Another (much sillier) 200 word loumand fic for @loumandmicrofic for the prompt house/haunting.
Here on Ao3 and below:
In New York, they join a walking ghost tour one night. The guide is engaging and their fellow participants are pleasant enough.
Apart from Ronald.
Ronald wears a cap embroidered with the slogan women want me, fish fear me and slurps constantly from a large soda cup. He interrupts the guide loudly to give his opinion on the house or ghoul being discussed and keeps asking where the nearest Wendy’s is. When Armand and Louis hold hands, Ronald glares at them, shaking his head and tutting.
I know he’s not your usual type, Louis says, telepathically, but it has been a while since you last fed.
Armand smiles. The tour would be far more enjoyable without him, wouldn’t it, my dear?
Oh, far more enjoyable, my love.
At The House of Death, Armand coaxes Ronald inside while the rest of the group stand frozen on the sidewalk. He relinquishes his hold on him just long enough for the human to realise he’s about to die. Afterwards, he plucks the cap from Ronald’s head and places it on top of his curls.
As Armand leaves, passing Mark Twain on the stairs, he wonders if Ronald will soon haunt this house too.
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
AN: 🩵💗 - so sorry for how long this is (also here is the unofficial part two to this fic - fall back into place)!!
“Come along, Y/N!” Rhaenyra yelled. “The flowers will still be there when we return.”
“Very well, Your Highness.” She sighed, hooking her arm through the princesses. “They only bloom once a year. I am simply taking in their beauty before they wilt.”
“I understand. Unfortunately for you, I now need a chaperone to walk my own halls, as every lord in the land vies for my hand.”
“Oh, poor poor Rhaenyra.” Y/N teased. “I can only imagine.”
“Rhaenyra, Y/N!” The girls turned around, Alicent running toward them with a young man in tow.
Y/N leaned over, whispering in Rhaenyra’s ear. “It seems even your own friends are playing matchmaker.”
Rhaenyra laughed, coughing to cover it up. Alicent looked suspiciously at Y/N. “What have you done?”
“Nothing, Alicent, nothing at all.”
“Oh, never mind.” She pulled the man forward. “May I introduce my brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown. He’s just arrived for the tourney.”
Alicent’s brother was handsome: tall, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes. One could tell from a single glance he and Alicent were related. Freckles adorned his face, and Y/N could only assume it was from his ample time outdoors. She curtsied quickly, staring at the ground.
Protocol regarding courting was odd and often confusing. With different social statuses came different rules. The Princess was the highest ranking of the two girls before him; thus, he would kiss Rhaenyra’s hand last. It was an honest mistake, a lapse in judgment, Y/N was sure. Odd, she’d thought to herself, she assumed that Gwayne was taught these sorts of things.
Her eyes drifted back to his, holding back a gasp as he extended his hand to her, after Rhaenyra. She placed hers in his palm hesitantly. He bowed once more, his hold gentle, like he was scared to break her. His lips were soft, and her cheeks turned bright red from the touch, eyes wide with shock.
She realized, amid her thinking, that Alicent and Rhaenyra had been taunting her, much too entertained by this simple encounter. Y/N ripped her hand away; any passerby would have thought it was on fire.
“My lady.”
She’d almost frowned. “I am no lady, Ser.” Entertaining the thought of him would only come back to haunt her, she told herself. The entire point of the tourney was to field potential suitors for the Princess, none were here for the ward of the crown, an orphaned bastard in her own right. He was attractive, there was no denying it. The way his eyes twinkled, or the way his hair fell over his eyes, or when his smile-
“Oh?” The young man frowned, his voice snapping her back to life. Her cheeks were still flushed. This avoiding business would prove to be harder than she previously thought. “My mistake. You are the very picture of a lady, I must say.”
Their spectators gasped. Y/N scoffed. “Do not think you can mock me, Ser.” She tightened her hold on Rhaenyra’s arm. “If you will excuse us…”
Not bothering to wait for a response, she turned around, dragging the princess along with her. Rhaenyra whispered, nudging her friend. “I believe he was smitten.”
Y/N shook her head. “And I believe it was all a game, most likely a way to make you jealous.” Her heart clenched at the thought. “Just a game.”
Rhaenyra’s room was a disaster, but when had it not been?
For as long as either of the Princess’s companions could remember, her suite had been covered with gowns and riding suits thrown haphazardly on the floor.
Not that either of the other girls cared, they were happy to lay on the Princess’s plush cushions, taking in the sun as it filled the room. Y/N’s head hung off the sofa, laughing as her friend ran through her closet. “If it were any larger, you would get lost inside.”
Rhaenyra stuck her tongue out. “I would be content with just my riding suit, thank you very much.”
