eyes.
“Pray tell, how shall I prove myself to you, princess?” he inquired, standing up straighter.
Once more your gaze travelled from his handsome face to the hem of his doublet, which fell mid-thighs, yet slower. You allowed your eyes to trace the black laces at the front which were undone at the base of his throat, making your meaning as clear as could be.
“Show me,” you replied, quieter, almost insecure, although you feared he would refuse.
Without a word he complied, the prickle of anticipation at the back of his neck returning tenfold, spreading down his spine. His fingers came to undo the leather lace holding his dark green doublet closed, pulling it off his shoulders and dropping it to the ground carelessly. His eyes keeping track of the move of emotions on your face, he then pulled his gray linen shirt over his head.
Watching avidly as he revealed himself piece by piece, you were delighted by his alabaster skin, spattered with freckles at his chest and stomach. He was lean but obviously strong, and you knew him agile from the training field. “Do I prove satisfactory so far?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said, briefly glancing up.
Almost on instinct, you reached up and settled your palm over his heart, marvelling at how warm he was, and how soft the nearly hairless skin was. “Have you seen enough or must I convince you?” he inquired.
He seemed to almost mourn it when you let your hand drop away. “It is not quite enough I’m afraid.”
“Might I be allowed to request the same of you? Marriages are built on exchange after all,” he suggested, and he was so polite about it, you were inclined to accept.
With a slight smile, you untied your robe and removed it, draping it over the back of a chair before taking a few steps around the room, closer to the hearth. In the soft light of the fire, the shadow of your curves stood up through your nightgown.
“I must leave some element of mystery for you to uncover in due time,” you said.
“Do men not carry mystery?” he asked, a touch of wonder to his tone, his eyes following the play of light and shadow, the movement of your hips and the dips of your waist through the thin cotton. The buzzing warmth in his spine melted to heat, permeating his entire abdomen and settling low in his core.
“For all the poetry men have written about the female form, I would say we have the advantage in that regard,” you replied, confident once more, and it incensed him.
His next question came easily, eager on his tongue. “How would you have me demonstrate that I can please you?”
Delight flushed your face with heat. “Here I was hoping for mere tolerance of sight and touch, but you offer me pleasure?”
“I would,” he replied in a breath, shedding his boots and then his trousers under your avid attention. Your own breath had grown shallower, a strange warmth enveloping you, coursing through your veins.
“No mystery,” you reminded him quietly, and at that he removed his smallclothes, standing entirely bare in front of you. “Sit.”
Eyes bright and attentive, he slowly made his way to the bed, delighted at how you followed two steps behind, then sat on the edge of the bed. His stomach shivered and clenched when he noticed the way you were looking between his legs, exploring without touching. This time, you did not have to prompt him.
“Oh,” you breathed with unconcealed wonder as he reached between his thighs and wrapped his hand around himself.
It was not as large as you had feared, and it was lovelier to look at than expected. Slowly, he stroked the thin skin over the hard length, the head of it flushed pink, soft sounds coming from his lips.
It made your own core ache, a feeling which you knew and now longed to explore through another’s touch, but you could not let go of such a wondrous view yet.
You watched desire spread over his features, a deep flush coming to his cheeks, darkening his freckles and spreading down to his neck and chest.
Mouth parted on shuddering exhales, he started rocking his hips into his hand. “Am I pleasing you yet?” he asked, his voice rougher.
“Almost,” you replied, and he smiled at that, amused and seemingly aroused at the slight taunt.
Pulling your gown up until it revealed your legs but no further, you climbed after him on the bed until you were kneeling on either side of his hips, your arms around his shoulders. His own hands came to rest on your thighs, tense and trembling, no doubt wishing to slide higher.
Slowly, you kissed his parted lips, enjoying their softness and the warmth of his tongue when it prodded yours. Without warning you gently pressed into him until his hard length was caught between his stomach and your core and started a subtle rocking.
He responded as beautifully as you had anticipated, his hands tightening around your thighs, his kiss still restrained but turning passionate. You carded your fingers through his soft mane, relishing the simmering heat building in your core, your pearl pressed against his length through your gown.
