i've decided to leave tumblr. not permanently, i'll check in every now and then but the chances of me coming back are low. i've lost motivation to write especially with just a few interactions on my stories. i wanted to finish my celebration fics as fast as i could to post this but i'm not in a good place mentally and physically to even care about writing anymore.
to all my moots, thank u so much for being so kind to this introverted writer, and i hope for even more success in your writing journey. to all the requests i've failed to finish, i'm sorry but i'm positive other writers in this fandom can give you better fics.
the requests in my inbox will most likely not be finished.
Despite his injuries, Gwayne appears at Viserea's nameday feast. Bound by forbidden warmth and shared secrets, princess and knight escape the suffocating feast for quiet sanctuary.
Gwayne Hightower X TargaryenOC!Reader
word count: 3.3k
warnings: none
series masterlist | requests
Striding up the royal hall, Viserea took each step with a grin.
The edges of her gown were covered in dirt from her journey to visit Gwayne’s tent. On any other given day, this could have thrown her whole mood out the window. But all she could picture was Gwayne.
His smile. His voice.
The way his hand felt.
The way he called her ‘princess’.
In the same manner, everyone who walked past her drew surprised glances. It has been a while since Viserea was seen bearing a content attitude by the people in these halls.
Since Queen Aemma’s passing, she found it hard to wander past the courtyard. In every direction she turned, it bore a memory of her mother. Viserea locked herself in her chambers, afraid to venture near the weirwood tree where she took her first steps, or the room her mother bled out in.
When she was not in her room, she was in the library. If not, she was in the sky.
The guards could not keep her in the Red Keep, for she found it easier to escape her grief by riding Silverwing for miles across the realm.
For her, when she is up in the sky with the clouds, nothing else exists except her and her dragon.
No pain. No dead mother. No dead brother.
While Viserys was concealing his grief, and Rhaenyra was weighed down by the role of being her, Viserea was left alone to recover. For two years, her heart only had anger. Anger towards her father, for what he did to her mother, and for marrying Alicent. She planned on sowing these seeds of anger all her life until one man relentlessly woke her up from her grudge.
She recalls that encounter like it was yesterday. Otto Hightower visited her chambers, witnessing her so vulnerable and drained of any will to live. Her hair was in disarray, and dark circles grew beneath her eyes. Her eyes swelled from overflowing tears.
At first, he kept his distance and stood, remaining a few feet away from her. As she wiped her tears, Viserea glanced at the Hand.
“I hear you have not been eating, Viserea.” She winces at the mention of her name, especially from his mouth. “Your father will be heartbroken at your loss of appetite.”
“It is not just my appetite I have lost.” Viserea spits out. She kept her eyes on the stone floor, refusing to look at Otto’s tall, demanding figure. She heaves her chest up and down, suddenly aware of how weak and frail her bones were to even stand from the edge of her bed.
Otto slowly moved towards her, keeping his hands behind his back. He watched the young princess freeze in her place, frightened by his presence. Stopping in front of her, he bent down to meet her eye. Viserea slowly raised her head, peering at the old man’s eyes.
“Your father traded your mother’s life for the chance of fathering a son. That is what it may look like to you. But at that very moment, he took his chance, thinking that it would be a wise decision. For his family and the realm.” His words were carried away by the wind, and it struck her heart.
“You may have lost a mother, but your father has lost his wife,” Otto whispers. “I am not in a position to speak entirely of how you feel, but I am aware of how your father feels. Do not be so hard on him. That does not mean you must punish yourself.”
“Then who must I punish?” Her small voice asks.
Otto gives her an innocent smile, lightly clutching at her hand. His large, aged hand felt different against her pale, child-like skin.
“Those who must be punished, princess.”
That was the first and the last time she ever encountered Otto in such a warm and vulnerable manner. While the conversation has done her good, it still left an uncomfortable feeling on her skin, as if he was marking her. But it was not a truth she would like to admit to.
“Bāne ābra ofos bāne houros.” (The woman of the hour).
Turning her head around, she saw from the bottom of the staircase her uncle, Daemon. Viserea maintained her smile, but did not bother to step towards him.
“Kepus.” (Uncle).
“Shouldn’t you be changing for your grand entrance?” Daemon carefully strides up with a proud smile on his face, bearing no trace of his defeat not too long ago this morning.
Viserea lifts her chin, not letting his words go through her demeanor of glee. “I had other matters to attend to.”
His eyes went to the edges of her gown, pursing his lips before huffing a smug laugh. “Well, I hope it's not sweeping the dirt outside with your gown.” He points with his fingers.
She rolled her eyes at his remark. Instead of walking away, she played along. His presence bore the darkness masquerading as enlightenment, and it was best not to get consumed by it.
“You’re rather chipper for someone who lost today’s match.”
“That does not account for my many victories.” His satisfied expression quickly faded, and his shields of hostility were up. It was difficult for Viserea not to feel amused by it. Daemon may be a few things, but he certainly has his own share of skill when it comes to…arrogance.
“One I am particularly proud of is defeating Otto’s shiny, uptight son. Know of him?” Now, it was Viserea who lost her look of satisfaction. He was already underneath her skin from the mention of Gwayne’s defeat. It probably even got him off that he was once again slammed into the dirt of the arena.
As quickly as the tables had turned, did she bother to turn her back on Daemon and stride to her chambers. Without so much as throwing a glance, she could picture her uncle’s glint of dark amusement.
“Sūvī jēdo, Viserea!” (Joyous nameday, Viserea!) He yelled from afar, before his usual throat-deep laugh, his eyes flashing with a wicked glint.
The heavy air of the morning’s tourney was replaced with joyous energy for tonight’s feast. Some houses cast poisonous glances at one another, while the others interacted with a sense of civic obligation. However, at the high table, the music and clinking of goblets were a distant, unimportant buzz.
Daemon sat in his chair, slouched back, and it drove the Hand mad with his contempt. He looked less like a royal guest and more like a beast thoroughly amused by the petty squabbling of the birds caged around him. As he reached for his gold chalice, he saw Rhaenyra walk to him at the corner of his eye. Preparing himself, he gulped down a heavy sum of his wine before meeting her gaze with a smirk.
“You should not have returned, Daemon,” Rhaenyra murmured in a low tone. Displaying a close-lipped smile to the crowd, she spoke through her gritted teeth before sitting down beside him.
Daemon let out a low, throat-deep chuckle. A dry, raspy sound that carried no true warmth. He leaned in just a fraction closer, the silver hair at his temple brushing the edge of her vision.
“Viserys,” he glances towards his brother, which makes Rhaenyra follow along his direction. “Kā rāpa iksos zirto lēda dōvī riñny, pūllon se tor rēn.” (He is too soft to see the vipers in his garden, or the rot at his table.)
Rhaenyra cast a fleeting glance at Alicent and then her father, Otto, who stood nearby. Daemon noticed her line of sight and chuckled, nodding along with her quick connection.
“Bona sȳz rēb hā mēty jēdos rāenagon lēda zaldrīzes bletny. Pāpē rā rēn hā menty.” (That old man is building a cage to trap the dragon's blood. He already holds the key.) He whispers before moving away, his face and holding his chalice near his lips, peering through Otto through the rim before swallowing the wine entirely.
Rhaenyra’s bitter wandering thoughts have found their way back to her mind, glancing at Otto. At the corner of her eye, she saw Gwayne sit in a chair near the high table. Furrowing her eyebrows, she took Daemon’s word with every ounce of earnestness.
Her eyes went back and forth to Gwayne, then Otto, who stood to make his way to his son. They share a few words, unaware of her focus on them.
The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall violently swung open, and everyone’s attention along with it. The herald’s staff struck the stone floor with a deafening crack that shattered the music and silenced the whispering courtiers in an instant.
"Princess Viserea of House Targaryen, on her fifteenth nameday!" the herald bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted rafters.
Hundreds of lords and ladies rose from their seats, bowing low as the youngest princess stepped over the threshold. Her black and red gown from this morning was replaced with gold, shining in the same way her hair did.
Rhaenyra smoothed her expression, the protective older sister replacing the wary heir. Beside her, Daemon slouched back into his chair, his low laugh dying into a knowing, silent grin.
His eyes locked onto Viserea as she walked down the center aisle, tracking her with a sudden, sharp curiosity. While just a step below the high dais, the severe shadow of Otto loomed, his pale eyes tightening. He watches her face, her gown, and the slight hesitation in her steps, making her feel his suffocating presence before she even reaches the high table.
Viserea tried her best to keep her eyes on the crowd, glancing at the lords and ladies present. She gave courteous smiles and bows to whom she could, before turning her head to see Gwayne near the high table.
Suddenly thrown off her guard, she stops for a moment. Gwayne bows with a knightly grin, making her continue her steps. Otto watched behind his son as the princess took small steps with hesitation.
Viserea neared the high table, and behind her was Otto, who also took his place at the high table. “Come here, sweet child,” Viserys murmured. She briefly turned her head to glance at her father, as he gestured with a jewel-encrusted hand for her to ascend the steps. Her eyes went to Gwayne, who sat only a few distances from her.
As she finally sat down, Viserys’ breath came a little too short, a faint tremor shaking his fingers as he reached out to press a warm, heavy kiss to her forehead. “You outshine every tapestry in this hall tonight. Your mother would have wept to see you looking so grand.”
Oblivious to Viserys’ eyes but fairly noticeable to Otto, who sat at Viserys’ other side, her smile dropped for a moment. Viserea forced a wider grin before forcing herself to turn away, clutching at the fabric of her skirt.
It dawned on her that the whole reason today felt so incomplete was because of her mother. Her mind suddenly wandered; indeed, what would Aemma have thought of when she saw her youngest daughter tonight? Would she have wept as her father said? Or would she have had the brightest smile in the room?
She gulped down a lump in her throat, her vision beginning to feel blurry.
He pulled back, his hand lingering affectionately on her shoulder, completely oblivious to how his mention of Queen Aemma made Viserea’s chest tighten. “Sit, eat. Tonight, the realm feasts in your name! Let no heavy thoughts touch you.”
Her eagerness to dig into the meal in front of her was suddenly lost at his words.
“Princess,” Otto whispers, near her ear. “Meet Ser Harwin Strong. He won this morning’s last match.”
“Thank you, Ser Otto,” Viserea mumbles with a nod, trying to be painfully unaware of his close distance to her. While she must admit it was suffocating, she knew it was best to conceal how she felt about it.
“A well-earned victory, Ser Harwin.” She greets with a grin. Ser Harwin stood in front of her, a few steps below the high table. He was not far off his stature in the arena, but not covered with metal armor. He still resembled the mountain that threw Gwayne off balance. “You have certainly proved yourself as the strongest.”
“The honor is mine, Princess.” He replied. “A joyous nameday to you. May your coming years bring you peace, health, and a fortune worthy of your house.” Ser Harwin Strong stepped back from the royal dais with a deep, respectful bow.
Viserea watched as he once again joined the crowd, his laughter echoing across the halls along with the tune of the song. Before she could sink back into the safety of her loneliness, Otto’s shadow stretched across her plate from behind.