Alicent laughed. “You know you’d rather die than look simple. You live for fine silks and designs-”
Y/N nodded, doing her best to imitate the Princess. “Oh Y/N fetch the purple dress, will you? Fetch the red dress! No, not that one. The one with the jewels. No not that one, the other-” A pillow slammed against her face, and she giggled, holding her hands up defensively. “Mercy, I beg of you!”
“You could have had all this.” Rhaenyra sat beside the girl, whispering. “If my father simply acknowledged-”
“That my mother gave birth to me out of wedlock? No amount of Targaryen blood can excuse that dishonor.” Y/N sat up, frowning. “It does no good to dwell, Rhaenyra. Besides, I am content with the life I lead, spending time with my favorite cousin.”
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “I am your only cousin.”
“Not true.” She laughed. “There is Daemon and-”
“My brother seems rather taken with you, I must say.” Y/N’s heart broke at the thought of Gwayne being smitten with Rhaenyra.
Why, she could not quite place. “Hear that ‘Nyra? I told you I was-”
“I was talking to you, Y/N,” Alicent smirked.
Her cheeks grew hot, her hands itching to cover her face. “You must be mistaken.”
“Do you truly think so little of him?” The auburn-haired girl reached out, grabbing Y/N’s hand comfortingly. “I assure you, he is honorable and loyal to a fault.”
“I am sure he is.” Y/N smiled. “He must be leaving soon, now that the tournament is nearly over.”
Rhaenyra smirked. “I must say, it was not as extensive as I would have liked.”
“Really?” Y/N laughed. “It has already been a fortnight since its beginning.”
“And if the Princess feels it is not finished…” Rhaenyra wiggled her eyebrows. “The Princess will announce an extension.”
Alicent giggled. “Or rather your father.”
“My lady.”
She’d almost escaped. Y/N sighed, turning around. “My lord.”
She had seen the man following her for quite a while, hoping that he was merely visiting the library. She bowed quickly. “How may I be of service?” Lord Frey’s scent could make a man grown faint. She felt the bile rise as he took a step closer, whispering.
“I was wondering if you could put in a word with your Princess.”
She nodded. “What would you like me to relay?”
“Well-” His ‘kind’ facade was cracking. If he could barely handle a simple question, she doubted Rhaenyra would enjoy him. “If you could-”
“My lady.” Her heart fluttered at the sight of Gwyane Hightower, his hair bouncing as he walked toward her. “I’ve been waiting. We agreed to meet in the gardens.”
“I am sorry.” She smiled, genuinely smiled. “I was simply talking to Lord Frey.” She looked back to the older man, urging him to continue. “You were saying, my lord?”
He gritted his teeth. “It is of no consequence. I shall take my leave.” He bowed. “My lady. Ser Hightower.”
“Lord Frey,” Gwayne replied, waiting until he had rounded the corner. “Always a pleasure.”
Y/N fought the urge to laugh. She walked past the young knight, her heart beating faster as he diligently followed after her. “Do you not have somewhere to be, my lord?”
“As I said, I have been waiting for you.”
She scoffed. “I must say, you are the very picture of a knight. Saving a damsel in distress? How chivalrous.”
He smiled, bowing sarcastically. “Thank you, my lady.”
“I am not a-”
“A lady. You have said.” He grabbed a book from the shelf, pretending to read it before throwing it over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes, walking around him to pick up the book he’d discarded. The maester would have her head if he found it lying there. “I must say, a lady has never been so-” He laughed as she opened her mouth to correct him. “So unmoved by my advances.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint. If you’ll excuse me-”
“What are you doing with the remainder of your day, I wonder.”
“Why?”
“I would like a proper tour of the castle, and my sister has been too busy as of late.” He looked too eager, too eager to spend time with a mere lady in waiting. “Would you care to show me?”
“I would not.”
“Wonderful. I will-” He stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, I would not.” She put the last book away, climbing up the ladder. “It is quite cruel, this game you are playing.”
“I am sorry?” He tilted his head.
“I know this is a ploy to gain Rhaenyra’s favor, to win the tourney, and possibly win your father’s approval.” She scoffed, eyes watery at the thought of yet another man using her to gain advantage. “This is by far the cruelest way, I must tell you.”
He laughed, actually laughed at her, which only angered her further, tears falling as a result. He stopped his laughing, reaching out to comfort her, frowning when she stepped back. “Do you really think I am using you for your lady’s hand?”
“I do.” She climbed back down from the ladder, ignoring the way he held it from wavering beneath her. “There is no reason for you to be interested in me.”
He shook his head as if he’d misheard her. “Are you aware you are beautiful?”
