Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.
Song inspo: ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3
Part two
Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.
It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.
Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.
The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.
Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.
No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.
He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.
His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.
"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."
It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.
No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.
By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.
Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?
-
By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.
It was hardly the first time.
The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.
Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.
You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.
Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.
Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.
So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.
That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.
You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.
Just a little farther...
"You appear to be losing your battle."
The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.
You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.
A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.
You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.
You were in far too much of a hurry.
"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."
His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.
"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."
You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.
"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."
"You are trying to do something."
"I am not."
"You are."
A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.
"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."
"I am simply a guest in the Keep."
The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."
There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"
You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."
"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."
His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."
You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."
"Are you?"
"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."
A beat passed.
"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."
You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."
"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"
A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."
You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."
The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."
You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.
Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.
"...It's you."
The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.
He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.
When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."
The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"
You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."
Silence settled between them.
Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.
You did not look mad.
Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.
More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.
Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"
He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.
You said nothing.
For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.
His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"
You instinctively stepped back.
"I only jest," he said quietly.
Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."
Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.
Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.
I've dreamt of you.
Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.
you don't agree with the way ormund berates daeron. after a small disagreement with your husband over this, gwayne finds himself at the end of some silent treatment. but it's not just your son daeron you're worried about, it's the little one in your tummy that gwayne is yet to discover.
husband! gwayne x wife! pregnant! reader, parent! reader & gwayne x daeron. (love this boy sm- he's fab & needs to be protected.) fluff! slight angst! comfort fic! pregnancy! mentions of difficult getting pregnant. mentions of violence off screen (my guy gwayne would knock ts out of ormund i just know it)
"you are upset."
he does not need to be loud to be heard in the library. the whistle of the wind carries his declaration with a profound softness till it reaches your ears and yet, it's not enough to lift your gaze from the book your eyes are militantly trained to uphold. he's sure you're going to set that book alight with the intensity of your stare.
"i am not." right, or perhaps rather with the flame of your curt replies.
"then you are quiet."
"you would rather me be quiet than be bitten with my anger right now, husband."
"i would not, my love," he takes a seat next to yours on the table, his hands gripping the edge of your wooden chair with an effortless ease to tug you closer. when hes successfully minimised the distance, his hands hook under your knees and bring your legs across his lap. in turn, your body just shifts in his direction, the blanket perched across your abdomen shifts slightly and he tries not to focus on the way you pull it back with instinctious ease, "bite me, dearest," he whispers tenderly, fingers tracing in soft lines up your calves "i can take it."
your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.
his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.
but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.
all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.
"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."
"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.
"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.
"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"
"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."
"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"
"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.
"is something funny gwayne?"
"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.
"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.
"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.
"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.
"why do i sense a but?" you question.
"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."
"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.
"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.
"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."
there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.
you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.
"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."
you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.
"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.
"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.
"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."
you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.
"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.
"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.
the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.
you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.
you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.
...
you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.
you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.
"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.
"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.
"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.
"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.
"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.
"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.
"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.
"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."
"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.
"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.
"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.
"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.
"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.
"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.
"you jest far too much, daeron."
"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.
"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.
he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.
"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.
"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."
"like you and uncle gwayne?"
"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."
"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.
you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.
he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.
"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.
"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.
"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.
"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"
"no," you confirm, staring ahead.
"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.
"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."
daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"
"nothing."
"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.
"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.
"you are my baby-"
"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.
"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.
"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.
"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.
you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.
he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"
"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."
"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."
and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.
"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.
if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.
...
gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.
"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.
"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.
"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.
"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.
you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.
"no?"
"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"
"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.
"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.
a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.
"you still didn't say how you knew?"
"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.
"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."
"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.
"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.
"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.
"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"
"gwayne!" you gasp louder.
"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.
the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."
"thank you-"
"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,
"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?
but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.
"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.
"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.
"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.
it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.
in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.
"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.
"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.
"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.
"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"
the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.
"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"
he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.
"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."
"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.
"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.
"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.
"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.
"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."
"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.
"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.
"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.
"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.
"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."
///
i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)
@hwaofdreams - sorry it took so long! ty for being enthusiastic about it lolll :p
Summary- Gwayne and his wife disagree on politics. They fuck about it instead.
Gwayne Hightower x Female Beesbury Reader
Prompt: Rough, almost angry sex after an argument about honor, the Faith, or the pointlessness of the war. Teeth, bruises, apology in the form of deeper thrusts.
Warnings! Men being disappointing. Real even in fantasy worlds. Rough sex. Unprotected sex. My contented is created for readers 18+. As usual authors notes are at the end of you guys wanna gab.
You had always been stubborn.
Strong of mind a will- and even worse: sharp of tongue.
A woman raised by too many women, your father had died young and you had spent your upbringing surrounded by your mother. And your aunts. And your grandmother. Your Great Uncle, one of the only men born this century, far away at in the Capital.
The matriarchal house Beesbury; its daughters known for their notorious stingers.
Gwayne had known all of this, and had married you anyway.
You could be so sweet.
Soft skinned, soft breasted.
Your words dripped over him like honey. A balm for all of his many wounds, physical and worse. Mental, years of playing the part of a perfect Hightower son. Of experiencing the horrors of battle in his knighthood had left him more frayed at the edges than he would ever allow to show on his carefully crafted public persona.
No, he’d worked far too hard for far too long to allow any red to bleed through the pristine green.
Gwayne could play the game with the best of them. Knew when to be clever. When to play up his words, and when to down play them in turn.
But best of yet. He knew when to shut the fuck up.
A skill that you sorely lacked.
Most of the time, it amused Gwayne greatly. The way you snapped at lords and their lordings, cutting them down to size when their arrogance overwhelmed a room. The way you rolled your eyes at gossiping high born ladies who had not better to do but spew venom.
The way your nose scrunched just so at the slightest tone of authority.
It does not amuse him at all when you talk about The War. About how useless you believe this inter house fighting to be. A strain on the realms resources, an unnecessary mean to send young soldiers to their death. About the death of your great uncle.
You are sharp of tongue, but not careless of tongue. Usually you keep these opinions about the war to your inner circle. To Gwayne himself. There’s a difference between a ill timed comment and a treasonous one.
You push it at a council meeting. You sit behind your grandmother, head of House Beesbury. And Gwayne next to his father, flanked by Ormund.
The room of Reach born nobility is in disagreement.
Blacks and Greens and succession and usurping. The sacreligious act of beheading Meleys and parading her head through the streets of Kings Landing had sparked uproar in all directions. The Battle of Rook’s Rest was the beginning of the end, many feared.
Gwayne was still beaten to shit from it. Nursing cuts and bruises and leaking burn wounds.
Otto Hightower has a brilliant mind, a conniving mind. But an arrogant mind.
“It is arrogance to think that Rhaenyra will not retaliate for this” your grandmother sighs, wrinkled face grin and serious “her reach is farther than you’d like to admit and the king now lies half dead. From a battle with a single of the dragons that the Blacks host”
You agree with her. Completely.
“That dragon and its rider are both now slain” comes Otto’s smooth reply “the battle was a win for the rightful heir, and the crown, as all will no doubtedly be with Vaegar on our side”
“The battle was a firepit” you respond, and yes. It is out of turn. “Rooks Rest was a mighty castle and its been reduced to rubble. Hundreds of families can’t bury their dead because there’s only ashes left. That was one battle, one. Please give reason to how think the realm and its people can survive this war”
Gwayne stiffens. Gives you a look from across the table that you pointedly ignore.
Otto spews his carefully crafted reply and ambitious nobels nod along. War is a man’s work, it can be confusing for some he finishes and Gwayne knows-
He can tell my the scrunch of your nose.
That you are about to say something wholly inappropriate.
“War is the work of knights- and unfortunate common folk who face the draft, Lord Hightower” you make sure he hears the title you give him. Lord Otto Hightower has never seen a battlefield. He’s just the cause of them. “Or am I confused about that?”
Gwayne sighs.
Gods damn it.
You don’t expect Gwayne to side with you against his father, you’d given up such hope long ago. But does he really have to allow Ormond to make a snide little comment about women’s hysterics? And Otto to give you his most condescending gentle fatherly scolding?
You hate the way Lord Hightower fathers his children. You want no part of it. Your husband knows that.
The killing blow when Otto calls on Gwayne, for his son’s knightly opinion, his son’s husbandly opinion. Gwayne who had been there at the battle himself.
Gwayne who you had held in your own arms as he shook and recounted the horror of dragon fire. Who had groaned in pain as you smeared the maesters ointment on his burn wounds.
“From the moment the rightful heir took the throne, war was soon to follow. That can’t sway us from doing what is just, and following the crown faithfully”
Gwayne says the exact words that he knows his father wants to hear. His dutiful pious son.
They make you simmer with resentment.
They silence you.
Your arms cross tight over your chest and you glare hot at the wood grain of the table as the meeting in the council room continues. Your grandmother reassures you in the form of a pat on the thigh. Men will be men, she always says.
Not surprising, but ever disappointing.
-
Gwayne has half a mind to find another bed to sleep in tonight. Hells, he’d even take a floor.
Usually, he can temper your bad moods. He can laugh at your tangents and listen idly to your complaints. Talk you out of a red hot rage.
Not tonight. Not when he still has battle simmering under his skin. He had been on edge for days and that council meeting with the Reach Lords had just tipped him well over.
He opens the door to the chambers the two of you have been given. Nice, yes. Quite smaller then your joined accommodations in Old Town. He longs for the familiarity of his own feather bed, but at least this is leagues better then cots on the road.
You sit at the modest desk turned vanity in the corner, boar bristle brush running through your long hair. Donned in a soft robe. Spare him only a glaring glance through your reflection in the mirror as he enters.
He doesn’t say a word to you which only seems to incense you even more. The two of you huff around each other in tense silence, him wiggling into pajamas and you fluffing pillows with more force then
-Until the tension finally snaps-
Neither of you can pinpoint how it happened. Where a sharp comment turned into a shove turned into a harsh kiss. Your mouths meeting furiously. Tongues twisting with none of the sweetness that usually exists between the two of you.
This is not love making between a man and his wife. This is an outlet for all the frustration the two of you feel. An even space where your bodies can speak instead of your mouths.
Gwayne squeezes your cheeks too hard between his fingers, his strong grip on your mouth making you gasp. You look like a fish out of water, caught on a hook. His cock jerks in his pants.
Gwayne knows what you like, after years of marriage of course he does. And you the same. Both of you possess a keen eye for patterns.
He doesn’t care to play with your clit until you’re shaking tonight before he shrugs his pants to the ground and pushes inside of you. You don’t care to suckle on his ear until he’s a sighing mess before you meet his thrusts with swivels of your hips. It’s rough and perfunctory- the scalp of skin on skin. The moans and grunts that fill the space of the room are not dotted with sweet nothings or hot murmurs.
Its almost primal.
The sounds feel ripped straight from the forest. From lesser beasts then a lord and his lady- but that stops them not.
If anyone was to walk by the door they would know exactly what Gwayne and you are doing.
It hurts, so perfectly. His cock battering your cervix. Your talon like fingers yanking at his hair. The teeth. Bite marks scattered where they may not be able to be covered.
Later, the two of you will talk.
And argue, probably.
It will lead to you feeling guilty about taking all of your frustrations out on him, and him feeling shit for siding with his father over you in public. Kisses and flowers and so much honey will follow.
But for now, in the sweaty room, neither of you apologize.
Okay so I kind of love these short form prompt ficlets? Also the Beesbury’s don’t play and lowkey I wish I could delve into them more. I know that in season 1 Lyman was the master of coin and died for his support of Rhaenyra. That is still true in this story- which I don’t have time to turn into a full blown story(I keep telling myself)-
Anyways, I think I may post more little smutty bites like this.
Already as a young girl you knew you won’t have much say in your future because it’s all already written out for you, especially when it comes to the man you shall marry when you turn of age and whose babes you would have to carry. Which is the faith of most princesses of Westeros. All you could do was hope to get lucky enough to have a kind husband, who wouldn’t treat you with cruelty and leave you feeling unseen, and hopefully handsome one as well.
And now the time for you to hope these things have come around, as your wedding bells are to ring in few moons. Your father had chosen your husband to be Ser Gwayne Hightower. You had heard of the knight, words spoke of him as kind, caring and good to those who need it the most. Whispers also had described to be handsome, with his reddish auburn hair and blue eyes. That years of knighthood had made him into a strong man. You hope for the whispers to be true. Perhaps then the arranged marriage will be easier, when there’s mutual kindness to each other.
In few days you and Ser Gwayne are to be married, but you have yet to met him. You had travelled to old town, where you’ll live for the rest of you days with your soon to be husband. The oldest and largest city in Westeros, which beholds many beautiful places. But also which doesn’t feel like home as much as you try to. You’ve come to meet Otto Hightower, the father of you betrothed. He treats you politely, speaking only kind words, even so his presence makes you unwell, and you can’t bring yourself to trust him. You’ve spend some time with Alicent, Gwayne’s sister, she has treated you with kindness, showing you around your new home trying to help you grow comfortable.
You had hoped to meet your soon to be husband Ser Gwayne, to be able to get to know him even slightly before the marriage ceremony. But instead all you found in old town were empty halls without his presence. You were told he had to leave for a little while to take care of some matters. The words disappointed you, but you did your best not to show it.
Every now and then when the walls start to feel too heavy you find yourself by a small lake you had found some time ago. There you are now, your fingertips playing with the warm water while your eyes are focused on the pair of swans dancing around. Completely unaware of the presence behind you who has been looking at you for a while, until his voice pulls you out of your thoughts “princess”
He sees as your shoulders tense, startled by his sudden appearance. You turn enough to get a better look at the man behind you, for awhile you simply look at him trying to place where you had seen him before, until you realise it’s your soon to be husband himself. Suddenly you got nervous, worried how you look, is your hair distorted, if your dress has gotten muddy from the route you took to get here. All of these worries running around your mind until you remember to answer to him “Ser”
“Please, call me Gwayne”
And as you speak his name he wishes you’d repeat it again and again, he never thought his name could sound as beautiful as it sounds from your lips. And he can’t wait to hear you speak his name again. His trail of thoughts are stopped when you speak again, your voice laced with nervousness “I wasn’t unaware of you coming back today Gwayne, I apologise for not greeting you”
“Nothing to apologise for princess, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back today. Fortunately I managed to” for awhile he’s quiet, trying to find the right words until he speaks again “I saw you here and decide to take my chances and greet you without others around”
You gift him with a genuine smile at his words, and he could feel his knees weaken at the sight of it. He had heard the whispers of your beauty, but none which came even close to the real thing. And oh how he will do anything to see you smile again, at him. “Are you fond of swans?” He suddenly asks, referring to how you were admiring them moment earlier.