“You have hardly touched your plate,” Otto murmured, his voice a quiet, confidential rasp meant for her ears alone. His pale, calculating eyes locked squarely onto her face, tracking the subtle tightness around her eyes. “I noticed you faltered when the King spoke of your mother.”
Viserea’s breath felt trapped in her throat, the seed he had planted when she was young twisting sharply in her chest. She looked up into his weathered, unblinking face, feeling entirely naked under his clinical focus.
“My lord Hand, I—”
“You need not hide your grief from me.” Otto interrupted. His thin, icy fingers reach down to adjust the heavy gold necklace resting against her collarbone. His touch lingered for an agonizing second, his thumb brushing the bare skin of her neck, sending an instinctual shiver of pure dread down her spine.
It left the same amount of dread it did three years ago.
“Your father has always been wary of matters such as this. I am here to—”
“Princess.”
The familiar voice cut through the heavy, suffocating air like a drawn blade.
Otto’s hand froze, recognizing the host of the voice. He turned his head slowly, his brow furrowing sharply as Ser Gwayne Hightower stepped onto the royal dais, completely severing his father’s perimeter.
Gwayne stood rigidly with his tight and pale face. He completely ignored the severe warning glare his father leveled at him. Instead, Gwayne kept his dark eyes fixed entirely on Viserea, kneeling politely before her chair and extending his calloused hand, palm open.
Her lips curved into a smirk at his pending question.
“I apologize for intruding. If your father, the King, permits—”
“And if your injuries allow.” She cuts off. Gwayne then nods at this.
“—And if my injuries allow, I shall count myself the most fortunate man in the Seven Kingdoms to claim the first dance, which I believe you still owe me,” Gwayne said, his voice steady but carrying a rare, fierce edge of defiance that made Viserea’s heart leap.
Otto’s hand slowly dropped from her shoulder, his pale eyes narrowing as he stared down at his son. The silent, suffocating calculus between the father and his son hung heavily in the air, but Viserea did not care for it. She stood from her seat, making her way to him, and slid her fingers instantly into Gwayne's warm, calloused grip, breaking free from the shadow of Otto.
Gwayne then led them to the presence of her father, King Viserys.
“Your Grace, I wish to ask for a dance with your daughter, Princess Viserea.”
His sister, Queen Alicent, furrowed her eyebrows at his request. Viserys, however, had a look of content on his face.
“Then you shall have it, Ser Gwayne,” Viserys said.
Just as Alicent wanted to object, Gwayne, who actively and willfully denied his sister's chance, quickly went with Viserea to the crowd.
Viserea’s suffocating feeling had left her, feeling Gwayne’s hand on hers once again.
“Your bold move just now will cost you heavy glances by every knight in this room, Ser Gwayne.” She whispers.
“I have certainly earned it, my princess,” Gwayne replied with a grin, taking their place at the center of the crowd. He let go of her hand momentarily, keeping his eyes on her. A southern melody from the Reach echoed through the air, and in an instant, everyone around them danced in a synchronized manner.
Gwayne placed his right hand gently against the small of her back. Viserea let out a breath she felt she had been holding for years. But the moment she rested her left hand on his shoulder, she felt the unnatural tightness in his posture. Through the thin fabric of his doublet, she could feel the heavy linen bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.
He took his first step, and a microscopic flinch crossed his jaw, his dark eyes darkening with a flash of sharp pain.
“You are hurting,” Viserea whispered, keeping her head low to look at him closely. She tried to ease her weight off him, but his grip on her waist only tightened, pulling her a fraction closer.
“I am entirely whole, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, a faint smile breaking through the tension on his face. He swept her into a slow turn, his movements technically perfect despite the agony it caused his ribs. “Do not look at my chest. The court is watching. My father is watching.”
She knew he was right. From the high dais, Otto’s gaze followed them like a hawk tracking its prey. On the other end, Rhaenyra, Viserys, and Alicent watched them with curiosity.
“You shouldn't have interrupted him,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs as they glided past a table of cheering Riverlords.
“I would have interrupted anyone, really. For I am honored to be in the presence of Princess Viserea Targaryen, and that I may bask in all her regal glory.”
His breath hit her cheek, warm and laced with the scent of wine.
“My, I must applaud your father for having a son with flowery words.” Viserea teased. Gwayne guided her through a graceful dip, his arm trembling slightly under the strain of her weight before smoothly pulling her back up to his chest. “Are all the knights in the Reach like you?”
“My words have substance, Princess, unlike other knights who only mean to show face.”
She scoffed. “And your act at the tourney was not to show face?”
“It was to capture your attention.”
Viserea’s breath caught. They moved in perfect synchronization now, the music swelling around them.
Feeling a smile forming on her lips, she dares to ask a question. “And why was my attention worth capturing, Ser Gwayne?”
“I was told you possess the free spirit of a princess with principle.”
“Flowery words.” Viserea rolled her eyes with a chuckle, feeling him guide her to a slow spin.
Gwyane followed her laughter. “A Targaryen princess who stood out from the rest.” His exaggerated tone made her giggle through her smile.
“You are not making your case.”
As the final notes of the song began to fade, Gwayne slowed their steps, his hand lingering on her waist for a heartbeat too long. Neither one of them wanted to finish their moment so soon. Evidently, there was already a herd of other knights and lords nearby who awaited Viserea to finish her dance with him.
Gwayne did not bother to entertain their attention and decided to break away to ask her a question.
“Well then,” Gwayne starts. “Care to join me as I prove it?” He offered up his hand once more, palm facing upwards. Viserea stared at his hand once more. Devoid of any agency she might have possessed, she took his hand and was led away from the crowd.
At this point, Viserys was talking with Otto to even notice the absence of his youngest daughter from the room. Alicent was lost in her thoughts, but Rhaenyra saw the faint silhouette of her sister leaving the room.
Carrying with him the princess' favor, Gwayne rushes into his tourney match and Viserea Targaryen is even more intrigued with what the knight has to show. Away from all the attention, a proper introduction occurs between them.
Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader
word count: 3.9k
warnings: mentions of blood, bones breaking and injuries
series masterlist | requests
Viserea had forgotten the last moment she felt alive and, mayhaps, entertained, if you can call it that way. She couldn't keep her eyes away from the spectacle. The whole idea of a tourney for her nameday was a matter she felt indifferent about, but couldn’t resist.
Indeed, what was the point in a ‘friendly’ jousting between knights during a princess’s day? What honor had to be proven and earned by these men? They were already distinguished soldiers on their own, but the field was fair game when it came to showing off in front of the Targaryens.
Viserea leaned over the railing, her heart pounding against her ribs. The crowds roared, and she kept her eyes locked on Gwayne.
He moved forward in his saddle, feeling the sudden, violent tremble of his charging horse. Opposite to him, Ser Steffon shifted his shield, aiming his lance directly at Gwayne's crest. Gwayne didn't flinch. He adjusted his grip, tracking the white center of the Kingsguard's shield. The sheer force of the impact shook both riders violently in their saddles, but not enough to tame their spirit. Gasps were heard along the crowd as the horses bolted past each other, their riders attempting to keep them under control.
Gwayne reined in his horse at the end of the line, tossing away the useless, broken lance far away beside him. His shield arm throbbed from the impact, but as he turned his horse back around, he threw a glance up at the royal box. He caught Viserea's eye and offered a single, steady nod.
To this, she lightly curves her lip with a smirk.
“A fresh lance!” Gwayne called out to his young, breathless squire.
The second tilt went by with equal fury. Another thunderous charge, another deafening collision of steel and ash wood. With lances once again shattered into wooden pieces, neither Gwayne nor Ser Steffon shifted in their saddles.
“This might take all day.” Rhaenyra was inclined to believe. Narrowing her eyes at the sight, Viserea looked to Ser Steffon, then Gwayne, before pursing her lips.
Neither wanted to lose face. Even from a distance, Viserea could see the clenched jaw Ser Steffon displayed from tiredness. The smallfolk were on their feet, screaming for blood or victory.
“The third pass!” the herald bellowed. “The final tilt!”
Otto shifted in his seat, his fingers finding their way into his beard. A defeat for Gwayne would also imply a weakness for him and Alicent. His daughter, in her expected demeanor as Queen, kept her silence and instead picked at the skin on her fingers.
Each tilt that has passed has made Alicent slowly yet harshly lift a layer of flesh. As she winced in anticipation of Gwayne losing his balance, Alicent also drew her breath from the blood on her fingertips.
Viserea’s hands kept still but numb. Regardless of whether House Hightower wins or loses this tilt, it would not matter as much to her. The gains were, from her standpoint, at most superficial. But what troubled her most was the reason for her invested attention to Gwayne, even in an attempt to pull her eyes away.
At the starting line, Gwayne drew a deep breath inside the hot metal of his helm. His shoulder was beginning to bruise, his muscles throbbing under the weight of the plate armor.
He raised his third lance at an instant. This time, however, he didn't look at Steffon's shield. Instead, Gwayne focused on the tiny gap where the white plate met the shoulder joint.
The horses surged forward for the final time, neighing and eager to finish their part in the tilt. Weighted stomps were heard, and Viserea closed her eyes for a split second, unable to look.
A sound deeper, heavier than the others echoed through the arena. Metal clanking like the previous rounds. She snapped her eyes open.
Through the shawl of mist and dust, Ser Steffon's white horse was empty. The legendary Kingsguard knight had been lifted clean out of his stirrups, crashing backward into the dirt with a heavy, metallic thud that left him breathless in the arena mud.
For a moment, there was total silence. Then, the stadium erupted into an absolute frenzy.
Gwayne slowed his warhorse to a trot. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his dented breastplate. He didn't look at the fallen Kingsguard, nor did he wave to the cheering smallfolk.
With a trembling, bruised hand, Gwayne was assisted by his squire to the sidelines. He took off his helmet, his face dripping with sweat as he finally got fresh air.
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, our victor for this round!”
The royal box stood with applause. Viserea laid eyes on Gwayne, who showed signs of exhaustion, but still took his time to gaze up at her place. Joining everyone behind her, she slowly clapped at his display of skill.
Viserea did not need to turn behind her to feel the smug look on Otto’s face, his chin raised high with pride.
“Don’t forget,” Rhaenyra whispers. “His victory will make him face Ser Borros, Ser Harwin, or uncle.”
That was one detail she forgot. The other champions were no match for Gwayne’s skill, but beside the other victors, his odds turned slim. Rhaenyra seemed to remember a lot from tourneys, especially when she came across Ser Criston, a knight who now serves as her Sworn Protector.
It terrified her what these men were capable of doing to show their strength to the realm.
All for glory.
She sat down as the lists were narrowed down to the victors. Biting on her lip, her mind was going in endless circles. Either the heralds were taking their time and were toying with her, or a plan was in motion.
Rhaenyra looked back at the tourney held for Aegon not too long ago, reflections and memories in the form of pictures in her mind. Their uncle, Daemon Targaryen, deliberately chose Gwayne in his first match to get a bit of a kick from Otto. The ending was not in favor of Gwayne, according to her sister’s recollection.