“Allow me,” he murmured after a long minute of surrendering to your pace, his right hand sliding under the draping of your nightshift over your lap until he found your core, and pressed a thumb to it, exploring its seam and finding only wetness.
“Seven Gods,” he cursed, drawing tentative circles atop your nub until your hips rocked into his hand and your fingers tightened in his hair.
Following the rhythm of his touch, you reached between your bodies and wrapped a hand around his length, stroking it as he had. He faltered then, clinging onto you with a rough moan. You swiped a thumb of his tip, swiping the bead of wetness that had pearled there, and he looked like he could cry.
“Am I pleasing you?” he nearly begged, eyes wide, and you gave him an encouraging hum. “I want to take you,” he then said, bold and desperate, and you shook your head even though your entire being was yearning for it, desperate to feel him inside of you.
“I cannot give myself to you,” you replied. “Not when I might still turn to Ser Ormund.”
The mention of his cousin made him groan, and you hid your victorious smile in his neck. “I will not disappoint you, princess,” he vowed, and you rewarded him by pushing him back onto the mattress, to which he complied without resistance.
Flat on his back, pleading eyes wide and rimmed with red, his mouth dropped open when you reached for your gown and pulled it off completely. He looked upon you as though he was seeing the Maiden herself straddling him. Your hand still wrapped around him, you rose higher to your knees and guided the tip of his length between your folds and ground down, taking him into your body.
He threw his head back when you slowly sank onto his length until your hips were snug with his. Palms flat to his chest and shoulder for leverage, you rocked back and forth, the stretch of him pulling you under fast despite the slight discomfort. His thumb was quick to find its place again on your pearl, and it proved to be your undoing.
Neither of you could stand the feeling for long, madly chasing your peak, your eyes watching the other’s face. You were tight around his cock, a wet heat to which he was unable to resist, rocking up into you desperately, encouraged by your sighs and moans.
Pressure mounted at the base of his cock and he cursed, biting his lip to keep it at bay until your own pleasure was spent. Soon you were shuddering, your hips losing their rhythm until you were grinding against him, clenching around him as your peak took you under.
“Gwayne,” you called, and he nearly cried with how close to the edge he was, crying out a sob when finally you relented and he pulled out, spilling on his own stomach.
With a breathless laugh you fell to the bed, nestling to his side with your head on his shoulder. “Do we have an agreement, then?” he asked, sounding awfully pleased with himself.
“Yes,” you replied with a soft laugh, kissing a freckle at his shoulder. “I shall not seek your cousin out.”
“Good.”
The two of you remained silent for a long moment, until your breaths had evened and the sweat on your skin had cooled, making you shiver. Without a word he rose from the bed and retrieved your robe, which you took gladly.
“I shall write to my father. He will be pleased, I’m sure,” you said as you fastened the belt around your waist, then glanced up at him, still shamelessly bare.
“As will mine be,” he replied, then bent down to press a kiss to your lips, chaste but full of intent. “Together we might achieve a great deal for ourselves.”
A/N: Dividers by @/arcielee. Requested by @nourangul ♡
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born to unknown parents and raised by an old maegi, mélior lives and roams around the vastness of the riverlands’ forests. in the autumn of 129 a.c, whilst gathering herbs and seeds close to her cottage, she finds a wounded knight wearing silver and green. a watchtower crowned by flames adorning the middle of his chest.
Tags ✶ angst, forbidden love (gwayne is a kingsguard and reader is married to aemond), lovers to enemies (sort of), love confession, open ending
Wordcount ✶ 2,375
Sworn as your protector, Gwayne has loved you in silence for years. When war erupts and you attempt to flee to your mother Rhaenyra, he is ordered to bring you back, and finds himself caught between his oath and his love for you.
Gwayne Masterlist
The night was clear that night, not a cloud to be seen, nothing but the lights of the city and the stars, and yet you felt as though the sky was coming down on you. Waving through the narrow alleyways of the capital, the air was thick and cloying, nearly suffocating you—or perhaps it was your heart, swelling and beating wildly in your chest, fright and hope alike coursing in your veins.