You nod as you say “I think they’re beautiful and smart creatures. I admire how they love deeply, mating for life”. And now it was the knights time to smile fondly at your words. This small moment shared between the two of you has been enough to make him sure that he’ll fall in love with you very soon, and that he’ll do everything he can to be the greatest husband to you. To make your days filled with nothing but happiness and joy.
Gwayne is the first to break the comforting silence that had grown between the two of you “it’s almost time for supper. Would you give me the honour of walking you back?” He asks as he offers his arm
Tags: @userhotd @vlarrtrgryn @littlelovebiird {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged!}
pet falcons willowy dresses finest blue silk slick buns cold and detached lover of horses forceful cruelty skilled bow hand wonderer of the moon and stars unshakeable calm and confidence not easily won
LADY ARRYN who is unbent and unyielding, a force to be reckoned with. she is stoic in the face, not even flinching when she watched her first moon door death at the age of six. lady arryn’s parents are proud in her fearlessness, priding themselves on the fact that their child isn’t easily swayed.
LADY ARRYN who is cold and detached, not harbouring many friends. her only companions are her pet falcon blueberry, and her pet horse midnight. she rides with the wind in her hair, tromping around the eyrie with a motionless face and striking down anyone who dares challenges her with her tongue.
LADY ARRYN who has no intention of finding a husband. she is just fine on her own, never wanting to leave the eyrie and be tied down to some fat lord who only expects her to squeeze out heirs. she’s her own person, and the last thing she’d ever want is to be shackled to some man.
LADY ARRYN who is the object of many men’s desires, a striking beauty of sleek embroidered gowns and poised perfection. every feast she goes to, there is a lineup of men begging to have a dance with her. she says yes, but she spends most of the time pushing them away, trying her best to make herself seem as undesirable as possible. again, she doesn’t want a husband, but solitude.
LADY ARRYN who sees love as foolish, something that weakens your heart and leaves you unguarded. she doesn’t yearn for it until it’s approaching her in the most uncomely of situations, a tidal wave that knocks her off balance and shocks her to her core.
LADY ARRYN IN HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
she is the sister of jeyne arryn, a cold figure that haunts the eyrie. most call her the ghost of the vale, a looming shadow that floats around with a detached grace most can’t muster. most of her time is spent riding her horse, playing with her pet falcon, reading, or hunting. she doesn’t indulge in careless courting or political squabbles, for she has her sister as the sculpture placed out front for viewers to gawk at. when the dance begins, she has no care to declare a side, leaving jeyne to make the decision for house arryn and the eyrie in nature. it doesn’t take long for three princes, a knight, and a lord to catch onto the enigma that is lady arryn, all trying to vie for her attention.
LADY ARRYN IN A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS
she is the youngest daughter of the lord of the eyrie, a detached figure who spends most of her time riding around the mountains and hills of the vale then courting noble boys. when the tourney of ashford comes up, she begs her father to let her stay home, regarding the whole thing as some silly excuse for knights to show off their stupid skills. in the end, she is forced to go, dreading every second she is in the reach. she misses being up high, in the clouds and away from people. lady arryn was never a chatty or lively person, so when she catches the eye of three targaryen princes, it comes as a shock to her.
MOSTLY PAIRED WITH
aegon ii targaryen aemond targaryen aerion targaryen
valko feels like his cock is about to break and fall off from his lower abdomen. you were riding him non stop for hours now since he came home from his research facility.
he doesn’t quite understand why you’re suddenly all over him when he reached the front door, whining and begging for his cock.
“i’m ovulating, val… need your cock- fuck, i need your cock inside me, please?”
ovulating? he had heard of that term before, but he wasn’t really familiar with it. to be fair, he wasn’t familiar with human’s biology overall. he knows the basics, like how female humans have menstrual cycles, where blood is released from your uterus. god, his heart honestly wrecked at the thought of you and women going through that!
well, that’s probably it. ovulation? he knows that’s when you’re at the highest chance of pregnancy. but he remembered learning more about what it was through social media. there were thousands of posts from women who shared their experiences, saying ovulation is basically going into heat. valko was doubtful, can this ‘ovulating’ really send women the same way as going into heat?
he shouldn’t really be doubting. now that he had witnessed you ovulating, he was sure- no, he was confident that your ovulation is worse than female wolves when they’re in heat.
you were jumping on him the moment he was home, asking and begging for his stupid cock. valko, as stupid as his cock, immediately giving in, carrying and bringing your smaller figure to your shared bedroom, not knowing what is about to happen to him.
you’ve been riding his cock for hours now, never a second did you feel worn-out.
“you feel so good, valko… mmhm! cock so good..! m-more… more…” you whimpered as you shifted your hips up and down where his large cock met your spot. his cock is so huge, you love the way you struggled to make it move past your gummy walls, where it keeps on clenching around him.
valko could only lay there, large hands gripping on your hips to keep you stable on his cock, as he took what you gave him. he had been edging himself, he wouldn’t want to risk knotting you at this time. he hides his raspy groans by biting onto your neck when your walls keep clenching around him.
“pup- you can’t do that…! i can’t last- mmhm! i can’t hold myself if you keep clenching…!” valko’s voice came out in a high pitched, making it sound like a whine.
“c-cum in me..! p-please… please, valko! n-need it, need your cum! i want your cum! i need your knot! knot me- mmhm! knot me, valko…!” your pace got quicker, bouncing on his cock, whining at his size abusing and bruising your cunt.
valko whined, he held you in place, slowing you down which makes you whine in return.
“n-no don’t stop. p-please? need your cum…! knot me, valko… please- mmhm! s-so big..!” you ignored his hard grip, still trying to ride on his cock.
“fuck… pup, please… i- ngh… don’t tempt me… we don’t want you pregnant with my cubs when you’re not sure and ready…” he swear he’s trying so hard not to bust right there and then. he’s trying so hard to be good. he knows you’re not entirely ready and only wants it to get off your high. but you’re making it so damn difficult.
“d-don’t care…! just want your cum! please… please, baby, i want to have your cubs…! get me pregnant? p-please knot me- mmhm!” your words get cut off from sudden thrust from valko’s hips.
valko couldn’t hold back anymore.
“you want it so bad, pup. then take it. i will give it to you.” he growled as he continued his animalistic thrust, cock basically splitting you open, making you look like a toy for him to play and manhandle.
your mouth opened at the feeling of his base swelling, locking him deep inside you, giving you what have you been begging for.
“good girl… so- so tight! mine, mine, mine. so pretty, my mate, only mine. so good for me…” it was overwhelming as you cried out, eyes glazed over. your mind is foggy, you couldn’t really tell what’s happening.
you could feel your body goes limp, but valko was quick to hold you back, grabbing you by the waist and pulling your frame close to his.
he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your aftermath scent. he gave it small kisses, before his eyes moved up to meet your warm gaze. as bright as the sun, he gave you a soft smile, kissing your glowy cheek.
“mine, my mate. all mine.”
valko’s big fat knot… 🤤
𑣲⋆｡˚ please do not copy my work, repost or feed it into ai!
♡.. the 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓'𝐒 favourite pass-time after a gruelling mission? medical malpractice with his shy slutty nurse!
𝓒w. f. reader ⋮ smut ⋮ public sex ⋮ dirty-talk ⋮ panty fetish ⋮ humping ⋮ clit play ⋮ thigh fucking ⋮ size difference ⋮ slight asphyxiation ⋮ spanking
𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻'𝑺 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑺𝑬 than fucking your nurse fresh off of a mission?
… Uh. Not fucking your nurse?
In Satoru's defence, this was your fault. With those soft hands, those concerned eyes. And if you both really boiled it down to technicalities— who was the one who spotted the lil' tent in his pants?
That's right. Little Miss Pink Panties.
"Fuck these are cute." A sly finger coiled around the waistband, snapping it back into your angel skin.
Your stiffled whine was cuter. But what took the cake were your shaky knees.
You're pressed to the white infirmary wall. Pale uniform dress hiking with his large, mischievous hand feeling up your ass. Thumbing on the cleft.
"Satoru you're injured."
"And you're so wet."
He emphasised your squeak with a firm grind of his hips. Nursing the tent in his black pants.
Six eyes never lied, and right now? Your body was confessing all her nasty desires.
"Don't think I miss those damp thighs, sweetheart. Making a pretty mess for me, eh?"
The hand snakes around you, two fingers tracing your panties. Dancing right above your clit. His towering body flushed into yours. Wrapping you in his warmth, his scent, the all-consuming prowess of the Strongest's cursed energy.
Impatience urged him to unbuckle his belt. Using his other hand to nudge his already-leaking cock from his boxers, he occupied his fingers with the hot throbs of your clit.
Oh. Now that was a cute sound.
Satoru's blues dilated behind his blindfold. Wounds long forgotten. Lost in the sight of your pretty ass swaying back into him.
His digits stroked down. Tracing the outline of your swollen cunt. "Heh. Look at you. Takin' advantage of the injured?"
"You—" your indignant gasp widened his grin. "You started this!"
"Actually, these pretty panties did…" toying with the edge, he hummed. "After all, you were the one who bent over."
You huffed. He felt it against his chest.
"Pervert."
"Yeah?"
Cunning teeth traced your ear. Grinning into its warm fluster.
"Your the one twitching that cute lil' clit."
Fingers pinched. Tugging on the bud.
He used your jolt to his advantage. Timing the momentum to easily slip his cock between your thighs. The smooth glide over his pulsing veins scraped a hiss from the back of his throat.
Warm. Wet. Seeping into him and melting his mind to mush. Fuck. And he's the sinner here?
Your palms flattened on the wall. He watched your nails dig into it. Clawing as he found the perfect pace for a slow, nasty grind. Squishing your ass into his powerful hips and smearing your panties in slick.
Lace formed the perfect friction. Combined with your wetness to stir him into a slow rock. Cock sliding in-and-out, in-and-out. Gliding through the velvet of your thighs.
Hands wandered. One cupped your breast, thumbed on your perking nipple through that white dress that now looked too tight.
It was amusing, watching you try to decide whether to push into his palm on arch back into his dick.
"Getting desperate for it eh? What a slutty nurse we got here." Satoru's laugh was infuriatingly handsome. Deep, rich and dripping with sin as he dropped a hand to your panties, slipped them to the side.
His cock tucked into the fabric, heavy and throbbing into your swollen flesh. A ragged breath fanned above your scalp. Emphasising your drastic size difference.
"Fuck."
Dark shoes nudged under your heels, pushing you further onto your tippy toes. Squishing you flushed into him. Into the heat of his swollen cock ground eagerly between your thighs. "Mm. Think you're doing an amazing job. Can't feel a fucking thing other than this pretty pussy."
A sharp spank clapped through the quiet room. Joined by his hushed grunts and your whined moans. Each time he drove forward, your pelvis pressed further into the wall. Effectively trapping you between a literal rock and hard place. The cold chill of the sterile white— and the all-consuming heat pouring from his strong body.
Pulsing to the beat of your clit, Satoru's dick slotted between your folds. Rolling over the bud and stringing a sticky mess all over. Some gooped down your thighs. Dripped to the floor in a filthy puddle. .
When your moans stuttered louder, a hand slapped over your mouth. Suffocating you on his infuriatingly soft palm as he shoved the back of your head into his chest. Urging the perfect arch for his hips to smack just right against your ass.
Plap.
Plap.
Plap!
"Sshhh baby. This pussy's gonna send you to HR. That what you want?" His breath husked your ear. Cock strokes maddening to your spasming nerves.
"Medical malpractice with the Strongest? Oh imagine the gossip."
"Toru— hngh."
"Oh? That excite you?"
Another spank! His hand squeezed against your pitiful moan. Muffling your sweet calls of his name. Dancing that tender line of asphyxiation. All the better for him. He wanted you dizzy. Cross-eyed. Focused on nothing but his thick cock fucking your pretty thighs.
Panties smeared and messy, webbed in pre and your slippery pussy. Making his grinds all the nastier. "In that what're we waiting for?"
He husked, dragging his tip to your leaky slit. A thumb slipped down to spread it open, trickle your slick.
His voice rumbled. Drawling to your ear in that spine-shivering whisper.
"Maybe I should bully this sweet cunt here and now. Consider it…"
Big hands squished your thighs tight as he drove between your them. Amping the pressure into a dizzying sensation of his cock meshing on your trembling clit. All while you hiccuped and scrambled. Pressed to the wall and used by the Honoured One.
He chewed on your earlobe. Antagonising a shaky orgasm right out of you. And while your legs trembled and you croaked out his name, he cooed.
"Vital for my wellbeing. Now— pull those panties to the side for me."
summary: in which you propose a sex ban to the lads boys.
ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb & valko
notes: MDNI / NSFW (obvi), xavier’s a little greedy, zayne is barely surviving, rafayel Isn’t Surviving, sylus is an ass (lovingly), caleb is ridiculous, valko is just silly. no explicit mentions of gender (!!!), mentions of sex/sexual acts. brief mention of murder (guess who), and that’s it (i think)
p.s. valko is becoming my muse so his is unintentionally longer than the others…he speaks to me like sin to a sinner…yum…
a/n: i’ve unfortunately gotten back into hsr and have finally started wuwa and i cannot stop thinking about how predictable i am. my mains are just like caleb + valko and it’s obscene. my greed is neverending. beside myself with disgust at my desire (kidding) (i don’t rlly care it’s just silly)…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)
summary: tired of your partners being unable to keep up with your high libido during your heats, you turn to an online matchmaking service for hybrids in-cycle. when the algorithm pairs you with a gorgeous wolf hybrid boasting a 98.6% compatibility match between you, your prey instincts scream in protest, but his predator stamina may prove to be exactly what you've been looking for
Ding! The sudden digital chime cut through the quiet of your room. Your laptop was still glowing with the homepage of KnotAlone, a matching service for hybrids entering their cycles. Even now, your cheeks burned thinking of the exhaustive questionnaire you’d submitted— specifically the humiliating admission that even other rabbit hybrids didn’t satisfy your libido.
You dropped what you were doing immediately in favor of eagerly reading the match report. “Valko Ao,” you read slowly, scrolling down the profile that the website claimed you had a 98.6% compatibility match with.
Your eyebrows shot to your hairline. Not only were you compatible, but numbers like that usually indicated an ideal mate. There was just one glaring concern on his profile: he was a wolf hybrid.
Your inner prey instincts shrieked in protest. Yet, as you stared at the attached photo, your throat went dry. With his sharp jawline, striking eyes, and furry burgundy ears poking through his hair, the man was undeniably gorgeous.