The young princess was not permitted to join them at the time and was watched by the maids. However, Viserea did not bother to ask further, for she knew. The brutality and rage Daemon always displayed and attempted to tame. The same manner that led him to steal dragon eggs a few years back, and eventually won him the war in the Stepstones.
The trumpets once again blared, waking her out of her trance. It was announced that Ser Borros will face Daemon, which leaves Ser Harwin with Gwayne.
“Do you think Ser Harwin shall break Gwayne?” Viserys asks his Hand out of the blue.
Otto opened his mouth to answer, taking his time to conjure a response before finally saying, “I hope not, Your Grace. It is difficult to bring him back if returned in...pieces.”
After Ser Borros’ match against their uncle, the Targaryens in the royal box could be seen with lips curved to a smirk. Daemon had managed to exhibit his gained skill and strength from his recent victory in the Stepstones, but his pride from being dubbed as The Rogue Prince was miles away from Ser Borros’.
Daemon was thrown off as quickly as he got to the top–crashing down. As unbecoming as it was for Princess Rhaenys and King Viserys to admit, they would pay to witness the same match again.
Soon, it came to the final match.
The herald’s trumpet shattered the roar of the crowd. On the southern end sat Ser Harwin Strong. He was a mountain of a man, his black armor bearing the three colored stripes of House Strong, looking less like a knight and more like a boulder strapped to a destrier. His mere stature was impressive.
On the other end stood Ser Gwayne Hightower. In his polished steel armor and green cloak, Gwayne was the embodiment of a chivalric Reach knight. While guiding his horse into position with careful steps, his eyes did not look to his massive opponent. Instead, they drifted upward to the royal box, to the Guest of Honor.
The young princess.
The woman of the occasion.
“Your son looks like a silver pin next to a warhammer, Ser Otto,” Rhaenyra murmured nearby, a teasing smirk on her lips. Otto and Alicent didn't laugh. Her knuckles were white as the clouds that day, and his teeth were gritted so tightly. Otto’s stare could not be broken by any words, probably not even from Viserys himself.
The first pass was deafening. Even someone who is not fond of tourneys would keep their eyes glued to the match. Gwayne’s technique was incredible as it was before. His lance struck Harwin’s shoulder with bullseye accuracy, shattering against the black plate.
But it was not enough to throw Harwin off. The giant of Harrenhal endured the impact as if it were a gentle breeze of the afternoon wind, pointing his own massive lance square into the center of Gwayne’s shield.
The solid oak splintered with a crack that echoed like thunder across the arena. Gwayne was nearly thrown clean out of his position, his horse rearing wildly as he fought to stay in the saddle. By sheer force of will, Gwayne recovered, but his shield was now useless, breaking in his arm.
They wheeled their horses at the ends of the track, Gwayne casting away the ruined shield that bore his house sigil.
He won't survive the second strike without armor, Viserea thought. She observed Gwayne’s posture through his visor. He was breathing heavily, for he knew it too. He couldn't match Harwin in brute force. The only trick up his sleeve is agility.
As the two knights converged and resumed at terrifying speed, Gwayne dipped low, shifting his center of gravity to avoid the heavy timber of Harwin's lance. He executed the maneuver perfectly, his own lance leaping forward to strike Harwin’s throat-guard.
But Ser Harwin was called Breakbones for a reason. Apart from being strong, he was an expert in battle tactics. Foreseeing the move, Harwin adjusted his weight at the last second. Gwayne’s lance glanced harmlessly off the curved helm, and Harwin's massive forearm caught Gwayne squarely in the chest.
The impact was brutal, as expected. Gwayne was thrown backward from his horse, crashing violently into the dirt of the tourney grounds. His green cloak trailed in the mud as he slid several feet, his armor groaning under the pressure.
While the crowd erupted into cheers for the victorious Strong, Viserea stood up from her chair, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Caught up in terror and worry, she watched Gwayne shift painfully down in the dirt.
Harwin dismantled his horse and walked over to where Gwayne lay gasping for air and extended his dirt-covered gauntlet. “Well done, Hightower!” He grinned. “You're quicker than you look.”
Gwayne gradually lifted his arm and accepted assistance, allowing the giant to pull him to his feet. He unhelmed, his rich red hair damp with sweat, a grimace of pain crossing his features as he nursed what was surely a bruised ribcage. Gwayne bowed politely to the victor, feeling more than just sweat clinging to his skin.
Attempting to walk it off, his face contorted with a sharp pain at his back. When he was finally aided in striding away, he looked directly at Viserea. He may have lost the favor of the crowd, but her favor still hung on his armor. The ribbon was now stained with dirt, not as bright and pure as it once was.
He gave her a faint, reassuring nod, his hand resting tightly over his heart before walking off the field.
Viserea, feeling relieved, gave him a nod in return. A small grin was plastered on her face as she sat down beside her sister. Every noise that she had unconsciously ceased from her senses came back rushing as she joined the crowd in applauding Ser Harwin.
Gwayne winces from the sudden sting when the maester wraps his bruised ribs, covering the yellowish and purple marks that will surely deepen their color overnight. His arming doublet had to be ripped open to immediately tend to his wounds.
Nearby, Otto paces back and forth in his place, nipping at his finger as he waits for Maester Orwyle to finish wrapping his son.
Gwayne kept his head down, preparing for the words that his father would greet him with from his arrival in King’s Landing.
Otto’s eyebrows furrowed and seemed deep in thought when he stopped in his tracks and faced his son.
“You should not have asked for the princess’s favor.”
“Do tell me your reasoning,” Gwayne replied, lifting his right arm for Maester Orwyle to wipe clean before wrapping it with a bandage.
“You, my son, were too complacent. I’m certain the other houses are already ravaging at your performance—” Otto bitterly speaks out.
“My performance”, Gwayne cuts. “Happened to defeat a knight of the Kingsguard—” His words were interrupted when a bundle of noise was heard from outside the recovery tent. Shadows of figures could be made out from the interior, two tall and wearing armor. The other being of lower height and stature, appearing to be wearing a gown.
Perhaps a lady from another house has mistaken their tent.
But it was indeed the right tent.
The two tall figures were in the woman’s way, blocking her way of entering with their large bodies. Gwayne would have easily ignored the matter and returned to their father-son bickering when the woman spoke with a voice, familiarity tingling all over the heads of the three men inside the tent.
“But princess–”
“He is injured,” Viserea argued. “I doubt he will bring more harm than a passerby.” Without any other solid counterargument, the two guards stood aside and made way for her to enter the tent. She chose to visit Gwayne alone, and it was better to prevent any undesirable whispers from the guards about her sudden interest in Otto Hightower’s son.
Viserea peered inside the recovery tent carefully, pushing the covers to the side as she stepped in. Otto, Gwayne, and the maester froze on the spot from her presence but were quick to remedy their stunned reaction.
Bowing all together, they acknowledged her. “Princess,” they said in unison.
She nodded in return with an innocent smile. “Ser Otto, Maester Orwyle. I see you have also attended to our injured visitor.”
As if ‘attended’ was the right word, Gwayne thought. Looking at the two figures who stood in the princess’s way, she took a few steps forward to Otto, who had his sharp eyes on her.
“Ser Otto, I believe my father was asking for you just now.” She uttered with a smile. From the many interactions that Viserea had with Otto Hightower, an uneasy and eerie feeling was left on her skin whenever it occurred. Apart from his closeness to her father, he possessed a quality she feared: duplicity. One movement and he could pick apart how Viserea thought to report to King Viserys, and it made her feel a creeping blight.
His eyes would either remain unusually long on her or wander around her face and proceed downwards. Viserea wished for it to be a mere judgment from a man tasked to ensure the well-being of the royal line, and not something so unjust that it deadened his moral sense.
Otto nodded, glancing at Gwayne. “I shall see to it then, princess.”
He bowed and passed by her right shoulder, his tunic grazing ever so lightly against her skin before departing the tent. Viserea’s now focused on Gwayne, her hands placed behind her.
Maester Orwyle quickly noticed the lingering words that were waiting to be said out loud, judging by their glances at each other. He sets down the bundle of bandages and breaks the silence by clearing his throat, unsure where to retreat to.
“I–I shall fetch fresh water, Ser Gwayne. Princess.” He bowed nervously and followed in the same direction Otto took to leave the tent.
Glancing at the table nearby, a small basin seemed to have a proper amount of fresh water. Viserea stifled a smirk at the awkwardness of the young maester’s departure.
With their presence now with each other, Viserea had just started to notice that Gwayne’s chest was exposed from the bandage around his worn ribs. His right arm was also wrapped with a bandage, but it appeared strong with the muscle he had gained from years of mastery.
She quickly snapped her eyes away from the sight, embarrassed to even look over his body for another second.
“Forgive me, I did not notice sooner.”
Gwayne lightly chuckled and grabbed his ripped arming doublet by the edge of the cot, and covered himself. The tone of his laughter sent a light flush to her cheeks. After covering himself, she gradually turned her head to meet his eyes once more. There was still a noticeable distance between them, but closer compared to before.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, princess?” Gwayne asks, raising his chin through the question. Viserea’s eyes avoided travelling down to his partly exposed chest, with only his arms being concealed.
“For displaying true honor during your match.” She takes a few steps to his place, carefully maintaining a safe distance. Viserea’s eyes remain on the ground, hands clasped behind her back. “But at the end of the day, everyone is a victor.”
To this, Gwayne gave a huffed giggle.
“You’ve clearly never been to battle, Princess.” The moment he let go of those words, he wished he had swallowed them instead. Viserea came to a halt and eyed him up and down at the remark. Uncertain with how to receive his words, she nodded and trailed her eyes away to the tent with gut-wrenching silence.
With her sudden change of behavior, he stuttered with trembling words. “Apologies for having offended you–”
“You did no such thing.” His words bore no lies. Viserea has been in the Red Keep all her life until she claimed Silverwing and would fly on dragonback to Dragonstone. She had the luxury to travel far from home without feeling afraid of marching into war. Every night she tucked herself to sleep, there was no cloud of fear in her mind that the next morning, she would be called to battle.
That struck her more than Gwayne’s remark: the privilege of remaining in the safeguarded walls of the castle, while other men fought her family’s battles for them.
Turning her head to the side, she mumbled in a low voice from embarrassment.
“Ohos godsos, baelagon meos.” (Oh gods, help me.) The words were not carried by the air properly for Gwayne to understand, and even if they were, he had no idea how to decipher the language.
“Pardon?” He questions.
Snapping her head forward to his line of sight, Viserea presents a face of cluelessness, raising her eyebrows. Pursing her lips, she admits. “Not important.”
She shook her head side to side, a close-lipped smile attempting to reassure the injured man. Viserea started to feel uneasy, seeing as she was interested in talking to a man more reserved than she was.
But Gwayne was following her lead, as he too was unsure of how to proceed.
“Well, I wish for your recovery, Ser Gwayne. And I apologize.” She said with a melancholic tone. Viserea made way for the exit, quickly turning her back at him and picking up her pace.
“What for?” Gwayne asked. She stopped in her tracks, braving to face him once more.
“Well, I might have had a hand in your condition.” She poses. Gwayne furrowed his eyebrows, willing to know more about the part the princess might have played.