Never before had you imagined that the streets of King’s Landing would be so alive at such a dark time of night, but in this instance, it would be your saving grace,as you were racing against time, and desperate not to be noticed.
You had first enlisted your maid’s help in getting out of the Red Keep, which wasn’t an easy feat, as you were kept under strict guard since assassins had come into the night with the purpose of murdering your husband, and likely, taking you back to your mother. They had failed on both accounts, and as a result, an innocent child had died, and you remained a prisoner in what had once been a peaceful marriage.
It had never been a happy one, as neither you nor Aemond had chosen it, and you had never grown to love one another. However it satisfied the king, giving him the false illusion that the divide between his eldest daughter, your mother, and her half-siblings had been mended. In public, Aemond and you acted as duty demanded, but in private, there was no warmth nor affection.
However, what could have been a solitary existence was instead bettered with the steadfastness and solace the constant presence of your sworn shield, Ser Gwayne Hightower, brought you. While he had at first been sworn to you with the queen’s hope to keep a trusted eye on you, you had over the years formed a bond of trust, and dared you say, tentative affection.
Ser Gwayne was a devoted, grounding presence at your side, and you found in him a kindred spirit. The white cloak hid a wittier spirit than was expected of a knight, with a sharp tongue and at times, rather cutting sense of humor. When it was needed, he was kind and attentive, seeing to you in a manner that went beyond his role as a guard.
Some nights when you stared at the ceiling, unable to find sleep, contemplating a life you would never live, you thought you would have liked to meet him under other circumstances—such thoughts were foolish and would only bring you pain, you knew, but the way his green eyes glinted sometimes made you think perhaps, you were not the only one entertaining them.
Now, you had left him behind, having formed a plan to escape and return to your mother as soon as you had suspected where his true loyalties lied, with his nephew the usurper.
The marriage would easily be annulled, you hoped, as you had not borne any children to Aemond, and once Rhaenyra would have ascended to her rightful throne, perhaps a true love match could be found for you, and you would forget this grim time in your life.
Perhaps that other life you sometimes prayed for was waiting for you.
Down the hill near the docks, you were hoping to catch a merchant ship, assured by your maid that for a handsome sum, a fisherman whose name she knew would take you nearer to Driftmark, where you could then find your way back to Dragonstone.
As dawn was slowly creeping on the edge of the horizon, you hid behind a stack of crates, then, hearing commotion further up the street, the familiar footsteps of the Gold Cloaks, you rushed down the narrow passageway, heart in your throat.
It opened to the last rampart before the docks, and you were so preoccupied by the City Watch at your back that you did not notice the man approaching you, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back into the alley. “Unhand me, ser!” you cried out, ripping your arm away.
“Princess,” came the hushed response, a frantic call. The man stepped into the light of the moon, and under his hood, you recognized your sworn shield’s angelic face. He was dressed in commoner’s clothes, much as yourself, who was dressed as a boy, your hair hidden by a cloak.
“Ser Gwayne,” you replied, comforted that it was not a stranger in the night, coming to take your life or your dignity, but you weren’t reassured as to why he had come after you. You took a few steps back until your back met the wall, your eyes darting for the docks, but you knew there was no way for you to escape him, and hot tears came to your eyes.
Never before would have you thought that the man you trusted with your life would one day be what stood between yourself and your freedom. “Please, ser,” you begged in a whisper.
“I have been charged to bring you back to the Red Keep,” he said, rather regretfully.
“Please, ser, I cannot go back there,” you pleaded again, and you could see the anguish of your own heart painted on his handsome face.
“Come with me at once and it shall be forgotten,” he pressed, not unkindly. “While the queen dowager is aware, your husband does not, and we might keep it that way. He needs not know. I will keep your secret, as I have always had.”
“Then please keep my secret once more and let me go,” you replied, harsher than Gwayne had ever heard you speak. “I cannot remain here, I am not safe!”
“I shall watch over you as I have always done,” he promised, nearly crowding you against the wall in his effort to make you see reason.