Worse, his profile had a warning listed: Lupine genes present extreme rut cycles. Past cycles managed via pharmaceuticals due to high stamina projections.
So, he’s never had a partner, you thought. A pent-up predator didn’t bode well, especially not to a bunny. Even so, according to the warning, he had the exact untapped reservoir of energy that you needed to get through your insatiable heats. It certainly didn’t hurt that he was breathtakingly easy on the eyes.
A sudden, sharp throb low in your belly shattered your hesitation. The early waves of your heat were beginning to roll in, warming your skin and sending a restless twitch through your elongated ears. You didn’t have the luxury of time, especially not to second-guess the man that, admittedly, exacerbated the effects of your impending heat.
Shifting your finger across the touchpad of your laptop, you slammed the Accept Pairing button before the more logical side of your brain could talk you out of it.
In an instant, the screen flashed with a bold, celebratory notification: MATCH CONFIRMED!
A soft gasp escaped your lips. He had already accepted. Before your mind could fully process that little fact, a new interface slid into view.
KnotAlone Chatroom: Valko and You
The text bubble at the bottom of the screen was already bouncing, the three dots doing their usual rhythmic dance before disappearing, replaced by a message that was surprisingly warm for an apex predator.
Valko Ao: Hello! So glad you accepted the match. To be honest, I was worried my profile statistics would scare people off.
You blinked at the screen, intrigued. His message was devoid of the growling dominance and arrogance you had come to expect from predator hybrids. Another message came through before you formulated a response.
Valko Ao: Your profile mentioned needing someone who can match your stamina, right? That works out perfectly. My doctors always insisted that my rut cycles are too intense for a standard pairing, so I’ve just been using suppressants up until now. I’d love to help you through your heat if you’ll have me. When does your cycle start?”
You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard as a flush crawled up your neck. It was one thing to fill out personal info on a questionnaire, but it was another to openly share with another person.
You: within the next two days at least. Already feeling the warning signs :/
Valko Ao: that’s fine! I can clear my schedule right away.
His easy, accommodating response did wonders for your nerves. Over the next two days, the anticipated dread of your impending heat transformed into something entirely different. Valko texted you constantly, sending jokes, asking about your personal preferences and hobbies, and sharing bits of his own life. By the time the warning signs had become full-blown symptoms, you found that you were genuinely excited to meet him, even if the circumstances weren’t the most ideal.
You woke on the third morning drenched in sweat, your skin hypersensitive to every little touch. Your panties were already soaked and sticking to your swollen folds. It was pitiful, really, how quickly you were made a slave to your own biology, no more able to fight it than you were able to count the stars in the sky.
With a shaky hand, you reached for your phone on the nightstand, shooting Valko a simple text, followed by your address.
You: I need you
He replied almost instantly, informing you that he was on his way. With a groan, you dropped your phone onto the bed, curling into yourself and wishing you could sleep away the scorching need coursing through your body. It felt like mere minutes had passed when a knock echoed through your apartment.
You stumbled from your bed to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open to see Valko standing in the hallway, his ears twitching almost nervously. Before he could even say hello, he froze. The combination of seeing you in such a vulnerable state and smelling the sweet, heady scent that seeped from your apartment had rendered him speechless, his mouth watering and his cock already hardening in his pants.
He swallowed thickly. For a fraction of a second, Valko tried to hold onto his manners, but the more of you he inhaled, the more he felt like a wolf rather than a man. He opened his mouth to greet you, fighting every urge to pin you to the wall of the entryway and take you there, but his throat constricted and his body locked up.
You could see in the rigid set of his posture that he was at least trying to be a gentleman, but you didn’t want a gentleman at the moment. You needed him rough, and you needed him now.
While he was still trying to pull himself together in the doorway, you tugged him in by the fabric of his shirt, the door slamming closed behind him. He stumbled forward, his polite composure crumbling to dust under your touch. You practically dragged him through your apartment to your bedroom, and his hand hovered over your waist.
“I’m Valko,” he finally managed, his voice raspy as his eyes locked onto the way you were already pulling your shirt over your head.
You giggled at that, and Valko thought it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard.
“I sure hope so.” He flushed, embarrassment crawling up his spine. Obviously you knew who he was. You wouldn’t have let him in otherwise. He blamed it on your intoxicating scent. It was muddling his brain and making it impossible to focus on anything that wasn’t you. You, who was now wrapping your arms around his shoulders and mouthing at his neck, pressing your body flush against his.
Before he could even think, his strong arms landed on your hips, pushing you back slightly to make space. You pouted, and he suddenly felt like a world-class villain.
“Easy, sweetheart. I’m gonna help you,” he soothed, pushing you backwards until the bed hit the back of your knees. You fell onto the plush on the mattress, bouncing slightly. Your breath quickened. Through the haze of your arousal, you were vaguely aware that you had invited a predator into your home. You were also acutely aware that even the worst of your heat cycles had never affected you as much as the hulking man that was guiding your pliant body to lie against the pillows.
“So pretty,” he murmured, his hands ghosting over your bare skin, his fingertips skimming the lacy fabric of your bra. It was almost painful, the way his cock was straining against his pants.
You placed your hand atop his, guiding it to cup your breast. “You don’t have to be sweet, you know?”
He locked eyes with you, searching for any hesitation or reservations, and found none, only pure want and need. He surged forward, capturing your lips with his. It was messy, all teeth and tongue and unrestrained instinct.
You arched your body into his, your hips grinding against the bulge in his slacks. He groaned into the kiss, his hands shooting down to hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling both down in one firm tug. Your bra followed shortly after, leaving you entirely bare beneath him. God, you were a fucking vision.
The whimper he let out was pathetic, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when a pretty little bunny was completely offering herself to him. Your hands were everywhere, sliding beneath his shirt, stroking his ears, palming his leaking cock. Wherever you could reach.
He reluctantly pulled away from you once more, just long enough to strip his own clothing. His impressive build had you salivating, and your weeping pussy clenched around nothing in anticipation as he resumed his spot above you, your legs on either side of his hips.
“Please, Valko, please I need you,” you practically sobbed, staring up at him with watery eyes. Valko’s heart thundered in his chest, a possessive pang shooting through his chest.
It was too much. Your desperate pleading, your legs spread for him, your cunt on display just for him. It was maddening. He lined himself up with your pulsing hole, and you keened, eager to finally be filled, pushing your hips up to force him deeper.
You were dripping, his thick cock stretching you with ease as he sunk all the way to the hilt. You moaned loudly, your fingers clawing into the sheets. He was so big you swore you could feel him in your throat.
“So tight,” he groaned deeply, nearly growling. He was already panting and he’d only just begun. “You feel so— ngh—good.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him into you like you never wanted him to leave. “More, Valko, pleasepleaseplease,” you begged, urging him to move, to touch you, anything that would quell the wanton need that radiated from your core.
His hips snapped into yours, the blunt head of his cock molding your insides around him. It took everything he had not to cum prematurely. Your pussy gripped him like a vice, and he was sure this was as close to heaven as a man could get.
The delicious drag of his cock had you beyond words, only able to cry out with pleasure every time his hips met yours. Your breath was ragged as he pounded into your slick hole, and your fingernails left red claw marks on his shoulders that he would later marvel at in the mirror.
“So perfect,” Valko breathed. “Made just for me.” His face was flushed a magnificent shade of his red, and his eyes were heavily lidded, drawn to the juncture where your bodies met, your slick leaking around his cock and soaking the bedsheets.
You cried out his name, the edge of pleasure so tantalizingly close. His name fell from your lips like a mantra, spurring him on, his thrusts losing their rhythm and becoming frantic. He was already swelling at the base, but he’d be damned if he embarrassed himself and finished before you. Inexperienced though he was, he wasn’t a total prude.
He brought his thumb to circle your neglected clit, sending pleasure shooting up your spine. You squealed, arching into his touch, your pussy spasming tightly around him as your vision went white.
Valko gasped, his own release overtaking him. Hot spurts of cum flooded your fluttering walls, and his swollen knot kept it all plugged snugly inside you and kept you connected to each other.
Your vision was hazy, and for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, you actually felt sated, at least for the time being until your body again demanded more of him.
Quiet settled over the room, save for the twin sounds of your heavy breaths. Valko grinned broadly, a chuckle rumbling through his chest as he dropped his forehead onto yours, nuzzling his nose against your face. Behind him, his heavy tail thumped against the mattress.
It was comforting to be wrapped in such strong arms and taken care of, but the peace was short-lived; your body, in its current state, was already squirming beneath him for friction.
Valko groaned deeply, still sensitive from his release only minutes prior, but the thick smell of your pheromones was pulling him into renewed lust right along with you.
Whether it was with your knees pressed to your chest, from behind where he could watch your cute little tail twitch, or holding you on his lap to fuck up into you, he couldn't get enough of you or the sinful sounds you made when he was buried deep inside you. It was hours before he collapsed onto the bed beside you, his cum dripping down your thighs and a satisfied grin on his face as he took in how thoroughly wrecked you looked all because of him.
As your breathing finally slowed, Valko pulled you into his embrace, clawed fingers stroking up and down your back soothingly. “Are you okay? Was that alright?” he asked, his voice rough and vibrating against your skin.
“I’m perfect,” you rasped, burying your face in his chest, your heart swelling at his genuine care. “Better than perfect. I can see why your profile had a warning on it,” you laughed, recalling the words of caution on his profile.
He let out a soft, pleased sound, his arms tightening around you as if he had absolutely no intention of leaving the bed—or your life—anytime soon. It was like your scent had completely rewired the primitive part of his brain, the part that was now claiming you as his own despite the brief acquaintance. Though, to be fair, you had done more than what typical acquaintances do. He didn't think he could be satisfied being just your heat partner.
A flush crawled up his neck as he debated with himself, his wolf ears twitching nervously, but there was no time like the present. “That’s good. I’m glad I didn't disappoint.” He hesitated, the words he truly wanted to say sticking in his throat. It didn't help that you were looking up at him with wide, inquisitive eyes. Now that his more animalistic side had been satisfied and your scent wasn't sending him into a frenzy, he could take the time to admire just how delicate your features were.
“I know we still have a few days left to get through, and I’m not going anywhere, but when this is over, would you want to go on a proper date with me?”
His words had barely even registered before a bright smile lit up your face, and sweet giggles spilled from your lips. You nodded, your long ears shifting with the movement.
Valko grinned widely, his sharp teeth on display, both relieved and overjoyed that this had the potential to become more than just a means to satisfy your respective biological instincts. A playful glint flashed in his eyes as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, already planning where to take you. His mind filled with images of you—dressed up all pretty and soft and entirely his.
Sinopsis: Born without a title or noble name, you never expected to become Gwayne Hightower’s wife—or to raise Prince Daeron as your own son. But when war threatens the family you built together, promises, bloodlines, and loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
Warnings: Violence, forced participation in war, emotional abuse, physical intimidation, classism, misogyny
WC: 2,610 words approx.
Your hands smooth down your dress again and again, as though doing so could calm the trembling you feel inside. Your eyes remain lost upon the stone wall before you, cold and grey, just like this room that is not your home. You no longer clench your fists as you once did, but your fingers still tremble faintly as you run the fabric of the dress between them. You have been waiting for a long time, far too long. Gwayne should have arrived by now. Every night, when the sun disappears and everything falls silent, you whisper his name into the darkness, as though speaking it could make him appear, as though the words themselves possessed the power to bring him back to your side. But he does not return, and the fear grows within your chest like a weed you cannot tear out.
You remember when it all began, when Otto Hightower learned that Gwayne wished to marry you. It was a scandal that spread through every corner of the stronghold. Of course, you were nothing more than the daughter of an ordinary peasant woman, with no lands, no important family name, and no wealth to offer. And carrying the Hightower name after marrying him was almost an insult to them, something shameful they whispered about behind your back. But in the end, it was not quite so important, because Gwayne was the youngest of the family, the second son, the one who, according to the laws of the realm, had practically lost his importance from the moment he was born. He would inherit neither lands nor great titles, so if he married whomever he wished while continuing his training as a knight of the realm, there would not truly be a problem. And so Gwayne did it. He took you as his wife and, at the same time, became a knight, fulfilling both his dream and yours.
You remember that day clearly, as though it had been yesterday. Queen Alicent had left her youngest son, Daeron, with the Hightower family. Gwayne took him into his arms and looked at you, and in that instant, you understood everything without him having to say a single word.
“He is so small,” Gwayne said, holding him carefully and bringing him closer to you with a tenderness that made you smile.
You looked at him curiously, watching the baby who could barely open his eyes, and an unavoidable smile escaped you before you could stop it. “He has the Hightower name written all over him,” you whispered, pointing toward the small emblem on the blanket wrapped around him.
“Well, he was left with the greatest recognition a Targaryen can receive,” Gwayne admitted, before pointing toward the dragon egg that had been left beside the child, unhatched, cold and grey like a stone. “Father wants to send him far away so that he may be raised as a warrior.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, as though he were sharing a secret. You lifted your gaze to meet his green eyes. “The same fate he chose for me,” he whispered.
“I can care for him,” you said, looking directly at him as you felt your hands longing to reach for the little one. “Having a child now is… well, your father believes it is not the right time. He has warned us many times, but with Daeron, we can… be that for him.” Your words emerged in a whisper, filled with hope and fear alike. “We can be his parents and give him the love he might not receive elsewhere.”
Your husband’s green eyes looked at you with a light you had never seen before, and he slowly nodded. “Although Alicent might someday… claim him,” he whispered, watching you with concern as he held the child with only one arm, while his other hand moved aside the brown hair that had fallen rebelliously across your face. When he tucked that strand behind your ear, his hand caressed your cheek with such gentleness that you closed your eyes for a moment, and then he tenderly lifted your chin so that you would look at him. “If we become attached…” He left the sentence unfinished, but you knew what he meant.
“You will have to do whatever the queen commands,” you said as you looked at him, feeling the weight of those words settle within your heart. But he shook his head.
“I would never take something away from my wife,” he said firmly, although his voice trembled slightly. “Least of all if doing so would make her suffer. I would stand against the Seven Kingdoms if they tried to take Daeron from us.” His hand tightened around yours, as though he wanted to make certain that you understood what he was saying.
“She has three children, Gwayne,” you said, remembering the other Targaryen children. “Making him grow up as though he had been forgotten would be… a miserable life, and he does not deserve a miserable life.” You moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body near yours. “We must give him a real family.”
And so he remained with you. Throughout all those years, you were always honest with the little boy who grew up as your son. You reminded him that his true parents were Alicent and King Viserys, because you believed it was only fair for him to know the truth, but you also told him that, to both of you, he was your only son, the most important one, the child who had entered your lives and filled them with joy.