Manipulation of the lists, perhaps? Or an agreement between Ser Harwin? Gwayne asked himself.
Facing him once more, she took careful steps. “I am told I bring misfortune, and my favor–”
“–Has driven my first victory.” He clarifies. The disturbing thoughts that plagued his mind were washed away with relief, but now replaced with worry. She had no part in his defeat, but she felt that she was partially responsible. “The princess shall not be called a misfortune on her nameday."
He extends a hand to her, aching to close the uncomfortable distance between them. “Gwayne Hightower, princess.”
Staring at his palm, she forgets any agency she has left in her body. Viserea takes her time in moving closer, aiming not to look too eager at his invitation. Gwayne watched her every move, like an artist remembering every detail of his muse.
She placed her own hands in his palm, feeling the faint calluses and dirt beneath his knuckles. “Viserea Targaryen.”
Gwayne let out a self-deprecatory chuckle. He found it quite endearing for Viserea to bother to introduce herself when the whole occasion was for her.
Of course, this meeting was completely devoid of court etiquette. But it was merely a proper introduction between a princess and a knight who asked for her favor.
“It would have been better to meet you in a different circumstance, Ser Gwayne.” She jests, slowly pulling her hand away before attempting to depart. Predicting the sudden fleeing of the princess, Gwayne took his chance.
“Since I displayed such honor you boasted about, am I allowed to ask for a prize?”
Unable to form a quick reply, Viserea’s lips gaped at the inquiry. Was that all this was about? A chance to ask for a reward? She thought.
“If you speak of a monetary reward, I’m afraid the Crown does not–”
“A dance, princess.” He clears up. “Later during the feast this evening.”
Viserea felt inclined to sink into the ground with shame at her assumption. She felt baffled and flustered at his persistent character.
Gwayne, however, was afraid that he might have frightened her out of her wits. He began to notice the heat on her cheeks rush to her entire face.
Coming to her senses, she flashes him a grin. She slowly started to step backwards for the exit, completely aware of his undivided attention to her movements. He had managed to render her speechless, something most people found difficult to achieve with her.
“You will dance your troubles away once you have healed from your injuries.”
Gwayne was amused at her state from such a simple request, and her attempt to sway the attention to his condition. Indeed, it would be difficult to dance with a princess when his body felt like it was withering away from pain.
“Good day, Ser Gwayne.” Viserea utters before finally making her escape outside the tent. The guards that were in her way a few moments ago were nowhere to be found. There was not a trace of anyone outside the tent.
Instead of feeling worried, she felt even more glad. For no one would witness how flustered she was, and the creeping grin on her lips.
Gwayne watched from the interior as the afternoon sun gave light to her shadow. He saw how she stopped in her tracks right outside, breathing deeply. He heard a faint chuckle, and she finally went her way to the Red Keep.
Viserea controlled herself from skipping to the feast, looking down at the ground filled with leaves. She still felt the lingering warmth of Gwayne’s hand on her skin. The heavy, suffocating weight the tourney has brought her has vanished.
Walking briskly towards the castle gardens, her skirt rustled like a melody. Lost in her own gleeful thoughts, Viserea never noticed the figure standing on the covered stone gallery that overlooked the courtyard.
Otto had his hands clasped around his back. He did not move an inch as he watched his son’s tent flap settle back. His gaze tracked Viserea’s retreating figure with eagle-eyed focus, and he couldn’t help but make a faint, humorless smile at the sight.
During the tourney in honor of Viserea’s fifteenth nameday, a knight dressed in green asks for the princess’ favor.
Gwayne Hightower X Targaryen!Reader
word count: 3.6k
warnings: none
series masterlist | requests
Targaryens are known by the realm for many things, and among them are dragons, power and wealth. The only known currency for them is paid through either fire or blood, and all roads lead to the Iron Throne.
All except for women, and Viserea knew this as a long standing tradition. She knew of Princess Rhaena Targaryen, who stood aside and watched her younger brother take the crown; Aerea Targaryen, whose birthright was neglected, and even her own cousin Princess Rhaenys who was denied because she was born a woman. Even her own mother was not an exception, as Queen Aemma bled out during labor to bring their father a son that the realm would declare as heir. It won’t be long before the realm denies her own sister Rhaenyra of her birthright.
The fear aroused by injustice to past Targaryen women continued to loom over her, and it was this that kept her up at night. Eventually, it will be the reason for her sudden disturbance.
It was not accompanied with the tolling of the grand bells, but rather came from the man she trusted above all others.
The heavy iron latch of her chambers opened, and she snapped her eyes awake in the dark. Reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow, Viserea’s breathing hitched and panic loomed over her heart.
Ser Gwayne Hightower stormed her chambers, and her panic was replaced with relief, the dagger being slumped back underneath her pillow. His face bore no courtly demeanor but rather a dread that plagued the next words he uttered.
“Princess,” he breathed, his voice harsh and trembling. “The king is dead.”
The fear that accompanied the night began circling around her. Her bones felt frail and heavy. A chill passed through her entire body, terror coiling about. The same feeling that washed over her when her mother passed, only this time their breaths were both taken by death.
“If you do not leave,” he continued, “the Queen will not let you live to see dawn.”
Viserea frantically rose from her bed, and reached for the dagger underneath her pillow before following Gwayne through the hidden passage of the Red Keep behind one of the walls of her chambers.
As they departed her, she attempted to keep her eyes awake. They were swallowed by the harrowing darkness, with nothing but a torch lighting their escape. The suffocating dimness bent her mind backwards, searching for the moment she last departed her chambers without a hostile heart. Viserea’s mind went to a memory years ago, from her nameday tourney that altered her fate.
“Viserea.” Gwayne uttered, but once she looked at him his mouth was closed shut.
“Viserea.”
Her eyes that stared blankly at the floor with an inexplicable lack of concentration, jolted up to her sister Rhaenyra. She stood in front of her chamber door, peering at the chaos that was scattered across the young princess’ room.
It was already crowded enough with Viserea’s thoughts, but the handmaids kept piling up in her chambers. One ran across the room to the closet, the other pushing a pin in her hair. Another sat below her, carefully sliding on her shoe, while an aggressive pull came from behind her gown. After endless tugging on the ribbons, the dress tightened and was tied in a knot. The handmaid let out a sigh of relief, releasing the tension on her grip. Viserea could feel the unsettling heat of the fabric on her skin, making her shift now and then in her place.
One would look at her and not even notice that the company and the people who have journeyed across the realm were for her nameday. The colorful banners, the families, the knights. It was difficult to say exactly what she felt, but all she knew was that at that moment, another second of handmaids prepping her like a pig for a feast would ruin everything she had on her mind.
“You seem upset, sister.” Rhaenyra said. Viserea slouched her shoulders, causing one of the handmaids to lightly tap her and jolt her to return to proper form. Her eldest sister saw her face and slowly walked to her with a smug grin.
“I am not upset.” She sighs. “I am simply…baffled.” Rhaenyra gave a small nod to the maidens, and they nodded in return before walking and closing the door on their way out. As the door slammed shut, she relaxed her weighted shoulders and groaned. Viserea just now noticed her sister’s appearance. Not much different from her own gown, except a gold pin probably wasn’t poking through Rhaenyra's shoulder like hers, and her hair did not weigh like a bird’s nest with all the pins and the long braid on her back.
They were two sisters draped in their house colors, each with their own identity. Rhaenyra’s was gold embellished with subtle red jewelry, while hers was black and dark red. The striking difference between them was Rhaenyra was 3 years ahead, while her sister still bore a young, innocent face.
Swatting away the painful feeling, she searches for the pin on her shoulder. Realizing that she could not do it on her own, Rhaenyra grips her shoulders and gently turns her around. Quietly wincing, Viserea's face scrunches as her sister pats the fabric.
“Tubis issa foros ao. Kepa dōrenka sureos ofos ūja.” (Today is for you. Father made sure of it.)
“Ūja issa granderos geralbar a idīnagon.” (It is grander than a wedding.)
“Letos usos aōhoso ūja issa bāne a idīnagon pār. Dorolvie iounos knigtsos villos imāzigon bantāzma villos vieos foros ao” (Let us wish it is not a wedding then. Many young knights will arrive and will vie for you.)
Grabbing a feel of the pin, Rhaenyra gently takes it out of her dress. Feeling a sudden relief wash over her, Viserea slowly turns around.
“Foros meos oros foros ñuha brōzagon?” (For me or for my name?)
Rhaenyra took notice of her sister’s expression. The question awakened various trains of reflection within her as well. She lifted her hand and gently tucked back a stray silver lock behind Viserea’s ear. With a gentle smile, she responds.
“You are worth more than your name.”
As comforting and believable as her sister made it sound, Viserea did not hold the same idea, and she knew her sister thought the same. It is challenging enough to be a woman, but to be brought into a world where you were taught at a young age about wagering a person’s intentions is a gamble on its own. The realm had its eyes on them ever since their father produced no sons as heirs, until Aegon came along. From the moment they were born, they only trusted each other. This makes Viserea’s name day even more worrisome for Rhaenyra, as she would now be of age to marry.
The uneasy feeling brought back her own worries on her fifteenth nameday. Rhaenyra was being prepped by the maids as she was, with Viserea watching her from her bed. Her legs flailed about at the edge, cluelessly staring at the work and intricacy on her sister’s gown.
Rhaenyra gave a smile to her young sister who was 12 at the time. When the maids left her chambers, she ran to Viserea and lifted her with an embrace.
“Ao issi gīmī, Nyra.” (You are beautiful, Nyra). Viserea cooed.
As if the years flew by, when Rhaenyra blinked, it was not a young child in front of her but now her sister who was of age. Unlike Rhaenyra, Viserea would be given the freedom (or rather, a choice) with her fate, and her sister envied and loved her for it. Her envy came from a place of grief when Rhaenyra realized that they would not be at each other’s side forever. The man of her choosing could be in the North, from House Stark, or in Dorne, from House Martell. She could spend her days in any corner of the realm with a man of her choosing, away from the weight of tradition and duty.
But they were certain of one thing: they had but each other.
The crowd rumbled with chatter as they ascended to the royal box. Keeping her eyes down, Viserea gripped her skirt, lifting it with every step. Her heart was beating uncontrollably, and the light was slowly consuming them.
Viserea’s breath hitched when she caught a glance of the number of people in attendance. She came to a halt on her steps, keeping her eyes on the empty seat that waited for her. Her palms felt cold and tense, but returned to their warmth when Rhaenyra held her hand tightly.
She gave an encouraging smile and took the first step, slowly guiding her younger sister upwards. Finally, the light engulfed their vision, and everyone in the royal box took note of their presence.
Otto Hightower, their father’s Hand, turned his head in their direction as soon as he saw Rhaenyra inch closer to King Visery’s seat. As Rhaenyra gave her father a hug before sitting in her place, Alicent Hightower, Otto’s daughter and Queen Consort, attempted to catch a glimpse of Rhaenyra’s sight. In her failure, she slumped back in her seat with a deep sigh.
Aware of the eyes on her, Viserea slowly approached her father at the center. Viserys's serious demeanor brightened in the presence of his younger daughter. He was in awe of how radiant they both looked for the occasion.