Y/N ignored that comment, facing him with pleading eyes. “Please spare me from your taunts. I understand that you may- you may find it amusing-”
Gwayne was confused, extremely, and utterly confused. He had just complimented her, why was she asking him to spare her? “I must make this clear and simple, as you seem to get the wrong impression from me. I am not interested in your lady. I am interested in-”
“Every suitor I have encountered has gone through either myself or Alicent to gain Rhaenyra’s favor. By the gods-” She flailed her arms. “Some even go to me inquiring about your sister!”
He practically growled, her heart leaping from the sound. “Then they are cowards.”
“Yes, well…” She had to leave before her resolve broke. “My lord.”
“Do you let anyone other than yourself speak?”
Y/N gasped, whipping around. “Excuse me?”
“I have been trying to explain myself to you, to tell you that-” He stopped himself. “So far every attempt has been overpowered by you.” He crossed his arms, a smirk gracing his lips. “Now…” His voice was practically a whisper. “May I speak?”
“I-” She swallowed, nodding. She did not trust her voice when he looked at her so… so longingly?
“The outing I suggested earlier, would simply be a tour, nothing more.” He took her hand in his. “Nothing untoward will come of it, I swear to you.”
He looked sincere. So sincere that she began to consider it. “We will need a chaperone. The king would not allow me to go off alone, even with a knight.”
“The king?” Gwayne was intrigued. “Exactly why would the king care?”
“Because I am a ward of the crown. I have been since I was born. My mother was a-” She stopped herself. “She was a close friend of King Jaehaerys, and he took me in. King Viserys has been gracious enough to let me stay.”
“Well, then I shall have to thank him.”
“For?”
“If it had not been for him…” He reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “We would have never met.”
She rolled her eyes, pulling herself out of his hold. “I shall see you tomorrow, my lord.”
He grinned, calling after her. “I look forward to it!”
Gwayne smiled as he watched the woman in front of him. She was glowing in this light and practically skipping through the gardens with joy. It was funny, seeing a woman he had often seen as melancholy at best so energetic. “Do you often find yourself at peace here?”
“I do.” Y/N nodded. “I was told my mother loved the gardens, I suppose I feel she is still with me when I am here.”
“Did you know her?” Gwayne inquired. “Your mother, that is.”
“She died when I was a babe.” She leaned forward, taking in the scent of the roses in front of her. “I have glimpses of her. She had bright eyes, bright hair. Her laugh was the most beautiful melody you could ever hear. At least…” She drifted off, staring at the ground. “From what I can remember.”
“I have the same.” His voice was quiet. “Although, my mother died when I was eight years of age.”
“That’s awful.” She frowned. “Alicent told me she had died, but not how old you’d been. That must have been worse, I suppose. Having known her, and then in a moment, gone.”
He shrugged. “My mother was… less than maternal. She had always been one for court and fashion rather than her children.”
“Ah.”
“Still, it hurt. Me more than Alicent, I suppose. She’d only been four years old.”
She ached to reach out and hold him. “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“Reliving the past.”
“If I remember correctly…” He plucked a nearby daisy, placing it behind her ear ever so delicately. “I found this topic of conversation.”
“Yes well…” She smiled, leaning into his touch ever so slightly. “Still…”
He leaned forward, his breath hitting her nose. “I am sure your mother would be proud.”
To that, Y/N laughed. “She was always the adventurous sort, at least, that is what I’ve gathered from the stories. She was highly admired too, beautiful…” She looked down, picking at the skin around her thumb. “I hope to be half the woman she was.”
“You are.” He whispered, holding her hand. He had noticed, much to his dismay, that she’d adopted the habit of picking at her skin. It hurt him, to see her do that to herself.
His sister did the same.
Her heart stopped, looking up to meet his gaze. He was beautiful. Staring into his eyes, she began to realize how inappropriate of a position they were in.
Where was their chaperone? She took a step back, forgetting the rose bush behind her. Yelping, she jumped forward, falling into his arms.
Gwayne laughed, throwing his head back. “Have I startled you?”
She scoffed, pushing him away. “Not at all. I simply remembered we have much more of the tour to get through.” She darted around him, leading the way out of the garden. “Now, come along.”
“Yes sir,” Gwayne muttered, mockingly saluting.
She looked behind her, a smile gracing her lips. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” His pace quickened until they were side by side. “Simply admiring your hospitality.”
She shoved his arm, rolling her eyes. “Ever the jester.”
The remainder of their day passed quickly, much quicker than Y/N would have liked. By the end, she came to realize that the noble knight was a near-perfect companion. Serious when required, a jester when the moment called for it, he was kind, and a good man.