But one night, when Daeron was eight years old, he asked you a question that broke your heart. He was preparing to sleep, his small head resting against the pillow and his large eyes looking at you solemnly.
“And when you have children,” Daeron asked in a calm voice, though there was a faint tremor beneath it, “will you remove me from your lives as well?” His fingers played with the edge of the blanket as he waited for your answer.
“No, never,” you told him, settling him into bed and carefully tucking him beneath the covers. “When we have children, they will be your siblings, because you are my son, my first, and your father loves you just as much as I do.” You gently stroked his hair. “It does not matter if they claim you. I will be there no matter what happens, always, because you are mine, and nothing will ever change that.”
And you kept that promise, even when war began in King’s Landing and everything changed. That night, Gwayne told you in a low, trembling voice, while your hands began to shake uncontrollably.
“Why now?” you whispered fearfully, feeling as though the ground were shifting beneath your feet. “Why does it have to be now?”
Gwayne knew it was the worst possible moment. Daeron was already a sixteen-year-old adolescent, a young man who loved the peaceful life you had given him, who spent his days caring for his younger brother Tyland, the child who had been born with the same red hair as a Hightower, just like Gwayne’s. That was enough for Daeron to truly love his family, because neither you nor Gwayne had ever drawn a distinction between your sons. Despite everything, Daeron carried Targaryen blood, and in that war, both of you knew what would come if someone claimed him.
“It is… I need to fight so that I may return to you,” Gwayne said, cradling your cheek between his large, warm hands. His fingers caressed your skin as though they wished to memorise every part of your face. “My sons and my wife are in danger. If Daeron is claimed in this war, I cannot imagine it. I cannot bear the thought of losing him or of someone using him.” His voice broke slightly, but he continued speaking. “But I will return. I always return. A knight never lies, and no matter where I may be, I will never dishonour my wife or my family.”
“Will you go with Ser Cole?” you asked, feeling the knot tighten in your throat. “The same man who never tires of insulting any woman who crosses his path.” You remembered the times you had heard his cruel words, the way he spoke of women as though they were lesser than men.
Gwayne shook his head, and his green eyes looked upon you with love. “Your husband is different, is he not? Have I not shown you, time and time again, that I am yours?” His fingers intertwined with your own. “Give me your trust once more, and I will return to you. I swear it by the Seven Gods.”
But the war caught up with Daeron, with you, and with little Tyland. One night, when you thought Gwayne had returned, Lord Ormund arrived at your home with his men and walked inside as though the lands belonged to him. You watched him from the doorway, feeling your heart begin to race with fear.
“The boy is coming with me,” Ormund said without any further preamble, looking you up and down as though you were nothing more than an ordinary servant. His voice was harsh and left no room for argument. Your body shuddered at those words, and your hands clung to the doorframe to keep yourself from falling.
“Daeron will not take part in that war,” you said in a voice firmer than you had believed yourself capable of, but Ormund laughed in your face, a cold laugh that froze your blood.
“This is what happens when too much power is given to a simple peasant woman,” he said, gripping your chin forcefully and pulling you closer until you could feel his breath against your face. “You are nothing before me. Now tell Daeron that he will fight for his family. I am going to begin cleansing him of that foolishness about you being his mother, because you are not. You never have been.”
“We never lied to him about where he came from,” you said with difficulty, feeling his fingers pressing into your skin. “If he sees me as his mother, it is because I did what Alicent could not. I gave him love and care. I raised him as though he were my own blood.”
Ormund smiled, but it was not a kind smile. That was when you heard Daeron’s voice behind you.
“Mother?” he asked, and then his tone changed when he saw Ormund. “Lord Ormund,” he said at once, his body going rigid.
Ormund released your chin and turned toward him with a triumphant smile. “I see that they have at least taught you some manners,” he said sarcastically. “We are going to war. Everything has already been prepared, and you will even bring that beast from outside.” He spoke of the dragon with disgust, as though it were an irritating animal rather than a powerful creature.
You looked at him, and you knew that Daeron would always protect you, no matter what. It was what Gwayne had taught him: to care for his family, to remain loyal, and never to abandon those he loved. But he was also your son, and fear ran through your entire body at the thought of what might happen to him.
Then your gaze returned to the present. You were in a room that was not yours, in Bitterbridge, which was nothing compared to your home. The walls were made of cold stone, the room itself was cold, and Tyland slept in the bed, the younger of your two sons, his dishevelled red hair spread across the pillow. Ormund had taken you with them. He had dragged you into the small encampment houses they had prepared for the war. Because, of course, he had to make certain that he would meet Gwayne despite everything, and if he kept you with him, then it was more than obvious that Gwayne would come. He always did. He always came looking for you, no matter how far away you were.
Your hands tightened over your dress as the memory of those days returned to your mind like a cold wave. You had been unable to protect Daeron, and that weighed on you more heavily than anything else. You had argued with Ormund so many times that you had already lost count. The first time was when he forbade Daeron from flying with his dragon, claiming it was a waste of time and that the boy needed to remain close to the ground like any ordinary soldier. The second was when he ordered the men in his army to shout at a group of defenceless civilians merely to frighten them, and you tried to intervene. But the worst of all was when he forced your boy, your Daeron, to kill an innocent man with his own hands. That day, you had tried to reach him, to run toward him and stop it, but Ormund seized your wrist with such force that you cried out.
“You cannot make him do that. He is only a child,” you said desperately, feeling tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watched Daeron holding the sword, his hands trembling, looking at you with fear and confusion. His pale face broke your heart.
“It is none of your concern,” Ormund whispered with a cold smile, because of course he would not speak poorly of you while Daeron and his dragon were both in the same place. He knew the boy defended you, and that irritated him more than he wished to admit. “Servants do not interfere where they have not been summoned. You are not his mother. He was born for a greater role.” His voice became poisonous as he continued. “Besides, I need to make certain that your husband is still alive. Otherwise, I will decide what is to be done with you and your child.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you felt the pain all the way to the bone. “Now leave,” he ordered, and his men dragged you out of the hall while you could do nothing but look back and see Daeron with fear filling his eyes.
The mere memory of those days made several tears slip down your face now as you sat in that cold room. But then the door opened with a quiet creak, and you heard a voice you knew better than your own.
“Mother,” Daeron’s voice whispered, and you quickly wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, not wanting him to see you like this. You rose from the chair and looked at him, trying to appear strong.
“Yes?” you asked, straightening your dress and smoothing it down with your still-trembling hands. “We agreed that you cannot call me that here. I am your aunt,” you reminded him, looking directly at him and hoping no one else had heard. He slowly nodded, understanding the danger.
“Father has returned,” he whispered excitedly, and his eyes lit up in a way that reminded you of when he had been only a small child.
“Thank the gods,” you said with emotion, feeling the weight in your chest ease slightly. You looked toward the bed where Tyland slept and thought about how you would wake him to tell him that his father had returned.
But before you could leave to search for him, footsteps echoed through the corridor. Daeron immediately straightened, his body tense like a drawn bow, but when he saw Gwayne enter through the doorway, he relaxed completely. Your eyes fixed upon your husband, and your heart lurched.
“You look dreadful,” you whispered, taking in his filthy clothes, his dishevelled hair, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. But he approached you without caring about any of it, as though he had gone years without seeing you.
Gwayne cradled your cheeks between his large, warm hands and looked at you as though he were committing every part of your face to memory. He tilted your neck slightly so that he could see you better, and then took your hands in his. Daeron, who had been watching, did not understand his father’s actions until his eyes followed Gwayne’s gaze and landed upon the dark bruise around your wrist, the one Ormund had left days earlier when he had gripped you with such force.
“Did he do something to you?” Gwayne asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. But you shook your head, trying to make it seem unimportant. “Daeron, did Ormund do anything to your mother?” he asked his son without taking his eyes off you.
“No, Father,” Daeron replied quickly, but then corrected himself as you had taught him. “Uncle,” he whispered, lowering his gaze.
Gwayne clenched his jaw, and fire burned within his green eyes. “If he did anything to you—if he did anything to any of you—I will not hesitate to slit his throat,” he said with a calmness far more frightening than any shouting could have been.
“He did nothing to me,” you said, and he nodded, though he did not appear convinced.
Then he embraced you, and you felt his body against yours, the scent of sweat and earth clinging to him, and the beating of his heart against your own. “I know I smell awful,” he said with a tired laugh, “but I spent so many nights dreaming of holding my wife again.” His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you clung to him as though he were your only lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.
Daeron smiled nervously as he watched his parents embrace, but his smile faded when he spoke. “You are not going to leave us, are you, Father?” he whispered in such a small voice that both of you turned to look at him. His large, frightened eyes reminded you of when he had been an eight-year-old boy asking whether you would abandon him.
Gwayne slowly released you and looked first at you, then at Daeron. “I need to think about what we should do,” he said seriously. “He is their most valuable piece. You know that, do you not?” he asked you, referring to the way Ormund used Daeron as his most valuable weapon.
“He made that perfectly clear,” you said, feeling a knot tighten in your throat. “Perhaps he can escape from here with Tessarion,” you added, looking at Daeron. “And we can flee by land. Rhaenyra is queen now, and I know it will not be long before they come here.” Your voice trembled slightly as you said it, because you knew danger lurked around every corner.
“Then let us ask for forgiveness,” Daeron said, hope rising in his voice, but you shook your head, feeling the weight of reality pressing down upon you.
“Darling,” you said, taking his face between your hands, “they killed two of her children in the span of only a few months. They deceived her with a boy who was not you.” You remembered how they had used a false Daeron to deceive the queen, and a shiver ran down your spine. “Had they surrendered you alongside Daemon, Queen Rhaenyra would surely have forgiven us. But now she may believe that we are traitors.” Your fingers caressed his cheek as you watched him come to understand your words.
“We will get out of here,” Gwayne said with determination, looking at both of you. “I will do whatever it takes, but for now, we must be cautious around Ormund.” He looked directly at you, and his hand found yours. “Be prepared. We may have to leave at any moment. Daeron, study every possible escape route you could take with the dragon, and I will take care of your mother and your brother.”
Daeron nodded and then stepped closer to embrace you tightly. You could feel his body trembling slightly, and you wrapped your arms around him in return, pressing a kiss to his hair. Gwayne smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently. He had spent weeks believing that he would never see you again, that you had been lost to him forever. The fact that you were here against your will was a grave mistake on Ormund’s part. He believed that manipulating Daeron would allow him to control Gwayne, that holding you hostage would make him meek and obedient. But all he had truly accomplished was enraging a husband devoted in body and soul to his family—a man who would do anything to protect those he loved, regardless of the consequences.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, romance, cockwarming, pregnant sex, p what p, poor gwayne, his wife is a menace, domestic fluff, 18+ MDNI
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: in celebration of gwayne finally having a bath in hotd. don’t get me wrong, I would have 100% risked that STI for dirty Gwayne, but now we can all admire that pretty pale neck again….
anways! this is also a little thank you for the unexpected, wonderful reaction i received on my debut gwayne fic! this can be read as a continuation or a stand-alone.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 1.3k (oneshot)
You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.
Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.
Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.
You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.
Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.
So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.
“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.”
You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.
“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”
You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.
“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.
“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”
“The babe will be perfectly fine—"
“It is too much strain for you.”
He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”
You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”
“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”
You answered him by rolling your hips.
A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.
“Again, for me,” he rasped.
You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.
You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.
You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”
You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.
“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”
Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.
You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.
You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.
For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.
“That was shameless,” he murmured.
“Was it persuasive?”
Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.
“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”
You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.
He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.
“You have my blessing— provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain— however slight— you will stay with her and send for me.”
“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”
He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”
Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.
HOTD masterlist
@ange0o
if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)
summary: gwayne finally returns from the war after months away to claim you at last, only to find that you and ormund have grown far closer than he anticipated, and that his cousin has no intention of letting you go so easily. (13k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for emotional manipulation, mentions of ptsd, descriptions of blood and gore, s3ep6 spoilers, smut 18+ (MDNI): gwayne gets a much needed handjob, fem receiving oral
( PART ONE ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
vi. RUIN & RETURN
It had been six days since Gwayne’s letter arrived at camp; five since the Hightower host marched for Tumbleton; and one since you arrived within the ancient walls to wait.
Ormund had not allowed you to read it. He tossed the parchment into the hearth before you could so much as ask and promptly reached for his sword, unsheathing the steel with a strange air of control, right before a shout tore from his throat. He brought the blade down onto the war table hard enough to splinter the old wood. “Useless craven— Coward— Cunt!” he bellowed with every blow, until the ivory pieces sitting atop the map scattered to the floor like knocked-out teeth.
You stood on the far side of the tent, wrapped in your nightgown and still sticky with sex between the thighs, and watched the man lose all of his usual composure in the space of a single breath. Daeron stood just in front of you, not quite broad or tall enough to protect you from his uncle’s rage, but trying to shield you from it nonetheless.
With one final wavering exhale, Ormund sheathed his sword again and left it lying flat on the ruined table before him. His tense shoulders loosened as he raised a hand to swipe a rogue auburn curl from his brow. He turned to face you again with a much more careful, if only slightly unhinged, smile on his mouth.
“There has been no sight of Aemond,” he announced at last. “Nor Vhagar— We’ll have to proceed to Tumbleton on our own. Gwayne will meet us there in time.”
It was not joy alone that heavied your chest at the sound of his name. It was much closer to dread, which burned as it rose into your throat like bile — alongside something that should’ve felt like love but had since grown into something far more complicated in your last few moons as prisoner. You turned from him at once and shoved the tent flap aside just in time to exorcise your sickness onto the dewy grass below.
The dread did not leave with it, and neither did the guilt.
Now you sit at the long table of another manse’s dining hall, far humbler than that of the Red Keep but still a palace compared to the war tents, and watch the last of the orange sunrise die over the hills through the arched windows. Somewhere down that road, your husband rides towards you — alone and hunted and entirely unaware of what awaits him in these walls.
“You’ve hardly touched your supper,” Ormund says beneath the soft scrape of his knife as he cuts himself a slice of honeyed boar. Despite not having properly dined since the war began, he eats with a methodical sort of restraint. He takes small bites, chews each of them thoroughly, and doesn’t talk again until he swallows. “I’m not going to have to feed you myself again, am I?”
You miss the amusement dancing on the edge of his melodic voice with your attention fixed on the window, where the dark edge of the hill meets the violet sky. “I’m not hungry,” you answer distantly.
“Yes. You said as much yesterday as well,” Ormund sighs with all the exasperation of a man grown tired of losing his battles with you. “I’d have thought you might be glad to have a proper kitchen. With proper cooks. With proper food.”