“My youngest!” His arms opened in her presence, capturing her in an embrace. Viserys lightly tapped her back and broke off the embrace, taking another look at his daughter. Beside him sat Alicent, who now took the place of their late mother’s seat. Viserea’s mother had come to her in pictures and visions, and it was almost real enough for her to jolt her shoulders for an embrace before the mist revealed the face of the Queen.
Hair not like hers, but rich red. Face not as warm and welcoming, but bore a hostile expression. A few years ahead, but still appeared too infantile unlike Aemma.
There had been peaceful encounters with her and Alicent years prior when she was a child. Rhaenyra was latched onto her almost every minute in the Red Keep, and the young princess grew to know her as an elder sister. But when their father married Alicent, Viserea could no longer view her as her sister’s best mate or the girl who taught her how to curtsy. She was the Queen Consort now.
Breaking off from her trance, she acknowledged Alicent. “Your Grace.” Before sitting beside Rhaenyra, she caught a glimpse of her cousin Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and her husband Lord Corlys Velaryon taking their own place in the royal box. Viserea gave a subtle nod, which they both acknowledged with a small smile.
Finally situating herself beside her sister, she glanced at the crowd, numerous people stared in their direction. The tourney was prepared outside the walls of King’s Landing and landed on a clear, bright day. Multiple gazes and smiles were flashed in her direction when many saw her presence with her family. The Targaryens looked even more majestic with the light shining on their silver hair, and it was difficult for their eyes to pass Viserea with her appearance.
Otto nodded to a man low on the ground once everyone was settled. The man nodded in return. Trumpets blared from the high heralds and silenced the crowd. Alicent flinched at the sudden noise, causing Rhaenyra to hold back her laughter.
As the trumpets faded out, Viserys rose to his feet and clasped a golden chalice. Everyone in attendance laid their eyes on him, his gold crown being hit by the light. “Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms! Knights from the Reach, the Riverlands, and the West!” His voice echoes through the crowd.
“You have come a long way to stand before us, and today you ride for a prize more valuable than gold or glory.” He points to Viserea with a content grin, and she lightly lowers her head as a flush approaches her cheek.
“Sixteen years passed, the gods looked down upon my house and gifted us a second princess. If her sister Rhaenyra is the blazing midday sun of our realm, Viserea is the soft, comforting light of the morning. To the Maesters, she is a princess of the blood, but to us, she is the gentle fire that warms our home. Behold, The Dawn-Flame of House Targaryen!”
The crowd erupts in cheers and claps. Knights raise their banners while the Northern houses thump their tables.
“Today, we do not ride for praise, nor do we fight for grievances. Today, the ash wood shall splinter, and the shields shall shatter in her name alone! Let the bravest among you seek the favor of our Guest of Honor!”
As the crowd once again cheers, the knights from different houses begin to line up. “Presenting, the knights of this tourney!” The herald announces. One by one, the knights stride atop their horses, each carrying their house pride.
Viserea kept her eyes on them as they rode past the royal box in a glittering line. Knights from the Reach, Riverlands, and the Stormlands moved gracefully, giving a nod to the princess as they passed by.
A knight from the Riverlands, who looked like a mountain, gave Rhaenyra a nod. One knight dressed in rich green, however, followed Viserea’s line of sight from start to finish of the regal display.
Viserea took another second to study the knight's house, squinting as she did so. A tower in a field of green. The knight then turned his head forward. “Sister,” she called out. “House Hightower is here today?”
Rhaenyra gave a light nod, glancing at the same person her younger sister observed. “I believe so. The Queen’s brother, I suppose.” Taking another glance at the knight, she tilted her head.
Rhaenyra noticed her sister’s line of sight and chuckled. “Picking a knight already? We’ve only just begun.”
“I am simply observing the honorable men who took on the challenge of fighting for a princess’ attention. ” She teased and joined her sister in a mumbled cheeky laughter. The trumpets once again blasted. The sounds of splintering ash wood and cheering smallfolk filled the air.
The herald called the knights, and they each took on the challenge bravely. Early rounds of the challenge displayed their skill and strength. The knight who gave Rhaenyra a nod was Ser Harwin Strong, supposedly the strongest man in the realm. The crowd cheered for him, shouting “Breakbones!” as he disarmed a Lannister knight off his horse. His body dropped to the ground with a loud smash from his armour. His groans followed, along with the crowd's gasps and winces.
Rhaenyra stood from her seat at Ser Harwin’s triumph with an impressed smile. The crowd erupts with cheers as he is declared the round’s winner. The royal box joined with applause as the Lannister knight was assisted off the jousting area.
“Picking a knight already, Rhaneyra?” The young princess giggled. Rhaenyra slowly turned her head to her sister with a playful smile, shaking her head as she sat down.
House Tully and House Baratheon then follow in pursuit in the following round. Viserea took pity on House Tully’s knight as he seemed young and terrified of his opponent. Ser Borros of House Baratheon faced him, massive build and demeanor sending further chills down Tully’s knight.
Few people in the crowd were already whispering to themselves, perhaps whispering about the young knight’s demise against Ser Borros’ foreseen brutality.
It did not take much or long for Tully’s champion to be struck down by the Baratheon knight. Everyone fell to silence as he fell to the ground and blood splattered out of his armor. Aemma and Viserea winced and looked away from the scene. No word was uttered as the young knight was dragged off, and Ser Borros hollered a cheer of victory. Only then did the crowd resume its excitement.
Up next, Daemon Targaryen joined the match and chose a knight from House Royce. Lighter cheers came from the crowd, and Viserys lightly laughed to himself at his brother’s pick. “His wife will give him an earful for his choice today.”
As expected, Daemon won against House Royce. But his success was met with concern from the crowd, as his opponent was not only defeated but also inflicted with pain. Pain that was clearly personal as far as the royal box was concerned. On the second tilt, Daemon intentionally aims his lance high, shattering the wood directly against the knight’s visor, leaving the Royce warrior bloody and unconscious in the dirt.
“What nameday this is,” Viserea whispers to her sister. “Celebrated with men fighting and claiming it is for my honor.”
“Well,” Rhaenyra says. “The next might capture your interest.” She mumbles with a wink. Viserea furrows her forehead and snaps her head to look at House Hightower’s knight stepping forward with his majestic horse, and in turn, so does Ser Steffon Darklyn.
She gapes her mouth open at the pairing from utter shock. Ser Steffon Darklyn is a Kingsguard, a highly skilled one at that. “Riding for the Hightower of Oldtown! Son of the Hand, Ser Gwayne of House Hightower!” The herald announces. Viserea was immediately terrified for Hightower’s knight when she tensed up further from what he did next.
The green knight commanded his horse, striding to the royal box proudly. The crowd, once wild, went silent, and murmurs were made.
Everyone who remained at the royal box peered down at the knight, especially Otto and Alicent. Even the herald himself was shocked and could not determine what to do. His armor clinked at his stop just in front of Viserea. Reaching for the edge of his helmet, he took it off and revealed his face.
His hair was damp from the heat of his armor but rich red like Alicent’s. His face was pale and charming, as the young princess hoped it would be.
Gwayne looked up at her from the dirt of the arena. He had a calm, focused intensity in his eyes. Bowing from his saddle, his voice was carried clearly by the silence of the crowd. “Princess Viserea. The high heralds call you a flame today, but I found this blossom in the shade of the Godswood that embodied you.”
He extends his closed, armoured gauntlet up at the princess and reveals a Dragon’s Breath flower. Everyone kept their eyes on them, most especially the princess as she stood from her seat and slowly leaned from the iron railing. Viserea did her best to maintain her composure, aware that they were all watching her.
“A bold thing to bring fire to a Targaryen princess.” Light chuckles erupted from the arena. The young princess smirked before reaching down at his gauntlet, her fingers brushing against the cold metal as she received the flower.
A small smirk played on his lips as Gwayne’s eyes locked onto hers. “I am a knight of the House Hightower, Princess. I only hope its fire brings me luck against the lances today...If you would grant me the honor of carrying your favor into the lists.”
Light murmurs spread amongst the crowd as they await Viserea’s decision. She playfully twirled the Dragon’s Breath on her fingers, taking her time to contemplate her decision.
Untying the lavender silk ribbon from her wrist while staring at him, Viserea let it drop carefully into his palm. “I wish you luck then, Ser Gwayne. Do not let my favor taste defeat.” Light chuckles, and liveliness filled the atmosphere of the arena once more. Gwayne nodded, pressing the silk to his lips before tying it securely around his armored bicep.
Viserea latched onto the railing as she felt struck by his entirety. She watched him ride off as he prepared for his match.
“Never took your brother for a flirt, Alicent.” Viserys whispered to her. “My daughter is clearly amused.” While it was difficult to pinpoint, she heard a mutter from Otto and a giggle from Rhaenyra. The crowd watched on edge. Everyone wanted to see if the princess’s favor would aid in the knight’s match against a member of the Kingsguard.
Rhaenyra joins Viserea as they lean at the railing for a better view. Gwayne turned to glance at the royal box, seeing the Targaryen sisters with their eyes on his every move.
“Ao veos drēje meltedos hisos konkentrashon ozdakonon dubāzma.” (You've just melted his concentration away, sister). Rhaenyra whispered.
“Idakogon hisos jomīsagon amīsagon himos pār.” (May his armor protect him then.)
Gwayne sat atop his heavy chestnut warhorse, looking like a statue of polished steel. Wrapped tightly around his left bicep was her lavender silk ribbon, a bright splash of color against the green and white of his house that he clasped for a split moment.
Opposite him stood Ser Steffon Darklyn. The white armor of the Kingsguard caught the brilliant afternoon sun, flawless and intimidating. A knight of the white cloak had nothing to prove; they fought with the icy, mechanical precision of men who guarded thrones.
Gwayne lowered his visor with a sharp clack. Through the narrow slits of his helm, his world narrowed down to the wooden barrier, the straight dirt path, and the white target ahead. He raised his lance, anchoring the heavy ash wood against his arm.
The starter’s flag dropped.
The silence evaporated into a thunderous roar. The heavy hooves of the warhorses tore into the dirt, kicking up clods of earth as they accelerated into a blinding sprint. The distance between the two knights vanished in a heartbeat.
The coldness greets you as you reach Winterfell. The vicinity was more crowded than usual as the Company of the King was to arrive the next day. The unfortunate coincidence of having the King visit Winterfell the day after your usual reunion with Benjen and Ned led you to journey sooner rather than cause disturbance tomorrow.
But just as your horse came to a halt, a familiar voice called out from the distance. “Early as ever, aren’t you?” Turning your head, you look down to see Benjen walking towards you. A smug look was present on his face, clearly surprised by your unexpected arrival.
Flashing him a grin in return, you replied. “And my favorite happened to greet me first.” He helped you down from your horse, his grip on your waist leaving a heat on your skin. Even after a year apart, he looked better than ever. Benjen rarely ever got the chance to see you, so this was a significant time for him to momentarily return from The Wall.
You made your way indoors, and you could feel Benjen eyeing you from top to bottom. “Can’t keep your eyes off me already?”