In less than two hours the castle would be awake, and his nephew might be looking for his wife—he would not react kindly if he realized Gwayne had failed his charge. Only sister Queen Alicent had been informed, through her own maid, that the young princess was not in her room, and had sent for him immediately, charging him to bring her back before the alarm was rung.
“You cannot keep me safe from him!” you cried out, your voice breaking. “Besides, my loyalties are with my mother. Please, if you've ever had any love for me…”
“I cannot,” he replied.
He was sworn to serve the crown, and the rightful king. He had abandoned who he used to be on the day he had been cloaked in white, and there was no higher purpose to him than this. Now he would serve his king and his nephew for they were the same person, and it filled him with pride to see his blood reign righteously.
“Come with me, then,” you offered as one last act of desperation, and Gwayne thought it would have been easier to stab his own heart than it was to refuse you.
For a moment the love he bore for you took over his very soul, and he contemplated the path you could lead him on—one where his oath would be broken, but he would stand by you, and perhaps in time, you would be grateful enough that you would regard him as more than your sworn sword. However it was not his mind singing this enticing tune, but his heart, selfish and sinful.
“I cannot betray my oath, and my family,” he answered, in the end, the words ripping his heart as they came out of his chest.
While he understood the agony it must have been for you, and that it was natural for a daughter to support her mother in this way, he could not allow you to turn to the wrong path and risk your life. This war would be bloody, he feared, and he would rather see you on the side of the victorious.
“But you expect me to betray mine,” you replied tearfully, your eyes rimmed with red, glimmering with regret and sorrow alike. “Let me go, then. No one needs to know you ever found me.”
For a moment, hope beat a steady rhythm in your heart, the comforting shadow of relief creeping on the bright, burning sun of your fear.
In the end, Gwayne’s answer came in the form of his hand on your wrist, tender and cruel all at once. “Come with me, princess, the queen dowager awaits,” he said, sealing your fate, and perhaps his with it.
Since Gwayne had brought you back to the Red Keep on that fateful night, the world only seemed grayer. While the men of his house fought in the fields, his cousin Ormund gathering the Hightower banners and marching into the Riverlands, he was a prisoner guarding another, only his bars were made of his own guilt, and his own devastation as seeing you so defeated.
Gone was the light in your eyes and he was painfully aware that he was responsible for it. He prayed on his knees every night that you would find it in your heart to understand, that he could never break his oath, never forsake his white cloak, even for you.
Now he wondered whether he had made the right choice, whether there ever was an instance where duty was wrong, and to follow one’s heart was the righteous path. The Gods were awfully silent on the matter, and day after day, no sign came to show him reassurance or blame, apart from his charge’s demeanor.
As a princess, a lady of good breeding and education, you remained polite and composed, in his presence at least, and it was perhaps what pained him the most. He would have taken your blame and your anger, but instead you acted as though he was simply a shadow on the wall, silent and insignificant.
One night as he saw you to your chambers, which were now colder than ever—the windows had been barred and the room stripped of books, parchment and ink, cutting you off from the world—he could not hold his tongue any longer.
“I am at the door, shall you need anything, as always,” he said gently, but then remained, looking at you until you glanced up, no doubt to bid him leave. “No matter your hatred for me, I am still devoted to your protection.”
For a moment the two of you existed in silence, him standing near the door, you at the window, looking out through the rare gap in the wood, no doubt searching for the light of the city. “There was a time when you were my protector,” you replied coldly, almost startling him as he had thought you would ignore him, but perhaps it would have been better. “The man I trusted and admired.”
Gwayne took a tentative step forward, emboldened by the fact that you were addressing him. “Have I lost your trust then, as well as your affection?” he inquired.
“You have not lost my trust,” you replied, but it sounded nearly like a threat, like a dagger being twisted in his heart. “I trust you to do exactly what your oath bids you to.”
“My oath is to shield you, to protect you with my life,” he replied helplessly, knowing his answer was no more than a dagger to the back to you, as torturous as your own answers were to him.