His apathy cuts you like a blade, which has grown sharper and more frequent since the letter arrived at camp. It seemed to sever whatever spell had briefly held the two of you together before now; or otherwise shut something in Ormund that has not opened since he learned of his cousin’s imminent arrival.
“Well, forgive me, my lord,” you say with a voice as thin as Valyrian steel. “If my husband’s sudden return from the dead has rather spoiled my appetite.”
Ormund’s eyes snap up from his plate at once. They’re pale and unreadable and utterly void of the warmth you’d grown so accustomed to. When the blue of his eyes are warm, they’re like swimming in the languid blue of a summer sea. They carry none of that silken familiarity tonight.
“He is not dead yet," Ormund reminds you with his brows raised to his hairline. “So far as either of us knows, anyway.”
Yet. The word alone makes you flinch, though you cannot yet tell if he means it as cruelly as it feels. You find more and more these days that you can no longer tell the difference with him now.
“What am I to say to him?” you wonder suddenly aloud, as if the question had been building in your throat since you learned of Gwayne’s arrival. Your anxious hands twist in the charcoal-silver skirts borrowed from Lady Footly’s closet; a gift, Ormund called it, despite it not belonging to either of you. “When Gwayne arrives— what do I tell him? How am I meant to look at him?”
“You are his wife,” Ormund responds plainly, with one careless roll of his broad shoulders. “I suppose you’ll look at him as you always have.”
Your face screws with a choked-back anger. “That’s not an answer—”
“No. But it’s the only one I have.” He sets his fork and knife on the plate with a heavy clink and leans back in his chair. He tilts his chin upward to stare at you over the top of the glittering candles between you, ringed fingers fidgeting over the pale white cloth.
“I have an army to feed, men to protect, and walls to build before Rhaenyra’s dragonfire can swallow the castle whole,” he continues in a monotone. “Unfortunately, I no longer possess the luxury, or the patience, of coddling your guilt.”
His words burn red-hot through your chest, searing you like a brand. You flinch away from them as if he’d struck you physically, though it might’ve hurt less if he had. Your eyes sting as your throat tightens around all the words you want to fling back at him — perhaps that he had not seemed so burdened by you a week past, when his mouth was on you and his fingers were in you; that he had not been so burdened by your guilt all the weeks before that, when he swore your safety mattered to him above his cousin’s own claim to you.
But you swallow down the accusations now and throw your napkin onto your untouched plate instead. Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from the table in a rush of black and silver silk.
“Where are you going now?” Ormund huffs.
“For a walk,” you answer without looking back at him.
“You haven’t even touched your food,” he calls to your retreating figure, motioning to your uneaten plate with a ringed hand. His even voice begins to fray at the edges, “Sit down and eat—”
“Feed it to the hounds—”
“Sit!” His voice cracks through the room like thunder when your hand curls around the cold brass door handle. The sheer volume of his voice, the raw bite underneath it, roots you in place. Your head turns slowly to find the man glaring at you from his spot at the table, though the scowl on his chiseled features disappears just as quickly as it came on.
His eyes flutter shut as his broad chest inflates behind his emerald coat, with a slow breath in through his nose. You watch the man walk himself down from some invisible ledge — tense shoulders dropping, clenched fists easing, rough breaths coming easier again.
“I’m sorry…” Ormund says when he opens his eyes again. The light in the pale blue of his gaze has returned to him, you find, and so has the softness in his smile when he rises from his chair to meet you. “I am sorry, my love— I forget myself— This war has driven me half-mad, if you could not already tell.”
He exhales a faint laugh that you do not join him in. He crosses the distance between you in a few short strides, wide hands settling along the outsides of your elbows — warm, even through the thin sleeves of your gown. You peer up at him through your lashes, uncertain whether the tenderness he extends to you now is real or simply the version he’s allowing himself to show you.
“If ever I am… cross with you. Or short with you in any way— It is never because of you, understand?” Ormund confesses lowly, eyes darting back and forth between your weary ones. “It takes me a moment to remember myself, is all… You understand that, don’t you?”
You swallow hard and nod wordlessly in response, though what you most desperately want to tell him in that moment is that Gwayne had never been so cross with you. That not once in your moons of marriage had he so much as raised his voice at you or frightened you the way Ormund has in such short time. You want to say it if only to see it hurt him the way his words have hurt you. Instead, you say nothing.
“He does not have to know,” Ormund murmurs to you, thumbs brushing your arm in an absent, reassuring gesture. “Nothing occurred between us that was not asked of me. I gave you only what you wanted— Surely a man cannot be faulted for answering his summons.”
Your brows lower over your narrowed eyes. “Are you saying that… that what we did is my fault alone?”
“Of course not!” Ormund laughs, broad hands rising to cup your burning cheeks between them. His palms are warm and calloused; they feel like velvet as they brush your skin. “I’m saying neither of us is at fault— You said it yourself, did you not? The war broke your vows. Not us.”
Some traitorous part of you, so desperate for absolution, nearly softens into his touch at that. You did not ask to be taken from the Red Keep; you did not ask for Ormund's protection; you did not ask for a husband to ride off at dawn and leave you to wonder all these months whether he was living or dead.
You are desperate and half-convinced in your own madness, but you think that perhaps Gwayne will understand that. That surely a woman who believed herself abandoned and already widowed cannot be faulted for the comfort she found in the meantime. It is a thing far too fragile to build a conscience on, but you cling to the comfort of it anyway.
“My cousin rides to Tumbleton alone— without his own army and with Daemon’s surely hunting him,” Ormund coos gently to you, sweeping his thumb across your skin. “It is entirely possible that he will not survive the journey here at all. And then there would be nothing for you to confess… And you would’ve spent all these days worrying for naught.”
The words settle over you like ice in your veins. Your eyes dart back and forth between his own as you search for something human within him — some acknowledgment of what he’s just comforted you with — and find nothing in return.
“You speak of his death like it would be a mercy to me,” you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears.
“I speak of it only as a possibility," Ormund corrects softly. “I only mean to spare you the fear of it, my love. Is that not a kindness?”
You do not answer him. You could not even if you wanted to; not with the invisible hand curling its way around your throat, as you listen to the man who’s protected you from certain death frame your husband's demise as a kindness done on your behalf.
But when Ormund ducks softly down to press a sickly sweet kiss to your mouth, tasting of the sweet wine and honeyed figs from supper, you cannot seem to pull away from him. Gods forgive you, but you lean into it instead; you ball the collar of his coat into fists and chase the comfort in his mouth the way you’ve chased the safety of his hands since you were brought to his side.
You think of the man who fed you bread from his own fingers when you would not eat; who cut down a hedgeknight before he could harm you; who wrapped you in his blankets and warmed your fingers in his hands on particularly freezing nights.
That man is still in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the throes of war.
You fear what might become of him before it’s done.
vii. MUD & MERCY
You stand before the tallest window of the Tumbleton manse, overlooking the winding ivied streets below. They lead straight to the western gate, where the scouts had seemingly spotted a rider without banners in the distance — a messenger from another camp, they said, or maybe Gwayne. The dying sunlight paints the sky in milky orange hues while you pick at the ragged skin of your thumbnail in an absentminded worry. The delicate nailbed splits and blooms red.
You do not notice until a silken handkerchief is motioned suddenly in the corner of your eye.
Your head whips to find Daeron standing at your elbow, green eyes glimmering and pink mouth fixed into a firm line of boyish solemnity. He stands taller than you now, which hadn’t been the case when you first arrived at camp — now you have to look up to properly meet the young boy’s gaze.
“Oh,” you say within a surprised breath. “Thank you.”
You take the cloth from him with a trembling hand. The pale linen blooms pink when you press it to the raging skin of your bleeding thumb. Daeron grimaces sympathetically in return, though you aren’t looking at him to see it.
“Are you nervous?” he wonders aloud, hands crossed firmly behind his back.
“A bit…” you confess in a sigh, dabbing at the wound and knowing that there is no string of words you could possibly put together to express just how nervous you are.
“Aye,” he nods. “I suppose I am, too… I’ve not seen him since I was a child.”
Your head turns slowly to flash the boy a knowing look. “You are still a child, my prince,” you remind him with a smile.
“A younger child, then,” Daeron mutters sheepishly back, freckled cheeks flaring as he turns back toward the window. His long, auburn tendrils sway softly at his shoulders when he shakes his head. “Long enough that I can no longer recall the last conversation I had with him… Though I’m sure it was about you, no doubt, with his betrothal to you and all…”
“Well, he spoke of you often,” you tell him, and watch the boy’s pale eyes flicker with a newfound life when he turns to you again. “He made it clear he was quite proud of you… And if it’s any consolation, I did not intend to steal him from Oldtown.”
“I’m glad for it,” Daeron blurts, then shakes his head at himself when the words don’t come out right. “Not that he left, of course, but that it was you he was given. There are far worse fates, to be true…”
He trails off and watches your face twist with confusion. His anxious gaze drops to the blood-spotted handkerchief as the tips of his ears glow pink. The words seem to escape him without a single thought in his floundering attempts to explain himself.
“I only mean that— that he is good. My Uncle Gwayne. The best of us, really, and Ormund is…” Daeron forgets why he brings up the older man the second his name spills from his lips, though he cannot seem to stop talking. “Ormund is good, too, I’m sure. Somewhere deep down. But he— He does not lose well, my lady. And I’ve learned that… that it's a dangerous thing, to— to be the prize he’s decided he’s won.”
The words come out of him in a rush; sentences half-formed and stumbling. He glances at you only once in a quick and searching look, before looking away again like he can’t stomach a second more of the contact. Your stomach twists in a sick feeling at each word from his mouth. Your throat runs dry as you choke on whatever response you might have given him — some careful deflection, maybe, or a warm laugh to soothe the boy — but a horn sounds from the tower before you can find any response at all.
Three short, sharp blasts send the keep into motion immediately.
“He’s here!” someone yells, far off in the distance. “Open the gates— it’s Ser Gwayne!”
Your feet seem to move on their own accord. Despite the dread sitting heavy in your belly, your legs carry you instantly towards Gwayne. You hold your dress skirts in your fists as you rush down the winding stone stairs, through the crowded hall, and out the heavy oak doors of the entrance. The humid, evening summer air takes the breath from your lungs as it strikes you across the face; it becomes near-impossible to take another one in, with your heart climbing so suddenly in your throat.
The thundering of hooves against cobblestone finds you before you’ve made it down the steep stone steps of the ancient castle. You’re blinded, briefly, by the setting sun until you hold a hand over your squinted eyes. Armored knights and groomed horses come into view — straddled loosely behind Bold Jon’s mare is Gwayne, though his face and hair are so caked with dirt and blood you scarcely recognize him.
Gwayne tries and fails to dismount on his own. His legs betray him after days of nonstop walking, and the exhaustion makes them buckle almost instantly. “Gwayne!” he hears you shout, right before he feels your hands reach for him before he can fall.
Your arms curl beneath his own to keep him upright. He leans the bulk of his weight against you without ever really meaning to, clinging to your warmth and the scent of floral bathing oils he isn’t quite used to. And, though he smells like dirt and death, you hold him back just the same.
“You’re alive,” you pant, breaths fanning in his muddied hair. “Gods, you’re alive—”
“Well…” He huffs a not-quite laugh that you can feel in his shoulder, pulling just far enough away to meet your wet eyes with a pair of duller, paler ones. “I told you I meant my vows, didn’t I?”
His words come out in rasps, voice dry from days of thirst and weeks of shouting. His chest sears with a foreign feeling at the way you’re looking at him now — like he’s half stranger, half god. “Apologies for my appearance, dear wife,” he pants and swallows down the sudden urge to cry. “But I have had a… rough go of things as of late…”
Your features crumble under the weight of your own tears. You shake your head at the man, and at his sorry attempt at a joke. “Gods, I’ve missed you...”
Gwayne exhales slowly through his nose as his cracked lips curve into a crooked smile, visibly exhausted but his even still. “Not nearly as much as—”
“Ser Gwayne.” The voice cuts through the bustling courtyard at once.
You feel every muscle in your body seize on instinct as your head whips back towards the stone steps, where Ormund stands at the top of them. His eyes scan the scene below — of you and Gwayne and your bodies only just now easing apart as the red-haired man attempts to stand on his own.
The silver chain of Ormund’s pomander clinks faintly in the newfound quiet as he brings the perfumed incense up to his nose, inhaling deeply to rid the scent of sweat and blood and death from his nostrils.
“I see you’ve made it,” is all he says.
Gwayne exhales an exhausted huff, a mixture of a laugh and a scoff. He sways softly on his muddied boots and clutches onto your shoulder with his free hand. “It’s good to see you too, cousin…” he responds in a monotone.
Ormund turns to Daeron, who’s hovering just beside him with his pale hands clenched into fists — it takes every bit of strength in the young boy’s body not to run down to his uncle alongside you, worried about how Ormund might react.
“See that a room is made ready for your uncle. And a hot meal is sent with haste— whatever the kitchens can manage quickly,” Ormund says to the boy, then pauses as his eyes drift back to Gwayne’s. “And perhaps a bath.”
Gwayne’s cracked lips curl into a slow smile. He breathes a laugh through his nose as he watches his cousin spin on his heel to walk away. “You always did have delicate sensibilities…” he attempts to call to the man, though he fails to muster the strength in his voice to be heard.
It is you who insists on escorting Gwayne to the bath. You wave off hovering knights and Tumbleton servants with a firmness that surprises even you — no longer a prisoner of war, but a high lord’s wife.
Gwayne, it seems, is much too spent from the journey to do anything more than lean into your shoulder the whole way up the winding castle. He braces himself on your firm weight as you peel the ruined layers of clothing from his body and coax him gently into the steaming tub.
Your own borrowed gown joins his tattered things in a forgotten heap on the cobbled floor as you sink into the water alongside him. The warmth laps gently at your waist as you shift yourself over his lap, resting the bulk of your weight on his thighs.
The bathwater turns the color of weak tea by the time you’ve worked the worst of the grime from Gwayne’s pale skin. Dark streams of dirt and old blood swirl away beneath the cloth in your hand, brushing a tad too gently over his shoulders and chest and back, as if anything too hard might break him entirely.
Gwayne sits slumped against the tub, eyes half-closed and head lolled back. The war had certainly taken its due upon his pretty features — the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the fresh scar above his brow, the deep grey exhaustion under his once bright eyes. There’s a leanness to him now that suggests missed meals and weeks of marching; and a sort of heaviness in his gaze that suggests longer weeks of grief.