“How can I not, when I can see how your hips sway from under that coat?” Your cheeks were already flushed from the cold, but he managed to bring heat to your body without so much as a touch.
“Careful, someone might hear us.” You mumble, eyes looking around.
“Or worse, my brother.” He whispered, and you both chuckled. As you both reached the hallway, another familiar face appeared.
“Didn’t think to see you so soon.” Ned grinned, making his way in your direction. He was covered by his cloak like Benjen. Like his brother, he eyed you up and down. His stare felt hot, almost as if he was taking off every layer you wore. Your coat was useless in their presence. The cold left your body, and your knees felt weak.
“I–I couldn’t pass up another day not seeing my old friends.” You breathed deeply. The tension was frustrating. Both their eyes were on you. You haven't been this nervous since the first time you've all been with each other. Your friendship has withstood the inevitable since the very beginning. The only occasion that could have torn you apart was back when you were 17, when Ned kissed you as a joke, and Benjen was enraged. ‘She's mine, Ned!’ Benjen hissed. It was hilarious up until the moment Benjen challenged him to a duel for your hand, and you stepped in when he took a real sword. But other than that, you were inseparable. So much so that your first time was together.
Any girl your age in the North would have given up everything to be in your place. To be bare and worshiped by Eddard and Benjen of House Stark. To feel how their hands caressed your waist and your breast, how they playfully tangled your hair in circles. But it was not mere sex for the three of you, but rather a manifestation of years of trust and loyalty. They did not undress, kiss, or touch you like any other man could have done. Every moment was vivid in your memory, and that ecstasy made you all meet every once in a while to do the same act.
“Father!” Another voice caught you out of your trance. Looking up, you find Robb trailing behind his father in a hurry. You suddenly remember Ned’s endless reminder that he shouldn’t run in the hallways of Winterfell. It was permitted when he was a child, but now, well...he was too charming to be a child.
He caught up to all of you and caught his breath for a moment. “Uncle!” His eyes snapped up to Benjen in surprise, before they were even more startled by your presence. For a second, his mouth gaped open without any words leaving it.
“I…I did not think you would arrive so soon, my lady.” Robb was flustered over the number of eyes watching as he barely got out any words and gave a small bow to hide his flush. You couldn’t help but muffle your laughter at how adorable he was. Robb started having a particular inclination toward you a few years back when he witnessed how skilled you were with an arrow. Ever since, he had a softer demeanor when he talked to you, and restless eyes travelling all around your face. Of course, you never acted on his admiration because it would be unjust. You would never hear the end of it from Ned, so you keep your distance.
You replied with a chuckle and bowed in return. “Good to see you, Robb.” After recovering from his flustered state, he took his father aside, leaving you and Benjen watching over them. Robb’s gaze trails off to you mid-conversation with his father, and he often catches each other’s eyes. He breaks it immediately, looking to the floor. Ned notices his son's flustered face and glances at you, who met his gaze with a grin.
Robb nods and parts from your presence, Ned returning to you and Benjen’s side. “The young wolf likes you.” Benjen breathes out.
“Takes after the men in his family.” You raise your eyebrow at Ned’s remark, responding with a chuckle. Ned leads you two down to a dark hallway and opens the door.
Before stepping inside, you turn to him. “Let me venture a guess, we will await your return, Lord Stark?”
“Unfortunately.” He responds, eyeing you up and down. His eyes could ravage you right there.
“We will wait as patiently as we can”, Benjen huffs with a smirk. Any person who would lay eyes on the three of you would notice how awfully close Lord Stark and the Wall’s First Ranger are to a woman of a Northern House. How secretive your arrival at Winterfell was, and what lies in wait after you all enter and the door is locked.
Benjen’s lips send shivers down your spine and giggles from your lips. He could barely keep his hands off your waist, occasionally creeping their way along your hips but not daring to journey further upward or downward. "You know what happened the last time we couldn't wait for him.” A quiet groan came from his lips, immediately being reminded of the occasion he was forced to watch you and Ned without so much as a graze to his aching cock.
“Do you want that to happen again, love?" A tinge of annoyance and hunger was present in his eyes, and his breathing was practically panting. You felt his inner tantrum, as it was also difficult to hold back, but it was best for you both. When Benjen was forced to watch you and Ned, the silent wolf could not be stopped. When Ned meant watch, he meant breaking and entering you for the rest of the night while his brother sat helplessly. The constant clapping of your thigh’s flesh to him felt like a bruise could form. His grip on your waist nearly caused a permanent scar. Any attempt at walking it off turned to limping, and you could have sworn that every step made his release drip out of you.
Ned has been away for two hours, two long hours. It felt painful to hold back. Your hands were inches away from cupping Benjen’s disappointed face when the door suddenly burst open, and both your heads snapped to the person peering. Luckily, your hands were away from each other, as it was this evening’s other host that entered the room.
"Lord Eddard Stark,” you called out. “Care to join us?" His eyes quickly went to you both, wasting no time to lock the door as he strides in your direction. With Benjen behind you and Ned in front of you, it felt like the world was closing in. Two tall mountains are between your lake.
"What took you so long, Ned?" Benjen asked hastily, a hint of relief and nervousness to his voice.
"Nothing that matters more than this,” Ned mumbled, inching closer to your body. He ceased movement just when you were about to step forward. His eyes went from yours to his brother, searching for any mischief. “Were you able to wait for me?"
"Oh, yes. Benjen was particularly good this time around." Ned nodded in approval of your remark. Frankly, it did not matter if it was true or not. You all knew how this was going to end, and any means that led up to that moment was pure child's play.
"Forgive me for my urgency before..." Benjen whispered to you before turning to face his brother. You gave a small smile his way to calm his nerves. His brother nodded in response, releasing any tension Benjen had had for the past few minutes. Ned stared at you, but you intentionally kept your eyes on his brother.
You will not make this easy for both of them.
Ned lifts your chin to face him, your eyes taking their time to look up at him in return. "How are you holding up, sweet one?" His thumb lightly circles on your chin before grazing your bottom lip and teasingly lowering it.
"Starving.." With a slight grin, you step back to lean on Benjen’s chest. Ned eyes you up and down, letting out a deep sigh.
Benjen lowers his head to your ear, his breath making you flinch. "Shall we accompany you to the dining hall instead?" He lingers on your hair, resisting every urge to nibble on your ear.
"I had something else in mind, really."
Benjen starts lightly holding your waist and tracing circles just above your waist. "Care to tell us about it?" Your throat suddenly felt dry. In desperate need of pulling any one of them to a kiss and just kneeling right there. Your knees were eager to bend down. You have waited long enough, too long. But you don’t want to give in so soon. Where’s the fun in that?
"Do you both want to hear it, or act it out?" Benjen gasps behind you as you push your ass against his crotch, feeling the bulge on your ass. Ned’s eyes follow the direction of your hand, and he lets out a groan when you cup his bulge.
Amused, a chuckle left your lips. "I need an answer. If you don't, I will take myself and move to the dining hall."
It’s as if your own heat had a life of its own; you could feel it beating from the ache. Every fiber of your being was resisting to grind on Benjen and strip Ned of his clothes. Their groans were pure bliss, enough to even send you moaning on your own. It was of perfect harmony and in need of your own mewls.
"Yes, darling.." Benjen attempts to utter, but is betrayed by his voice when he starts panting. You could feel his hips bucking up, grinding himself on your body to feel the slightest tension on his cock. His grip on your waist became tighter, and his cock got even harder.
"Don’t leave us.." Ned whispers, throwing his head back so slightly. His eyes close shut and lips part, feeling your thumb rub his clothed cock, tracing hypnotizing strokes. He unknowingly steps forward towards you, your chests lightly touching each other.
"Louder. I thought Stark men were strong", you taunt, and they groan in return.
"Please..please, darling." Ned pleads, his chest heaving up and down.
"We ache for you," Benjen admits as he grips your waist harder. His head found its way to your neck, sniffing your scent. Your hands went to hold Benjen’s head and the other to Ned’s shoulder. He felt the absence of your tease and glances at you, eyes desperate.
Brothers of the greatest family in the North, at your mercy. Lord of Winterfell and First Ranger of the Night’s Watch. Whimpering, begging, aching. Wolves in nature, but a woman like you can tame them. You felt your body get even warmer, sweat starting to form as you prepared yourself for the night before you.
A small chuckle left your lips. "I feel welcomed in Winterfell by you both, as always." Turning your head to the side, you meet Benjen's gaze, your eyes moving down to his lips before finally feeling them against yours.
Your lips both move in motion, and Ned moves his hand to your waist to turn you around. As you passionately kiss his brother, he presses his bulge to you and finds the right spot, enough to make you let out a moan through the kiss. Ned bucks his hips, thrusting with urgency. Benjen trails his kisses to your neck, leaving traces of hot fire on your flesh. Seeing this, Ned hungrily captures your lips together.
Just when both of them reached for the ends of your gown, you stepped away quickly. They looked in shock, but also filled with worry. Benjen was first to step forward, curious about your well-being. Just as he took a step forward, you took one step back. When Ned tried to follow in his trail, you shook your head, and they halted.
“If I recall properly, you”, you point to Ned, stepping backwards, “were in command last time.” Quickly, you were making your way to the table. Your knees were close to failing you. Their piercing stare followed you like helpless pups. You reached for the edge of the table and grabbed the cup, taking a swig of the wine. “About time I take charge, yes?”
Ned and Benjen were heaving uncontrollably. In the light of the room, they seemed like wolves. They looked at each other before turning back to you. Sitting on the edge of the table, you crossed your legs and hiked up your gown. Their eyes followed how your legs slowly got illuminated by the fire. Benjen gulped, his lips parting. Biting your lip, you keep your eyes on them while you part your hair and reveal your neck. As your hair cascades on your shoulder, you open your legs.
They both watch in awe as your hands crawl down your thighs. Little by little, you creep your fingers in between your legs, exposing your undergarments and sliding them aside. Their mouths gape open from the sight of your wetness. “Watch.”
Ned and Benjen’s eyes snap up to you, awfully confused by your remark. With a smirk, you repeated. “You heard me. Watch.” Finally, you circle your wet folds, gasping from the pressure. Your eyes close from the feeling, your body slowly releasing tension. Shoulders dropping, your head leans back. Without so much as a look in their direction, you could feel their stare on your skin, and it makes the bliss exhilarate. Picking up the pace, your fingers trace circles on your warm folds, and light moans finally leave your lips.
Lifting your head up, you watch Ned and Benjen, on the edge of walking up and throwing you to the nearby bed. Their hungry state left a smirk on your lips, and that drove you to push one finger inside yourself. Keeping your eyes on them, a distinct groan came from Ned’s mouth. Benjen stared as your finger slowly slid in and out of you. Without a thought, your hips started to rock. You went faster, and could feel the inching high from your stomach. You shut your eyes, feeling your middle finger get soaked from your warm wetness.
As you near your height, you gaze into their eyes. Holding your moans as low as you could, you release onto your finger. Your body tenses up as the ecstasy washes over you. Taking a minute to catch your breath, your chest heaves up and down. Lifting up your finger, you point to Ned, crooking your finger. He immediately obliges. In a second, he stood between your legs, and it took everything in him not to grab your waist. Ned saw as you held up your glistening finger. His mouth was practically watering before you nodded for him to take action.