With a detached sort of pain in your eyes, you looked him up and down, considering him as though you had never noticed his armor before, the white cloak that hung at his back. He loathed and cursed the Gods for having brought the two of you to this stalemate, forced to stand on either side of a war and yet stuck together by an oath he was not sure of the meaning anymore.
“I was mistaken once, thinking you were sworn to me,” you explained tearfully. “But you are sworn to the crown first and foremost, and your loyalties lie with my enemies.”
“Am I your enemy now as well?” he asked, his voice strangled. You stood then, approaching him with care, as one approached an enemy disguised as a friend.
“That is a question for you to answer,” you said, and it was perhaps the most devastating reply you could have given him. “I am a prisoner here, how can you stand to be my jailor?”
Twin tears rolling down your face, which you were quick to swipe away. His hands burned to reach out to you, all the more when he thought he had never touched your bare skin with his, and may never. It had been his only fault all these years, the one he had prayed for in his solitary nights—where there should have been only pure, pious devotion, another sort of covetous love had rooted itself in his chest, unyielding. The sort that came with shameful desires and at times, a dark envy directed towards his nephew, who so carelessly ignored you.
Guilt twisted his stomach, but it was nothing compared to the sorrow that washed over him when you spoke next. “I used to think that perhaps you loved me, not as a knight loves his charge but as a man loves a woman,” you whispered, low enough that even the Gods would not hear you, and Gwayne fell to his knees on the stone floors, looking up at you in submission.
“I did,” he replied earnestly. “I do. Against my oath, I do love you.”
Your voice died for a moment, your chest shuddering. “So did I,” you replied, watching as regret spread over his face, widening his eyes, draining the color from his cheeks. “However you have made your choice, and now we must both live with it.”
“Honor is the bane of love, some knights say,” he mused out loud, unsure what he was trying to say, to himself or to you.
Closing your eyes, you set your hand atop his head, carding your fingers through his copper mane, and you thought right then and there, that were you a wicked soul, you could have forced him to submit, and gained your freedom through his demise.
A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on an anonymous request.
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Would the people be interested in an oc centric fic where Daemon has a son with Rhea Royce but instead of being the ideal son he's cunty, autistic and gay, with Ben Whishaw as Richard II as the faceclaim?
I have named Aeryn and I adore him, I haven't named the fic yet though so if you've got suggestions by all means share them
I finally decided to post chapter one of my courtly love/medieval romance poetry inspired fic, All that Love Wills
Summary:
Alicent was happy to be the Princess’ companion, a first line of defense before anyone could get to Rhaenyra, or before Rhaenyra could hurt herself. But after the Hand of the King dies unexpectedly, his young daughter is left to find her way in the world. Unsure of her purpose away from court and desperate to escape the clutches of yet another man in her family orchestrating her life, Alicent follows her brother on the roads of Westeros as he makes a living as a Knight of the Realm.
When the Gods bring a battle-hardened Alicent back to King’s Landing, she must contend with the life she left behind, the warrior she became, an oncoming threat and the woman she has not stopped thinking about since the day she left.
Or, a canon divergence au in which Alicent becomes Gwayne's squire and lives as a travelling knight for ten years before returning to King's Landing and becoming entangled in a daring tale of war and romance. Basically what ocurred to me after researching medieval love poetry for two years for my dissertation and watching A Knight's Tale too many times.
Jousts! Swords! A lady knight! A princess! Homosexual tendencies! Insane 700 year-old poems! And more!
If that sounds good to you, head to
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
There is a conspiracy within House Hightower to disrupt and destroy House Targaryen. But not solely for the power grasping reasons Targs and this fandom seem to think.
They are doing it in an attempt to receive vengeance for Ceryse Hightower, Maegor the cruel’s first wife. You don’t exist as one of the oldest houses on the continent without having an insane memory of slights.
Anywho Justice for my girl Ceryse, house Hightower I find you infinitely fascinating.
To all the people who love psychoanalysing Otto Hightower's relationship with his children, listen to Stem the Flow by Paris Paloma, you can thank me later.