But still he softens for you, minute by minute, as you drag the cloth over the angle of his dirtied jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose and leans instinctively into your touch.
“You needn’t do this to yourself, you know?” the man murmurs, but makes no further move to stop you. “There are servants more than capable of tending to my bath.”
“I want to do it,” you tell him simply, dabbing at a speck of blood on his cheek. “I’ve missed you too much— I’d rather not share you with a servant just yet.”
He gives you a tired, crooked smile in response. “I missed you, too,” he says with a sigh, fingers clutching you harder by the waist beneath the water’s surface, like he’s still trying to make sure you’re still real. “Gods, you cannot imagine how badly…”
You rinse the cloth in the cooling water and press it gently to his hairline, dabbing at the remnants of dirt clinging stubbornly to him there. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows through a tightening throat — being touched this gently threatens to undo him entirely, after weeks away and days of nonstop bloodshed.
His tense shoulders finally sink beneath the water as he admits, “I thought only of you… The entire way here… I fear it’s the only way I managed it— knowing that I could not die without seeing you first.”
Your throat tightens as guilt strangles you all over again; the bitter reminder of what you’d done, and all the nights you forgot to miss him back. Your fingers move anxiously to set the cloth on the rim of the tub and dip into the ceramic dish lying there. You scoop a handful of lavender soap onto your fingertips, and work it between your palms until it starts to foam.
“I thought of you, too,” you tell him with an averted gaze, which is true enough even though it feels like a lie when it escapes your mouth. “Every day.”
“And what of Ormund?” Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull, muddy strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the war’s blood and grim streams down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. “I trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkind… Not truly.”
You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the cold hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he does not notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp.
“He was… accommodating,” you answer carefully, eyes trained on his hair rather than on his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it plainly upon your face. “He kept me fed. Housed. Safe… For the most part— Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.”
You lift yourself slightly off the man’s lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms, glimmering in thin ribbons over the curves of your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long, pale fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water, tracing idle circles along your soft skin.
“You’ve gone rather short with your answers, dear wife…” he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. “That’s not like you…”
“I’m just tired, is all…” you deflect, cupping one hand over his brow to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his hairline. The suds run clear down his temples and trickle back into the bath below. “It’s been a long day… A long several months, if I’m honest…”
“Yes… For us all, I’m sure,” Gwayne sighs and lifts his head once more when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table. He arches an auburn brow and musters a quiet smile; the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute now, as his fingers settle over your ribcage again. “Though I do hope my letters kept you some company… Small comfort as they must have been.”
You go suddenly very still above him, muscle locking despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, in a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words — his letters — after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and after so many months of hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.
“…Your letters?” you repeat on bated breath.
“Yes,” Gwayne nods, brows pinching at your confusion. “I wrote every time I could manage it— At every stronghold we arrived… Did you not receive them?”
Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words to respond — words that would placate your own confusion without disclosing what you had been doing in the days awaiting his letters. “Perhaps… Perhaps they got lost. Along the road…”
Gwayne scoffs a humorless laugh at the thought. “Well, I pity the poor hand who got my letters instead of you…” he croons lowly.
“Why?” you press with a wavering grin. “What did they say?”
“Nothing of substance,” he shrugs his bare shoulders. “Just… foolish things.”
“Like…?” you trail off, soothing your palms down the pale canvas of his chest.
A faint uncertain smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your hands dip below the waterline. “I wrote of… what fields I passed. What foolish things Ser Criston said that day. What I’d seen— What I missed of home, what I missed of you…”
He trails off when your fingers find his cock, lying limp along his left thigh. He feels like velvet in your fist as you massage him slowly hard. “Keep going…” you coo to him.
His hips twitch beneath you when you tighten your grip on his stiffening length. “I— I wrote of your hands,” he manages, and swallows hard when your thumb swipes across the sensitive tip of his cock. His eyes grow heavy with desire as he watches you work at him through the haze of cloudy water. “How I missed the— the feel of them on me… Gods…”
“Go on…” you murmur, smearing your lips along his jaw.
“I wrote that… that I missed your smell,” he confesses, fraying with each slow pass of your hand. “Your hair after a bath… The wine on your breath after supper… The sweat between your thighs after a long day— Seven fucking hells.”
His jaw clenches tight when your free hand dips down to cradle his balls, squeezing the sensitive sack between your fingers until his cock jerks in your fist. His heavy head lolls into your kiss; he feels you smiling against his cheek.
“You’re already close, aren’t you?”
He swallows hard. “You have no idea how long it’s been…” he confesses in a blissful sigh.
“I’m sure there were plenty of whores on the road,” you singsong in his ears.
He shakes his head instantly in protest. “None as beautiful as you…”
His denial does little to comfort you. Instead, you feel a white-hot rage searing in your chest. Some distant, ugly part of you wishes he had taken a thousand whores while he was away, if only to take the weight of your own betrayal off your shoulders. At least then you could share it, this guilt, instead of living alone in your sin. You hate yourself most of all for even wishing it, and you feel very suddenly disgusted in your own skin — eager to be free of him and this moment altogether.
“Then cum,” you command against his pulse, jerking his cock faster in your fist. Gwayne’s fingers clutch at the plush skin of your hips hard enough to etch bruises there, and you revel in the hurt as his grumbled moan fills the bathing chambers. “Come on. Cum for me—”
He makes a broken sort of sound in the base of his throat as he seizes just beneath you, tense and trembling as his high hits him full force. The cooling water threatens to slosh off the rim as he twitches through his orgasm, which spurts into the cloudy water in short ropes of pearly-white, until he relaxes finally with a sigh.
“Give me a moment…” he pleads through ragged breaths. “I’ll make you feel good, I just— I need a moment…”
“I’m alright,” you assure him with a shake of your head, and with a sad smile that he doesn’t catch with his eyes still closed. “You rest tonight… I’ll see you in the morning.”
viii. CAGE & CONFESSION
You do not go to find Ormund until long after Gwayne’s breathing has steadied.
He takes up the whole of the bed in his inhuman exhaustion; one leg straight and the other bent beneath the quilts, one pale arm slung over his bare stomach and the other left reaching out for your empty side of the bed as you slip from beneath the silk. You storm for Ormund’s solar in the dimly lit halls in nothing but your thin ivory nightgown; the fabric catching at your ankles with every furious stride in the man’s direction.
You find the room lit by a sea of glittering candles when you throw open the door without ceremony. It strikes the wall a harsh bang, far too loud for the late night; the wind of the blow makes the flames gutter wildly in their sconces.
Ormund’s head snaps up from his dispatches at the sudden intrusion. His quill pauses on the parchment — because the work of war is never truly done, not even at the dead of night. His eyes are cold for a flicker with a soldier’s instinct, then warm again all at once when he finds no threat — only you. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow, knowing smile accordingly.
“Come to warm my bed already, have you?” the man lilts in his usual melodic voice, setting his quill aside as he slouches back into his cushioned seat. “I confess, I hardly expected to see you tonight, what with your husband so newly returned. Bold of you, really—”
“Don’t,” you snap.
The word slices through the solar like a blade, and wipes away the smug curve of his smile in an instant. Your nightgown billows around your ankles with every furious step inside; the shadows of the fabric catch in the candlelight and turn you into something half-spectral as you loom over the desk across from him.
“He wrote to me. For months, he wrote to me,” you agonize. “And when he asked whether I’d received them, I sat there like a fool, knowing I hadn’t gotten a single one.”
Ormund draws a long, even breath through his nose. His ringed fingers settle flat over the desk as he keeps a measured composure about him, even though yours unravels by the minute.
“Ah…” he hums under his breath.
A shocked laugh escapes your mouth. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“What would you have me say?” he asks, pale eyes locked with yours as he braces himself on the arms of his chair to rise. The wood scrapes harshly along the cobbles when he stands to full height. “That I kept them from you? That I— read them for myself and burned each one in the hearth when I’d finished? Very well… I did.”
The plain admission threatens to knock the breath from your lungs. You had braced yourself for denial, to be true, to spend these late hours coaxing the truth from his lips. You were not prepared for confession; not so soon, and not so easily.
“Why?” you demand, half-breathless with tears. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I did not wish to hurt you,” Ormund says, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You wept for that man every night for the better part of a moon’s turn. I thought it might ease you, if you’d believed he didn’t care enough to write to you at all. I thought I was sparing you the grief of it.”
“That was not yours to decide!” you shout, voice shaking beneath the weight of your girlish fury. “Those were my letters, Ormund! My husband's words! You had no right—”
“No right?!” he thunders through an emotionless laugh, ocean eyes flickering with madness in an instant. “You are my prisoner! Or have you so quickly forgotten, given how generously I’ve treated you?”
You flinch back as he rounds the desk, though you cannot seem to leave the spot ahead of him as he inches towards you like a predator to prey.
“You’re lucky you’re standing here at all. Any other Targaryen beast would be in chains, but you…” he continues, prowling another step closer. “I let you share my tent, my table, my bed. And I did it gladly because I came to love you despite the— taint in your blood.”
You peer up at him through teary eyes when he towers finally in front of you — brows raised, eyes hardened, jaw clenched tight.
“But… you are still my prisoner,” he reminds you evenly. “You have been since the day you arrived at my camp. So I have every right to decide which letters enter your hands and which ones do not.”
Each word strikes you like a physical blow — worse, somehow, than the searing one the hedgeknight had dealt you, which has caused an unnatural cracking of your jaw ever since. Maybe because these cruel, cruel words come from the same mouth that has kissed you, pleasured you.
“Prisoner?” you repeat tearily, features screwed in disbelief. “You say you love me and yet you call me beast in the very same breath. Wh… What am I meant to make of that?”
Ormund’s face falters finally at the sight of your tears, clinging to your lower lashes and glimmering gold in the candlelight. A soft crack splits down the unforgiving marble of him as he shakes his head down at you.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says and turns away.
“Like what?” you spit at the back of him.
“Like I've wounded you,” he snaps, long coat fanning slightly at his waist when he turns to face you again, now several paces away. “Where was your Gwayne when you hadn’t eaten in five days, and I fed you bread from mine own hand? Tell me that.”
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
“Where was your dutiful husband when that hedgeknight had you pinned in the dirt with your skirts torn to your thighs?” Ormund continues, palms splayed at his sides for effect. “Because I did not see him riding to your rescue as I had. I did not see him holding you through the nights you woke screaming. That was me— Only me— And yet you still stand here and weep over a handful of mindless letters, as if that erases the whole of what I've done for you.”
Your chin jerks back as you flinch hard at his words, at the weight of them, which you can feel heavying your chest until every new breath feels impossible. Ormunds goes silent for a moment; the shadow of his clenched jaw comes and goes as he grits his teeth. His fists open and close at his sides until they finally relax, when the anger within drains into mourning.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters suddenly, boots padding along the cobbles as he closes the distance between you once more. “Forgive me. You’re right, I— I should not have kept them from you. I only meant to spare you, you understand that, right?”
His wide, gently calloused hands reach for your cheeks with a tenderness that feels maddeningly sincere compared to the vitriol he’d thrown at you moments ago. He lifts your chin and ducks his head into your eyeline when you do not meet his gaze. His blue eyes go round and wet with a boyish grief as hurt sears through his chest.
“I only want to keep you safe,” he whispers. “Whatever else I’ve done wrong— that much has always been true… You know this, don’t you?”
He peers down at you and waits on bated breath for a response. You say nothing just yet. Your trembling hands reach from the gold buttons of his coat. At first, he thinks you mean to push him away — you want nothing more, in fact, than to push him away and wrench yourself from his hands and return to your place in bed next to Gwayne.
You do not.
You just close your eyes, exhausted past the point of arguing any further. The threads of guilt and love and fury and anguish tangle together somewhere deep in your chest, until one is utterly indistinguishable from the others. The only thing you know now for certain is that the whole of your life can be categorized into two groups: those who have stayed and those who have gone.
Your own family had sailed across the Narrow Sea and left you behind without so much as a backwards glance; and Gwayne, gentle as he is, still rode off to serve a cause that mattered more to him than you.
Ormund is, perhaps, the only person in your life who has never once abandoned you. Whatever else he has done to you before now — however cruel or calculating or maddening he has since become — he has never once walked away from you. Not when you intended to starve yourself, not when you were pinned in the mud by your skirts, not when you woke up screaming on particularly brutal nights.
You hate how much it all matters to you, however fickle it may seem. You hate it, and you hate that cannot make yourself stop needing it all the same.
“I don’t know what to do…” you confess in a broken voice, clutching him hard by the collar of his coat. His softened face is bleary behind the tears burning in your eyes. “I feel so guilty, Ormund— I do not know for how long I can bear it. It sets heavy on my chest, all the time, and I cannot set it down—”
“Then let me carry it,” he tells you. His grip goes more solid when you attempt to turn away, thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks. “I can bear it well enough for the two of us, I swear it—”
The breath of his words fans across your chin when he ducks down to kiss you, hard and sudden and searing. He tastes of wine and mint leaves when the velvety pad of his tongue licks into your mouth without warning.
You sigh hard through your nose at the feeling of him and cling to the front of his coat as he walks you backward a few paces towards the desk. The edge of the wood catches hard against the backs of your thighs. Ormund’s hands dip from your face to your hips, balling the fabric of your gown until it rises up your legs.
“Did you take him into your bed tonight?” he pants rough against your mouth, with the tip of his broad nose nudging yours. “Your husband? Did you fuck him? Tell me.”
“No,” you shake your head on an exhaled breath. Your fingers curl into his dark curls as his wet mouth drags along your neck, down to your exposed collarbone. “I only pleasured him with my hand. Nothing more.”
Ormund nods swiftly, as though pleased by the admission. He peers up at you through his lashes as he kisses down your clothed chest. “Always a giver, aren’t you?” he hums lowly, mouth quirking softly at the edges. “Allow me to return the favor, then…”
He sinks to his knees, with your ivory skirt now pushed up to your thighs. You keep one hand splayed along the back of his knuckles and the other tangled in his curls as he kisses your cunt like he would your mouth. He moans when his tongue slots between your sticky folds, a muffled growl you can feel in the very pit of your stomach.
Ormund is not quite as measured with his mouth as Gwayne had been the evening before he left you. He’s fast and sloppy and loud — you can hear his tongue as it flicks against you, his lips as they suckle your clit, his moans as your honey pools on his tongue.
You swallow down a moan before it can swell through the quiet room. It turns into a whimper in your throat instead. “Ormund—” you gasp quietly, tugging him hard by the hair as his tongue laps at your swollen clit.