As he took your finger into his mouth, licking every last drop, your eyes lay on Benjen. Ned took his time, making sure to taste your release and playfully nipping your skin. He looks at you, awaiting your next order. In return, you stood and took Ned’s hand, making way for the bed. You sat as he stood, towering over you.
“What do you want, Ned?”
He answered without a second to think. “I want to eat you.” With that remark, you gave a grin and nodded. Ned got down on his knees, lifting the fabric of your skirt up to your waist. Gripping your thighs open, he licked his lips and started trailing light, hot kisses on your flesh. You turn to Benjen and crook your finger for him to step forward. Tapping the spot beside you, he sat down and was in awe of your state. When you cupped his cheek, you could feel Ned’s kisses inching closer to your wet core.
Your lips crash with Benjen, capturing each other in a locked kiss. He wasted no time moving his tongue, desperate to feel you. A moan escapes your lips when Ned gives your folds a lick. Benjen silences your moans with passionate kisses, moving his hand to your hair. You were running out of air from the way he explored your mouth. Your fingers slid to his hair, entangled in his locks.
“Strip, darling.” You whispered into the kiss. With no moment to spare, his fingers went to the edges of his clothing, tearing apart every layer he had on his body. There, he sat, bare and awaiting your command. You took your time, gazing at him from top to bottom. His cock was as eager as he was.
Ned was working his way to your folds, his tongue exploring your pussy like his life depended on it. Your hips were moving on their own, grinding on his tongue. His grip on your things got tighter, desperately keeping your legs open as they resisted. While he got deep in your pussy, you took Benjen’s cock into your hand.
He let out a groan, your touch sending chills down his spine. You spat into your palm, and he flinched as you slowly stroked him. You watched as he shut his eyes, mouth opening to release sweet moans. Benjen leaned his head back, feeling your soft touch on his cock. At the same time, you moaned as Ned flicked your core repeatedly. Your thighs were trembling, and it only made him suck your release. Benjen’s moans mixed with yours, and you couldn’t help but capture his lips in a kiss. He whined into your lips, and you stared at him with half-opened eyes.
“What’s wrong, my love? You want me to go faster?” You stopped stroking, and his hips bucked up to feel your slippery palm. He nodded through the kiss, eyes closed and mouth open.
“You know what to do.”
“Faster, please.” He begged, and you obliged. Your hands worked their way faster, stroking his cock at a quicker pace. All the while this is happening, Ned was buried between your legs, and you pushed him further down your pussy. Your legs wrap around his neck, hips grinding at his fast-working tongue. It was intoxicating. Your hair was sticking to your skin from all the sweat, and you were only just starting.
Benjen’s moans progressively got louder as did yours. Ned hiked your skirt up past your waist, caressing your ass as he ate you out. You silenced each other’s moans with a sloppy kiss. Ned stood up from his place, lying down on the bed, and pulled you to sit on his face. As you sank your pussy to his lips once more, your moans got louder as he wasted no time in entering you with his tongue. You pulled Benjen beside you to kneel, and you took his cock in your mouth without hesitation.
He gasped at the warm feeling when your mouth quickly bobbed up and down his cock. Ned’s hands went to your waist, and you could feel another wave of bliss about to wash over you. Your free hand went to Benjen’s cock, stroking as you sucked. His hands went to your hair, lightly guiding your movements. A few moments later, Ned finally made you cum on his mouth. You moan on Benjen’s cock, kissing his tip delicately as Ned cleans your folds, licking every bit of your release.
“Stand up”, you order Ned. “Take your clothes off, darling.” He strips while Benjen takes off your gown and throws it aside. Just as Ned finished tearing off his clothes, they both basked in your glory. Eyes travelling from your face to your neck, then your breasts, down to your pussy. A slight flush went up to your cheeks, always feeling flustered by their stare.
They took their place by your sides, staring at Benjen and Ned for a moment before kissing them. You took your time kissing each of them, making sure they don’t forget how important they both are to you. Benjen insisted on locking your lips longer than usual, which gave Ned the time to trail his hot kisses from your neck to your collar bone and finally to your right breast. He gave a light peck to your perky, sensitive nipple before taking it into his mouth.
You breathe a moan into Benjen’s mouth, and he follows in pursuit of his brother. His lips went to your left breast, sucking your left nipple. Eyes closing, your head leans back as your hands trail through their hair. Their lips moved in different yet hypnotizing ways. Benjen’s tongue was swirling around your nipple while Ned sucked. Benjen opens your legs with his free hand, circling your dripping pussy with his fingers. Ned nibbled on your nipple, causing you to flinch and gasp.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Their cocks were waiting for you, and your pussy was dripping for them. “Fuck me.”
“You sure?” Benjen breathes into your air.
“Yes, fuck me. Just fuck me.” They needed no other command, because as soon as you said that, they both sat down with their backs against the bedframe. You practically jumped on Benjen’s cock, going down immediately and moaning. His hands went to your waist, guiding you as you bounced on him. Meanwhile, Ned strokes his cock, watching you pleasure yourself. Seeing this, you bend down to his side and take his cock into your hand, stroking at a fast pace. He moaned in unison with you and Benjen.
Benjen lifted his legs up and bucked his hips to pound you while you stroked Ned’s cock. You moan at Benjen’s newfound agility, a pace you have never reached before tonight. Eventually, he was fucking you mindlessly with your tits bouncing up and down from the speed. He saw nothing but beauty in your movement, loving how you wrap around his cock in the best way.
He came to a halt, and Ned took this chance to drag you off him and make you go on all fours. Lining up his cock, he rubbed his tip on you before pushing himself in and starting at a fast pace. Their girth was overwhelming to take in, but you loved every inch of it. Ned wasted no time pounding his way inside you, making sure that you take in every inch of his cock. His groans were filling your head, and you couldn’t quite comprehend anything except the pleasure.
His hands clasped your shoulders, pushing you down on his cock while pushing himself in. Your head lifted up, mouth open, just as Benjen lined his tip with your lips. Obliging, you widened your mouth to suck. Moans were let out from all three of you, careless about how loud you all sounded at this time of the night.
Your moans turned into gasps, “Yes, just like that. Harder!” Hearing this, Ned bucked his hips up. He grit his teeth while pounding, and Benjen grabbed your head, fucking your mouth at the same pace. Looking up at him, his face was pure bliss. Benjen picked up his pace, pushing your head further to the point your forehead hit his abdomen repeatedly.
His cock was hitting the back of your throat repeatedly. You could hear them both chuckling in between moans at your state. They both pulled out, and you lay down, your knees betraying you. Coughing as you gasp for air, your legs were pulled apart by Benjen, and his fingers immediately pushed inside you. You gripped the sheets as he uncontrollably fingers you. Your gasp turned into a yell, your release squirting out of you.
Ned and Benjen were both amused by your release and your knees trembling. “You’re dripping, my love,” Ned whispers before kissing you from your neck to your lips. Your vision was hazy, barely able to kiss him back properly.
“You alright, darling?” Benjen asks, pushing your hair from your sweating forehead. For a second, their gaze turned soft, and no trace of sexual frustration could be found while they awaited your response. Instead of a reply, you got up and fixed your hair.
“Both of you,” You breathe out. “At the same time.” They raised their eyebrows at the same time, getting a mischievous look as they looked to each other for approval. Benjen playfully bit his lip, and Ned nodded.
“If that’s what my darling wishes”, Benjen starts. “Then we shall give it, brother.” Ned agrees. In haste, you grabbed Ned’s arm and laid him down. Climbing to straddle him, you feel Benjen behind you. His lips trace your back, placing a soft kiss on your neck. You giggle at his sweet gesture and turn to Ned, who watches you both. Deciding to tease him for a bit, Benjen grinds on your ass, and you close your eyes. His hands move to your nipples, playfully pinching them, and hearing a moan out of you.
“You mean to make me watch?” Ned huffs. You and Benjen laugh before you sink into his cock.
Ned lets out a deep moan, sending goosebumps all over you. You work slowly, grinding and moaning. Benjen follows and lines himself up behind you, and pushes into your ass. Tensing up at the feeling of being filled, they saw this as a chance to move at their own pace. You fall on Ned’s chest, fingers clawing at his scarred chest.
Your nipples turned sensitive when in contact with his skin. Benjen pushed you down to Ned’s body, while Ned kept his pace. Their hands went to your waist, your ass, your tits. Everywhere they could send pleasure to you. In return, you mewl and curse under your breath at how good they were. How they filled you up so well, and how you hugged their cocks so warmly.
Their moans got louder, and you could feel they were near their release. “Don’t cum yet,” you moaned out. They sounded frustrated with each thrust, obeying your order. Ned’s face scrunched up, taking everything in him to edge himself from release. Benjen’s thrusts got sloppier, losing their rhythm.
He lifted you away from straddling Ned and pushed his cock inside your pussy. His rhythm was unmatched. He pounded desperately and endlessly, hooking your arm to his and bending your body upwards.
His fingers found their way to your tits, squeezing and pinching them. You couldn’t control yourself anymore. Ned saw a window of opportunity and pushed his cock in your mouth, placing his hand on your head. He fucked your mouth, noticing how you looked up at him with irresistible eyes. Their groans were all you could hear, with your own whimper being silenced by Ned’s cock.
You couldn’t properly comprehend any words they let out, but what you made out was how they cursed at how tight you were and how good your tongue took them in. Eventually, they lost their rhythm and edged themselves. Ned took a step back and allowed you to breathe, hoping to let them both cum.
Feeling the tightening on your own abdomen, you moaned out and whimpered their name countless times.
“Holding back on me?” You looked up at Ned, who was stroking himself. You nodded, stuck your tongue out, and watched him throw his head back as he came on your tongue. Your tongue felt his warm release, closing your eyes as it reached your nose.
“Cum, my love.” That was all Benjen needed to give a final deep thrust, causing you to moan from how much he let out inside you. You reached your orgasm at the same moment, opening your mouth and biting your lip. Seeing this sight could have led Ned to another release, with how breathy you looked. Hair sticking to your back, tits glistening with sweat, and face painted with his cum.
Taking your time to come down from your high, Benjen remained inside of you while tracing circles on your hips. Your fingers picked up Ned’s release from your face and licked them off. Eventually, Benjen pulled himself out and watched as his cum dripped onto the bed sheets. Whining your way through your orgasm, you lay down and faced the ceiling. Benjen handed you a clean cloth, and you wiped yourself clean.
They lay down beside you, taking refuge in the crooks of your neck. Their breath was warm and uneven, but reminded you of your first night. Ned wrapped an arm around your waist, and Benjen rubbed on your knuckles with his thumb. Painful as it is, you broke the silence with your words.
“This might just be the last, you know.” You felt a change in their breathing, and it took a while before they could let out a reply. They felt your heart rising as you waited for their next move.
“The last?” Ned asked. Their eyes were on you, but you maintained your gaze upward, afraid to look at their faces.
“My father wishes to marry me off to a Dornish man.”
“Will you move to Dorne then?” Benjen returns a question.