His bleary eyes open to peer up the length of your body — your heavy head tilted to your chest, your gaze lidded and glassy with pleasure, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “Let me have it,” he slurs against your pussy, and smiles to himself at the pretty sound you make for him in response. “That’s it— Let me have it…”
Your mouth presses into a tight line to choke back a moan when his mouth returns to your cunt, suckling the sensitive button between his lips and flicking his tongue against it simultaneously. You shudder against his mouth when you cum for him, whimpering when he buries his moans and muffled murmurs of praise against your drooling pussy.
You do as you’re told — you give it all to him, you let him bear it — while Gwayne sleeps off the remnants of war across the hall.
ix. GARDENS & GHOSTS
The gardens of Tumbleton are modest things compared to the grandeur of the Red Keep, though you struggle to remember it so vividly now. Here there are only a few neat rows of late-summer roses gone wild for want of a gardener, an overgrown path winding between shaggy hedges, and a slowly weeping fountain gone quiet and still. You spend Gwayne’s second evening at the foreign castle walking beneath a canopy of drooping wisteria, with your hands looped loosely through the crook of his arm and your dress skirts whispering against the stone with every languid step.
“I’d nearly forgotten what this was like…” Gwayne hums, studying the wilting roses with distracted interest. “Walking somewhere without waiting for an arrow to find me first…”
“Don’t worry, Ser Gwayne…” you squint with a teasing lilt. “I’ll keep you safe.”
And though Gwayne hasn’t so much as seen you hold a real sword in your hand, he flashes you a tight-lipped smile anyway. “Of that, dear wife, I have no doubt…”
You fall into an easy quiet thereafter; the ordinary rhythm of marriage, though it still feels a bit foreign to you now. He asks only about small things: if the summer storms had frightened you too badly, if the men at the Hightower camp treated you well, and if you’d truly meant what you said about that farm. You answer each in turn, grateful for the ease of it — or, at least, for the brief illusion that nothing had changed between you at all.
“And the encampment?” Gwayne asks then, flashing you a knowing look from the corner of his eye. “You’d said precious little of it thus far. Surely, it wasn’t so unbearable— Though I’m sure my cousin likely wasn’t making it easy for you.”
“There isn’t much to say,” you shrug with a feigned air of detachment, though the words come out a little quicker than you mean them to. You catch the faint furrow of confusion between his brows, and pretend to be more preoccupied by the wilting wisteria overhead instead. “It was… eventful. I suppose. In its own way.”
“Eventful?” Gwayne repeats with an arched brow. An unsure laugh sputters from his chest a second later. “I can’t tell whether that’s meant as a comfort or a warning…”
“It’s nothing worth troubling over,” you tell him. “Truly.”
Gwayne’s eyes flit down to where your wrists are curled lazily around his bicep. The dull nails of your right thumb and forefinger pick aimlessly at the already marred skin of your left. He stops instantly in place — he had sensed something amiss since you caught him in the yard, to be true, but he sees it more plainly in your being than he had the night before.
“Did something happen?” he blurts.
Your head whips to him, eyes widening in an innocuous look. “I… I don’t know what you mean?”
He swallows once and rephrases. “Something happened…” he repeats, this time as a firmer statement. “At the camp. Something you’re not telling me.”
You exhale a slow and shaking breath, though it does little to loosen the tightness in your chest now. You find that, once cornered and with his pleading eyes searching your face, you cannot quite bring yourself to lie to him again.
“There was a… a man," you start unsteadily, eyes fixed on the overgrown hedge behind his shoulder rather than his face. “A hedgeknight. I was out gathering berries, and he— He asked me about a letter. The one you left me. And when I wouldn't— He tried to—”
“He tried to what?" Gwayne presses when you trail off, ducking his auburn head into your eyeline when you avert your gaze. His voice is low and careful, but you can hear the tension straining beneath it already.
“He grabbed for it… And I struck him, without thinking, and he struck me back…” Your fingers lift absently to your cheek, brushing the ghost of a bruise with your finger, long since healed but not yet forgotten. Your gaze goes glassy and unfocused with the recollection of the memory — the smell of the berries, the taste of the blood, the feeling of the wet earth beneath you. The rest of the words come out in choppy and nonsensical. “And I fell— and my skirts— I think he meant too— I don’t know truly, but I— I could not stop him—”
“Gods…” Gwayne huffs, as if the breath had been punched out of him entirely. His pale, handsome features screw together in horror as his pale eyes glitter with anger at himself. “I should’ve been there… I never should’ve left you.”
“Ormund killed him,” you add quickly and watch a complicated look flicker behind Gwayne’s eyes at the name. “Before he could…”
Gwayne nods when you trail off, signaling that you need not go on any further. “I am glad for that, at least,” he says, though there is a strain in his voice that suggests something other than gladness. His palms reach for your hands then, preventing you from picking at the skin there. “I am glad my cousin was there for you. Truly. I was a fool leaving you behind. I should’ve stayed, I should’ve—”
You shake your head in protest of his apologies. “No—”
“I should’ve been there—”
“Don’t,” you tell him, though the word spills broken from your mouth when you jerk your hands free from his. The sudden loss of his touch leaves your fingers strangely cold. “Don’t apologize. I do not deserve it.”
“Deserve it?” Gwayne echoes with lowered brows. “What do you mean, deserve it?”
“Your kindness,” you sniffle. “I don’t deserve it.”
Gwayne blinks owlishly at you, and feels a strange searing in his chest when you flinch back from him as he tries to step closer. “Why are you saying this?”
“I have— I have sinned.” Your breath catches hard on a sob. Your wet eyes try and fail to meet his gaze. “I have betrayed you.”
Gwayne tenses at once. His face goes still and solemn; the warmth he’d had for you moments ago drains slowly from his features now. “What do you mean?” he wonders lowly.
“With— With Ormund— We— I,” you attempt to speak through hitched breaths, though you cannot seem to get any of the words out. “I cannot express to you— how unspeakably lonely I have been—”
“Lonely?” he repeats, spits back at you like venom. “Do you think I was not lonely?”
“You at least had a war to fight!” you argue tearily. “I was taken prisoner, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“And do you think I would not have rather been home?” Gwayne shouts. “With you, instead of watching my men die in a field over a war I never wanted any part of?”
“You’re the one who left!” you exclaim when he turns away from you, already retreating down the gravel path before he can lose his composure completely. “If you stayed, we could’ve been together! And none of this would’ve happened! You act like someone was dragging you by your boots to go fight a useless war!”
Gwayne stops at that, a few paces ahead. His shoulders are rigid beneath his borrowed doublet when he turns to you again, though not enough to face you fully. Only his profile is visible to you now, with his auburn hair falling over his brow and his emotionless grin hinting at the corner of his mouth.
“I did not… want this marriage…” he confesses in calculated murmurs. “Not at first, anyway. That much I’ll admit, but… From the moment I wed you, it never once crossed my mind to seek comfort elsewhere.”
“Gwayne, I—”
“I meant my vows,” he tells you and turns, finally, to face you fully. You found no trace of fury in his face now, only a pained sort of look that turns his pale eyes a glassier shade of blue. “I have always meant them.”
“I didn't know if you were alive!” you agonize through a sob. “Don’t you understand that? Months, Gwayne — months without a single word! Not knowing whether you were breathing or rotting in some unmarked grave! And I couldn't even write to you to ask, because Ormund told me it wasn't safe. He said the letters might be intercepted, might lead Rhaenyra's army straight to you, and I could not risk that—”
“Ormund told you that?” Gwayne interjects, voice gone dull and cold. “That your letters weren’t— safe to send?”
“Yes,” you nod. “He said that—”
“And mine?” Gwayne presses with a slow step closer. “I presume he kept mine from you as well. That’s why you never got them, isn’t it? Because of him?”
You go quiet, unsure of how to answer — like there’s some joke here somewhere you have not yet been let in on. But, to Gwayne, your silence is answer enough. He exhales a long, shuddering breath through his nose.
“Ormund and I used to play a game,” he tells you suddenly, with a humorless smile ghosting across his mouth. “Run the tower, we called it— a footrace to the top beacon. And I let him win. Every time. Because he could not bear to lose even the smallest thing.”
Your eyes widen slightly, as you remember Daeron’s warning in the castle window — his anxious, hardly intelligible ramble. “It’s a dangerous thing to be the prize he’s decided he’s won,” the boy had told you. You hadn’t understood what he meant by that until now.
Gwayne’s features screw with a withheld fury, one that Ormund would’ve already unleashed on you tenfold by now if the roles were reversed.
“He was a thin-skinned twat even then. I thought it harmless, at the time. I never imagined…” he trails off, clicking his tongue against his teeth when he turns to you again. He shakes his head as his mouth twitches into a sympathetic sort of smile. “If you think Ormund loves you, dear wife, I assure you, he does not. He simply decided that you were another game worth winning.”
He does not wait for your response. He turns on his heel, and when he walks away this time, he does not stop.
His feet carry him down the overgrown path, through the winding unfamiliar castle, and straight towards Ormund’s solar — without him ever fully registering any of it; not until he swings open the heavy oak door, at least, and is met instantly with the humidity of an incensed bath. He nearly chokes on the musky oils sitting heavily in the air.
“Leave us,” Gwayne orders Daeron in lieu of a real greeting. The boy’s eyes widen in shock at the sudden intrusion from where he stands obediently off to the side, robe in hand. His gaze flits to Ormund’s on instinct, who gives him a curt nod of approval without looking up, before scurrying out of the room.
The older man sits submerged to the chest in a steaming copper tub. A wooden tray sits balanced across the rim, with his inkpot and parchment laid before him. His quill scratches against the paper in swift strokes until Gwayne unsheathes his long sword with a sharp hiss. The older man tenses when the steel kisses the soft skin of his throat.
“You will explain yourself,” Gwayne says, peering down at the man from the bridge of his nose. “Or, by the gods, I will open your throat right here in this tub.”
Ormund does not so much as flinch when he sets his quill back into its inkpot. He tilts his chin just slightly to look up at the man and feels the faint pressure of the blade against his adam’s apple. Amusement flickers in his blue eyes.
“She told you, then,” he hums — not quite a question but not entirely a statement either. “I did wonder how long that might take.”
“She told me everything,” Gwayne bites out through clenched teeth. “The letters— mine to hers; hers to me. Months of lies, cousin, you called protection.”
“Yes. I protected her," Ormund nods without reservation. “More than you ever did, seeing as you were hundreds of leagues away and all. I fed her when she attempted to starve herself grieving you. I killed a man who meant to rape her in a berry patch while you were off playing at war like a child—”
Gwayne tenses at the accusation buried in his words. The edge of the blade presses harder to Ormund’s throat, but still, he does not waver.
“I gave her a place to sleep when the storms came, and warmth when the nights grew cold, and company when she felt no one else in the entire realm cared whether she lived or died,” the man lilts evenly. His voice does not rise and his stare does not yield, not even with the cold steel resting steadily against his pulse. “So, please, spare me the outrage, cousin. I only gave her what she asked for— freely, and often, and more enthusiastically than you can imagine.”
Gwayne’s whole body goes rigid. A mixture of fury and humiliation prickles red-hot at his pale skin. His knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword, but the blade does not move an inch.
“Well, go on, then,” Ormund tilts his head, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Finish it, if you mean to. Open my throat here, in my own bath, and we’ll see who she weeps for. You or me.”
Silence fills the empty solar. Gwayne grits his teeth and wills his hand to move; to either strike the man down or turn away entirely. He cannot seem to do either.
Ormund lifts a lazy hand to swipe the blade away without a word. He rises slowly from the bath a second later. Rivulets of water glisten as they rush down his lean body and trickle audibly when they hit the surface again. He stands before his cousin, unabashedly bare, and reaches for the linen cloth draped over the edge of the tub.
“For what it’s worth, cousin,” he says, swiping the nettle across his toned, golden skin. “I never intended to make an enemy of you. And I rather think, whatever she may tell you now to spare your pride, that she’d choose to stay exactly where she is, if given the choice.”
Gwayne opens his mouth to argue.
“Daeron!” Ormund calls out before he can.
The door creaks slowly open a second later. The younger boy reappears with an obvious hesitance, refusing to meet either of their eyes as he rushes to his uncle’s side. He settles the emerald fabric over the older man’s broad shoulders, and Ormund slides his arms through the long sleeves. He ties the sash with slow hands and with an expression that looks almost sympathetic.
“Best wash up soon, cousin,” he grins. “It’s nearly time for supper.”
x. STEEL & SUPPER
Supper that evening is a small and wretched thing; four places set at a round table dragged in from some lesser hall to make the arrangement feel less tribunal. It’s close enough that you can feel the heat of both men suffocating either side of you, along with the cold, watchful silence of Daeron across the way; young enough to shift awkwardly in his seat at the tense silence, but old enough still to understand exactly what such silence truly means.
No one speaks a word of the hard truth of it out loud. Neither of you needs to — the whole of your sin sits at the table like an uninvited guest, souring the wine in every cup and thickening the air until you can scarcely draw a single breath around it.
“So…” Ormund says first to break the silence. He talks beneath the soft scraping of his knife against the porcelain as he cuts into his meat. “Ser Criston fights on, and yet you alone have returned to us… Why is that, I wonder?”
Gwayne turns slowly to glare at the man with dull, blue eyes, already too annoyed for idle blather. “Because fighting on is madness,” he answers distantly.
Ormund scoffs with a wad of food in his cheek. He smiles as he swallows it down, angling his head in the young prince’s direction. “Do you think me mad, boy?”
Daeron’s eyes shoot up from his plate. His spine straightens instinctively at his uncle’s sudden attention. “No, sire,” he answers quickly.
Ormund nods, pleased, and then turns slowly to you. A fondness flickers in his pale gaze behind the challenge in his eyes. “And you, my—” He catches himself half a breath too late; my love, he’d nearly said, though you cannot tell if it was an intentional attempt to rile his already aggrieved cousin. “My lady… Do you think me mad?”
Your brows bounce in response, though your gaze never lifts from your lap as your nails work relentlessly at the already torn skin of your thumb. “I don’t think you want me to answer that—”
You freeze in place when Ormund’s wide hand reaches suddenly to splay his calloused palm over the back of your knuckles. Your head whips in his direction. You struggle to tell if the action is heedless or entirely uncaring, as Gwayne sits close enough to watch the exchange on the other side of you. The man inhales sharply through his nose and straightens his spine as he reaches for his goblet, trying hard to pretend he hadn’t noticed it at all.
“Why do you insist on ruining yourself this way?” Ormund wonders lowly, as his thumb rubs soothingly over your marred one.
“Seems to be a common affliction as of late,” you answer distantly and draw your hands from beneath his touch. “Messing with things we ought to leave well enough alone…”
“You are aware—” Gwayne says gruffly as he swallows down his bitter wine, setting down his chalice with a bit more force than likely necessary. “—That while you’re all in here playing happy families, there’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us? And five more not thirty leagues away?”
“Why do you think we came here, cousin?” Ormund scoffs and waves his concern away with a lazy flick of his knife. “Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, after all. Squeamish, by nature.”
A short laugh spills suddenly from your lips. “Squeamish?” you echo. “Says the man who requires a milk bath twice daily, lest he make it everyone else’s burden to bear?”
The jab earns a proud smile from Gwayne that he tries hopelessly to bite back, and a small grin from Daeron that he conceals behind the rim of his goblet. Ormund swallows hard through the embarrassment strangling his throat, angled jaw clenching as he grits his teeth.
“Well… If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were taking up the usurper’s cause.”
“I’m not taking up anyone’s cause,” you mutter. “I just want to go home.”
“Oh?” Ormund hums with a feigned air of curiosity, though you do not miss the bite in his words as he wonders aloud, “And where is that precisely? King’s Landing? Oldtown?”
“Well, it’s certainly not here—”
“No,” he agrees instantly, warmth freezing over in an instant. “But when the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our own terms, on our own ground— turning King’s Landing against that overweening cunt, little by little, bite by bite… And when we expose her as weak and unsuited to rule, the great houses will flock to our side, and then, my lady, we can all go home.”
“Have any yet come?” Gwayne wonders knowingly. “Great houses, I mean.”
Ormund’s gaze snaps in his direction. “The patient hunter gets the kill, cousin,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’d have thought you’d learned that much by now.”
“Only one of us at this table has actually been hunted, if you’ll recall…”
“Yes, you have endured much,” Ormund huffs and returns to his boar. “Though I’m sure you find some solace along the road… with whores, perhaps, or your… brothers in arms…”
The insinuation sits heavily in the quiet, thicker than smoke and choking the three of you accordingly. Gwayne’s jaw tightens hard enough to make the muscle flex. Whatever retort had been rising in his throat at that moment is killed instantly by the sudden creaking of the heavy door across the room. Bold Jon enters, flanked by a couple of punier squires.
“My lord,” the older knight announces. “House Baratheon has sent an envoy. They mean to bend the knee to House Hightower.”
Ormund is aglow in an instant. The sourness of the previous moment rolls off of his broad shoulders as a newfound satisfaction kindles behind his blue eyes. “Let the Stormlands lead the way…” he mutters to himself, mouth curling into a grin. “Highgarden will have no choice but to follow…”
He flashes you a proud and knowing look as he rises from his seat. “Alright. Stand up,” he says and begins to round the small table. When no one follows him quick enough, he snaps, “Stand up! All of you.”
You rise at once, abandoning your plates as you follow him to the front of the dining table. The three of you fall into line beside the high lord, who stands just ahead to greet the incoming knights Ser Jon ushers in. The knights are caked in dirt from the long road; their yellow cloaks are crusted thick with mud, and their boots track dark prints across the fine pale stone beneath them. They smell like earth and sweat, hardly noticeable to you, though you spot Ormund’s shoulders tensing instantly when the stench hits him.
“Lord Ormund Hightower,” Roxton announces formally. “Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown.”
“Well met, Ser Ormund," the head of the envoy greets with a polite nod, arms propped along the pommel of his longsword. “I come on behalf of Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”
“Mm…” Ormund hums, ringed fingers fidgeting at his sides as he attempts to swallow through the invisible hand strangling him. “You are quite welcome, Ser…?”
“Ser Arrion Baratheon. Cousin to Lord Borros.”
You freeze at once. A newfound fear settles ice-cold in your veins. Your eyes squint as you study the stranger’s bearded face more closely — his curls, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. You find that he looks nothing like the Ser Arrion you had once met, at a tourney some several moons back; the one where you first laid eyes on Ser Gwayne Hightower.
The man himself tenses at your elbow. His jaw clenches tight with knowing as he turns slowly to flash you a single, silent glance. You communicate without words. His folded hands fall casually beside the sheathed sword at his hip; yours cross behind your back, as you reach blindly for the fruit knife idling somewhere beside the plates of supper.
“I most regret presenting ourselves to you in this state,” the stranger continues.
Your jaw clenches tight in frustration as your fingers miss the handle in several agonizing attempts. You slide it closer with the very tip of your middle finger, slowly so as not to draw attention, before your fingers close finally around the hilt. You grip the blade to your back, palm going clammy around the grip.
“The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately.”
“We are honored to receive you,” Ormund assures him, entirely unaware. “And what word does Lord Borros send?”
“House Baratheon offers its banners in alliance with House Hightower,” the envoy says. “I have been charged to swear fealty on Lord Borros' behalf.”
“Well,” Ormund grins. “Your lord has made a wise choice—”
“Ser Arrion?” you call at once, stepping forward and drifting instinctively in front of Daeron with your arm still tight around your back. The boy’s eyes widen when he catches sight of the blade behind you. Your smile remains as artificially sweet as ever, despite the way your heart hammers hard against your ribs. “You do remember me, don’t you?”
The man’s heavy brows furrow as confusion flickers across his bearded face. He musters a similarly fake grin. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, my lady—”
The hesitant answer is confirmation enough. Gwayne unsheaths his sword in a blink and slices the imposter across the neck before he can finish his sentence. His throat splits wide open, bright crimson blood gushing out instantly. You feel it splattering across your cheek as the man falls limp to the ground in front of you.
The dining hall erupts into chaos in a blink. The shouting of Baratheon imposters and Hightower knights fills the room at once. One lunges towards you, trying to get to Daeron, you figure, though he’s met with the small blade clutched in your trembling grip before he can.
You drive the knife into the first soft place you can find — his eye, you think, and then the side of his neck, before he crumples to the floor screaming.
“No!” Ormund’s voice shouts over the ringing of colliding blades, flashing a fiery look at Ser Jon. “Stop them, you fool!”
Daeron steps quickly in front of the older knight. “No!” he says to the man, small as he is, but standing his ground regardless.
“These are assassins!” Gwayne shouts over the clash of steel, kicking one knight down before striking him across the skull. “Sent for Daeron— and probably you!”
A pair of thick hands close hard around your wrist, cold and calloused and unforgiving. It yanks a memory from some buried place in your mind — spilled berries, wet earth, pooled blood in the mouth. You do not know whether or not he intends to strike you, or if he truly does, or if he only means to stop you. You only feel a girlish fury clawing its way from your throat as a buzzing adrenaline prickles at your burning skin.
The bloody knife in your fist cuts him clean across the face — his throat, his jaw, his cheek, his eye, his temple. He stumbles back against the wall, bloodied and unrecognizable, but still you do not stop. Your blade follows him as he sinks to the ground in a gurgling, limp ball. His blood splashes warm across your face, clinging sticky to your fingers, but you still do not stop.
“Enough, enough…” you hear a voice say from behind you, muffled through the ringing in your ears. You feel a warmth press against your side and a gentle hand curl around your wrist. Gwayne’s voice follows more clearly in your ear, “He’s dead… It’s over now...”
The adrenaline seems to ebb from your veins at once, with a raw sob sputtered from your mouth. The knife slips from your limp fingers, clattering audibly to the bloodied cobbles below. You feel something warm trickling across your forehead and reach to wipe it with the back of your hand; blood smears wet across your brow in its place.
Across the wrecked hall, Ormund hunches over the back of his chair on the other side of the table. His face has gone pale-white; made more ashen, perhaps, behind the drops of vivid crimson splattered across his face. The thick copper stench of it settles in the back of his throat, along with the sweat and mud and death and shit hanging in the air.
“How—” he chokes hoarsely out. “How did you know— These men were false?”
“I was nearly betrothed to Lord Borros’ son once,” you hear yourself answer, though the words sound a bit distant, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. “I met his cousin… Lord Arrion… at a tourney in King’s Landing years ago… I gave him my favor that day—”
“Right before I cut him down,” Gwayne adds through panted breaths, with a distant satisfaction in his voice at the memory. “The real Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut, stands near a foot taller and is, as it happens, far more comely."
Ormund makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. “I will cleave the bitch— From crown to cunt—” he manages between heaving breaths “—She will die wishing she never dared to... dared to…”
His body seizes as he retches — once, then twice — before doubling over the table and vomiting his supper along the plates ahead of him.
Gwayne watches on with a grim sort of amusement. “Best wash up now, cousin,” he hums in jest, as drily as Ormund had to him earlier that day.
His amused smile fades when he catches you swaying in the corner of his eye.
The room seems to tilt on its axis under your feet. The cobbles sway softly beneath you, as if you were standing on water instead of stone. You reach blindly for the back of the nearest chair to steady yourself; you watch your fingers curl around the embellished wood, though you cannot feel it under your palms. Daeron’s quick hand catches you beneath the elbow in a small attempt to steady you.
“My lady?” he mutters softly, beneath Gwayne’s firmer, “Are you hurt?”
Your mouth parts, but it takes a moment for the words to come out. They fall from your tongue in strange slurs that sound nothing like your voice. “My back…” You trail off before choking on a whimper. It is not pain you feel, not completely, but rather a cold numbness blossoming wide along the left side of your spine.
Ormund perks instantly, swiping a hand along his chin and fighting off his own dizziness when he watches Gwayne close the distance between you. His long, pale fingers skim carefully along your shoulders as he examines the back of you. They settle finally just above the thin tear in your bodice, where the fabric of your borrowed dress starts to bloom a darker crimson from the blood spreading from underneath it — from where a soldier’s blade must’ve kissed you in the chaos.
“Gods…” you hear Gwayne breathe just behind you. “You’re bleeding— Someone call the maester!”
Your knees buckle underneath you as the strength spills from your body like sand through your fingers. Two sets of hands keep you upright; one smaller and trembling, the other wider and far more steady. They guide you into the seat before you can collapse. You watch Gwayne kneel into your vision with his palms resting firmly on your knees. The world continues swaying all around you.
“Let me see it,” Ormund says through panted breaths, gripping the table’s edge as he attempts to walk to you despite his own weakening state. He’s still pale and sheening with sweat from the blood clinging to his skin and nostrils.
“You can barely stand yourself,” Gwayne scolds drily. “She is my wife— I am more than capable of tending to her.”
Ormund attempts to laugh, though the chuckle comes out wearier than he means to. “Are you?” the older man manages to choke out. “Because you surely haven’t cared about tending to her while you were off playing at war—”
“Enough…” The word comes out slurred and hoarse from your mouth. The men fall silent at once. Their heads whip in your direction with matching expressions of concern that would’ve felt almost comical in any other moment.
The pain has started to sharpen now beneath the somewhat pleasant numbness. A hot, insistent throb begins to settle in its wake, searing through you like fire.
Your first instinct is to reach for Gwayne, but the guilt of what you’d done to him weighs on your hands like cement — what right do you have, you think, to reach for him now with bloodied hands, after months of reaching for another?
And then you think inevitably of Ormund and the particular safety you’ve always found in his hands, after he’s already seen you blood-soaked and broken and ugly from war, and never once flinched away at any of it. And then you think of the burned letters and the lies, and then of Gwayne’s departure with only a sliver of parchment left in his wake.
You reach, in the end, for neither of them.
“Daeron,” you call instead to the boy hovering beside you. You turn your swimmy gaze to his wide and frightened ones. Your voice is unnaturally thick in your throat as you ask him, “Can— Can you help me up to my chambers, please?”
The boy blinks and forgets to look to his uncle for approval first as he nods. “O-Of course, my lady,” he stammers and loops your arm carefully over his shoulder. “Lean on me…”
You do not look back at either man behind you as Daeron eases you from the chair and guides you slowly towards the door; but you do feel both of their eyes following you like twin points of heat searing through your dress, just like the soldier’s blade had. Neither Gwayne nor Ormund says a single word; the hollow sound of your fading footsteps fills the silence as you go.
The two of them are left standing alone together, amid the bloody wreckage of the unfamiliar hall, staring at the space where you’d once been.
to those of you who made it this far, thank you, i love you, and i'm sorry lol more to come soon!
Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.
Word count. 4.9k
A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.
They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too.
The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.
Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.
Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room.
Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.
“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”
Ah, right. How could you forget?
You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.
And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.
“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”
“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”
The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.
Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”
“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”
God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this.
Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”
And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle.
“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”
“Right, because this clan is that great.”
You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.
Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”
And oh it was like a dam burst open.
“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”
“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”
“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”
You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already.
Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”
Oh. You’ve done it now.
You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked.
You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-
“Sit.”
Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”
Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them.
And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.
“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious.
The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”
It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.
.
A weighty beat passes. One. Two.
He wins.
And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this?
“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”
What?
The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face.
“Wan’ me to kill them?”
“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity.
“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better.
So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”
At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”
And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word.
Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?
Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.
Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.
But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.
Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually.
And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”
Thud!
It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth.
“Out.”
It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.
Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”
And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now.
“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”
“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”
That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.
“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?”
“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him.
Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”
And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him.
You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but.
“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”
Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw.
“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar.
But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”
You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.
Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal.
Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away.
“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”
And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.
He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”
You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.
Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan.
“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”
“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”
At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”
Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his.
So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-
“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”
Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this.
“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”
Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.
“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”
“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”
“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth.
At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”
You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended.
Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”
You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-
“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.
“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast.
But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?
So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers.
Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-
“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”
“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”
Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants.
You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth.
And Gojo keeps going.
Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily.
“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”
“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”
“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”
You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good.
And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!
“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?”
A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”
“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”
And, well, a good husband always shares, right?
Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs.
“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”
You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-
Shit.
You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous.
All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.
Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together.
Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.
“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”
And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute.
“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”
And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone.
Except maybe his cute lil’ wife.
Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch.
But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly.
Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”
“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance.
“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”
“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”
You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you.
Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there.
“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”
A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least.
Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.”
“Louder.”
“Like I’m your wife.”
Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear.
It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side.
“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?”
You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him.
“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find-
“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”
That.
So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”
Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted.
“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”
You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.
Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles.
“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”
And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are.
“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”
Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices.
And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-
“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”
So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper.
Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you.
But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.
Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes.
And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his.
“Clean that room up.”
Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie.
But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale... but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. in a dance of dragons and throes of fire and blood, where will each of you stand when your sisters are pitted against each other for the iron throne?
genre: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, romance and fluff, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), pregnancy, childbirth, spoilers! from house of the dragon and fire & blood
:: MASTERLIST ::
001 — to court a princess
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
002 — light the hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
003 — bundle of joy
pious, devout and charming, your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
004 — the princess and the knight
(synopsis coming soon...)
:: DRAMATIS PERSONAE ::
you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister to princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the blacks and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures
gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of the seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house