“Likely.” When he heard your answer, he intertwined his hand with yours . Afraid of letting go, he brought them up to his lips and gave small pecks. Finally, looking down at him, you saw his eyes remain on you. Turning to Ned, he couldn't bear to see your eyes and kept his head low, but you could sense a change in his demeanor.
Your heart holds a special place for these two men. No betrothal or distance could ever change that. You did not need to say it aloud, for you all knew. You all had that night before everything changed for good. Benjen did not leave your side the whole night, while Ned eventually had to return to his own chambers.
Ned can only trust one person in the capital, and it just so happened to be an old “friend” ; 18+ minors do not interact
word count: 2.2k
warnings: angst, slight NSFW
masterlist | requests
“Get up, Stark.” The familiarity of your voice made Ned lift his head, your eyes meeting. He hastily pulled himself together, rising from his feet. He happened to have fallen to his feet after a confrontation with a man nearby, and you were his savior. A light smile curved on your lips as he obviously seemed surprised to see your face in the Capital. His mind ran with questions as to why a woman such as you was on a horse in these parts of the kingdom.
Out of place, he thought.
“Have you any idea what could have happened to you?” Your hollering made it look like he was being lectured and told off, and it was honestly amusing. “You’re still as reckless and oblivious.” He grinned at the remark, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. His eyes went up to your face in an undisguised manner.
Ned nodded. “And you’re still as charming.” A slight heat creeping up your cheeks, but thankfully, the weather in King’s Landing could conceal your sudden sheepishness. Breathing out a sigh, you rolled your eyes and began walking on. As expected, Ned followed in pursuit.
“Where are you off to?” He asked, following your trail and looking up at your face from time to time. A child ran in front of your horse, making a sudden stop that made you jerk forward. Ned took this reaction and slowly calmed it down, brushing its mane.
Eyes squinting and looking far ahead, you reply. “Oldtown.”
Ned evidently had a questionable look, peering up at you. “What for?”
“My business is not within the jurisdiction of the Hand.” With a surprising taunt of a response, his eyes remained on you, carelessly ignoring the path ahead. Turning your gaze to Ned, you couldn’t help but muffle a laugh at his state. “I’m off to meet a friend.”
“Ah, and do you treat this friend the same way you treated me years ago as a friend?”
And there it is.
“Still not over it?” You tried not to sound too reserved or oblivious, but who could ever forget being the “friend” of Eddard Stark? From the looks of it, neither did he.
“Never said anything of the sort.” So close. He still couldn’t lie through his teeth well enough to fool you. An octave lower, and you would have believed him. You turned your head away, avoiding his hopeful eyes. ‘He’s married’, you remind yourself.
With a deep sigh, you uttered the words out loud. “I know you, Ned. You keep a piece of every person you’ve met in your heart.” Your words were met with silence, and the only thing audible enough was the shouts of nearby commoners, the rapid footsteps of running children, and the clinking of horseshoes.
It might have been a mistake to do that…
He dared break the silence. “When will you be back then?”
“Asking an awful lot of questions. You know, you’re supposed to know the occurrences here, Hand.” Ned came to a stop, standing almost demandingly. Well, that was new. His look was immensely honorable that you weren’t aware you pulled on your horse to stop.
“Does it matter?” You asked.
“Utmost importance,” Ned spoke with such assurance, flashing a small smile.
And, you couldn’t resist. “I’ll send a letter your way.” A smile escapes your lips.
“I’ll save you the trouble, just tell me when you will arrive.”
“One moon.”
With a satisfied nod, Ned steps out of your way. “I’ll see to it then. My charm still does wonders for you.”
Before a heat could creep up to your cheeks, you turned away and waved from behind. “Goodbye, Hand. I’m waving to you now.” You must admit, it surely made your thoughts during travel lighter.
“What have you been up to?” Ned took the cup to his hand, pouring what was left of the few servings of wineskins you had stored for a week. The fruity scent reaching your nose evidently gave you the confidence to reply to his question.
This was the first time in more than a decade that Ned was with you. There was so much yet so little to really tell on your end. Drinking almost every night, eating only when you can hunt, that is, if you still have any arrows lying around. Compared to him, your stories were a bore. “Not as much as you, I fear.” You replied, trying not to sound too nervous. “My travels have been met with no ounce of enjoyment.”
“Unpleasant?” He questioned.
Reaching for your own cup, you looked down and swished around the strong liquid before answering with a hum. “Obligatory.”
“Ah, our lives are not far along in that area.” Your lips pursed at the remark. ‘How sweet of him to think so.’ You thought. ‘No, not sweet. Innocent? Kind, perhaps.’
“Oh, but they are. Our lives are miles apart.” You prepared yourself with a strong sip and deep gulp, taking in the burn that washed down your throat. A bittersweet aftertaste was left on your tongue, which could possibly suppress your next words. “You’re happily married, and I’m…”
There was really no other word to describe it. ‘Stagnant’ could be one. You trailed off with a blank expression. Ned seemed to notice how lost for words you were when your eyes drifted off to nothingness, and a painful sigh left your lips instead of an expression. The air grew thick with tension quickly, even more quickly than it takes to finish a serving of wine in a day.
Ned cleared his throat with a nervous laugh, and that caught you out of your trance.
“I’m delighted to have caught you around these parts,” he said with a soft glance. “You never truly know who you can confide in, especially in times like these.” That brought you to a smile and a lighter feeling in your chest. The uneasy feeling has left. This might just get better, and it will be nothing but an innocent reunion.
“You’re my only true friend here.” And the uneasy feeling is back.
You managed to show a forced smile, but couldn’t help but drop it immediately to wash your throat down again with wine. Disregarding your cup, you reached for the entire wineskin, gulping half of it down in an instant. Ned watched in awe as he maintained a straight face. But you still squirmed at the aftertaste. Your expression brought him to laughter, and you couldn’t help but smack his shoulder.
Your retaliation only brought him to further laughter, which got you smacking him playfully even more. The burning sensation in your throat has died down, and your lips smiled at his state. It was a blessing in disguise to have run into him. ‘I never thought this would happen again’.
When the laughter died down, you took time to catch your breath. Staring at each other, a thought wandered into your mind.
“Ned,” you called out. “Do tell me why you were persistent.”
He kept his eyes on you, taking a full swig from the wineskin that your lips were on just a few minutes ago. “Keep talking.”
“For the many moons that have passed, letters have not arrived in my home. Last I heard your name uttered was when you were named Lord of Winterfell, and in union with Catelyn Tully. Time passed, and I heard you had five—six children. After that, you were named Hand, and here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“I thought you would... at least write. But I’m in no position to complain, you have a wife, children. Between the two of us, you were always destined for greater things. Look at you, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and now, Hand of the King.”
“But before all of that, I was yours.”
“Good wine. Really gets everything out, doesn’t it?’ A nervous laugh left your lips, making you reach for your cup to drink down the remaining wine in your cup. With an eye shut gulp, you turned to Ned. Eyes starting to water, either from the wine or from the words he uttered.
“As you said, I keep a piece of every person I’ve met…and loved.” He fidgeted with his fingers, looking down to avoid your gaze. However, Ned couldn’t resist and still met your eyes. Your gaze softened when a laugh didn’t escape his lips. With a genuine smile, you replied. “How dear of you.” Your hand found its way to his disheveled hair, gently brushing it away from his face. His eyes shut lightly from the touch of your finger. “Have you gotten any rest since you’ve arrived?”
“Why do you ask?” Ned hums, slowly opening his eyes to look at you. You began to notice how exhausted they were when they used to be full of life. His face, which was once clean, is now covered with a beard. Stubble slightly pricks your skin when it grazes your finger. He wasn’t just the man you once loved; he was a true warrior now. Ned’s face bore the look of a man worn out by war, duties, and honor. Time has changed you both, whether you liked it or not, and there was no way to return to how it once was. You shrugged away those thoughts and replied, “You look different.”
“The Capital has that way with people.” Both of your lips formed a smile, your hand still brushing his hair.
“I suppose.” Your finger grazed his skin, and without a thought, you cupped his cheek. Ned leaned into your hand, gaping his lips at the contact. He let out a sigh when your thumb rubbed his cheek slowly. Heat was building inside you, your chest heaving up and down. Ned opened his eyes just as you slowly licked your lips. Your bodies began moving closer to each other, and suddenly, he was pressing up against your chest. His eyes looked down to your chest to see you breathing heavily, before looking up to see your eyes staring at him intently. In the same manner, Ned lightly grazed your neck before holding it. Your eyes closed, head slightly tilting upwards. Feeling his head buried in the crook of your neck, you flinched and sniffed his hair.
It was just like before, the scent brought you back to the past. You didn’t even notice his hand wrapped around your waist; you were full of bliss. A tingling feeling made you gasp when Ned’s head began to move downwards to your chest. Trailing small, sweet kisses on your skin, you placed your hand on his head, practically pulling at his hair. Ned let out a groan, and you followed with a low moan. Eyelids feeling heavy, he moved his lips upwards near your ear. Maybe it was the wine or the heat of the room, but his lips felt even better than they used to. A warm lick on your skin made you squeeze your legs together.
“Oh, Ned.” You let out and felt his teeth nip on your flesh. Moans getting louder, you pull yourself closer to him, making him sit back. You straddled him urgently, legs clasped to his sides. The heat between your legs began to grow when you felt something under his trousers hardening. Leaning down to his face, Ned cupped your cheek while his other hand found its way to the center of the heat below your waist.
Inches away from each other’s lips, you froze. Staring at each other blankly, the room fell silent. The crackling of the fire and your breath were all that could be heard. There was no need to question it. You both knew why your bodies stopped moving. You got off his lap, and he retrieved his hand from underneath your clothes. Sitting down beside him, you avoided each other's eyes. Any other object in the room that you could turn to, you stared at. Gulping, he sat up straight. Neither one of you could utter a word. You knew what was running through his mind. He was still a man of honor, no matter the circumstance. Even if it was you.
Too much time has passed when he decides to break the deafening silence with, “You were right about the wine, it is good.” To this, you chuckled. Placing a hand on your temple, a sigh was let out. You slowly turn your head, only to find him already looking at you.
“I think it’s best if you return to the castle. Your position doesn’t get too much rest these days.” You painfully huffed, and Ned nodded. Without a reply, he got on his feet and walked to the door.
Looking back at him, you called out. “Ned?” He stopped in his tracks and faced you. You both shared a knowing look, and no words were needed to ask the question in the air.
“If time permits. As long as you have more of that wine.” You smiled with a nod, watching him leave with a small slam to the door. Some time passed in silence, your mind reliving the previous hours. Your eyes went to the wineskin you both drank from, which had one gulp of wine left. Taking it to your hand, you drank the intoxicating liquid, just to have a feel of his lips.
thinking about modern au stark men cooking for you. your favourite meals, no matter what they are, they cook. and they do it so well.
also?? them sitting you on the counter next to them whilst they cook?? feeding you spoonful's of whatever they're making to taste test tit?? them waiting for your opinion, holding their breath like whatever you say matters most??
stark men stepping between you legs whilst something's simmering on the stove, getting distracted and just kissing you??