Their last moments had been silent, soaking in the dull roar around them. Every so often, their hands grazed, neither daring to reach out. The sunset with the perfect blend of orange and pink, the waves crashing against King Landing’s rocky cliffs. It made Y/N smile, the way it brought out the red in Gwayne’s hair. She whispered, the words barely leaving her. “You’re hair is the most perfect shade. Have you noticed?” His cheeks turned red, and she smirked, taking his silence as a no. “If only it were transferable.”
That had made him laugh. “Have you just given me a compliment?”
She laughed. “We are friends, are we not?” The night was coming to an end, her door just a few paces away. “Friends compliment each other.”
His shoulders visibly deflated, but he smiled nonetheless. “Yes. Friends compliment each other.” Silence fell over them again, neither daring to speak until she’d reached for her door. His hand grabbed her wrist, holding her just so.
His voice was raspy, quiet enough the breeze itself could have carried it away. “You are perfection itself.” Her cheeks were bright red, and she grew grateful he could not see her, knowing that she would surely become the subject of his jests if he saw her blush. “As your friend…”
She nodded, smiling to herself as she pushed the door open, his hold releasing her wrist. “Goodnight, my lord.”
“My friends do not call me my lord.”
She turned around, curtsying ever so lightly. “Then goodnight, Gwayne.”
He bowed, kissing the back of her hand. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Are you not terribly tired of reading?”
“If I was tired of it, I would not still be doing it, now would I?”
Gwayne groaned, rolling over on their shared blanket, staring at the sky. “One should not confine themselves to a book when the whole world is sitting in front of them.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, setting the book down in her lap. “I will have you know I am not confining myself.”
“Oh?” He laughed, his eyes closing. “Then what exactly are you doing?”
“I was trying to relax.” She murmured. “Something I can never seem to do when you are present.”
“What was that?” His smirk was growing increasingly mischievous, and she knew that he had heard her.
“I will not repeat myself. You heard me.” Grabbing her book out of her lap, she opened its pages once more. “Now hush. This is the best part.”
“Read it to me then.” He closed his eyes, laying beside her. “I would like to hear what is so interesting it has taken you away from me.”
“It was you who suggested the picnic, Gwayne, not I.” She laughed. “They are supposed to be tranquil.”
“Maybe in King’s Landing.” He muttered. “In Oldtown, they are supposed to be fun.”
“Well, I am not from Oldtown, nor are we there, which could imply why I was unaware of your customs. Which could also explain how we have reached this argument.”
His eyebrows raised. “Is this an argument?”
She ignored him, mumbling to herself. “This is fun.”
“Well, it would be.” He teased. “If you read to me.”
“You jest.” She mumbled. “Now let me sit in peace.”
He stood up, walking behind her just to sit down once more. “May I?”
“May you what, exactly?” Her cheeks felt hot, he had this effect on her.
“Alicent once taught me to plait hair, when she was young.” He smiled to himself. “I assume it was a self-serving act, but still.” He leaned forward, his voice causing goosebumps to run up her spine. “At least let me pass the time this way.”
“Fine.” Y/N could never say no to him, no matter how hard she tried. “Do not make me look hideous.”
“That…” He pulled out the pins that held her hair elegantly. “Is not possible.” Her cheeks flushed, ignoring that compliment. “Are you attending the tourney tomorrow?”
Y/N nodded. “I must. Rhaenyra has insisted I attend as her lady-in-waiting.” She laughed. “It is quite odd.”
“How so?”
“She has never required that of me before.”
Gwayne grinned. “Well, I shall enjoy knowing you are watching.”
“Really?” She laughed again. “I thought you would enjoy it more if I had not attended. Then you could recount the story as outlandishly as you pleased.”
“Y/N…” His voice sounded desperate, and her heart skipped. “If you do not wish to attend, I’m sure the Princess will understand.”
“No!” She practically yelped. “I want to.”
He smiled, his blush growing darker. “Then I shall do my very best.” His fingers grazed her neck, a gasp leaving her lips before she could silence herself. Gwayne made no comment of it, simply finishing the braid and standing up, extending his hand.
She glared playfully, standing up of her own accord. She knelt, picking up the blanket and folding it haphazardly.
“Let me.” Gwayne took the blanket and basket from her arms, carrying them back up to the castle. “A lady should never carry such things.”
“A basket and blanket?” She raised an eyebrow. “I am not weak.”
“I know.” He smiled, enjoying the fire in her eyes. “You are decidedly, not weak.”
She nodded, puffing her chest. “If we walk any slower, you shall be late.”
He groaned. “Why must I attend this soiree?”
“Because it is meant for you. For knights participating in the tourney, that is. Rhaenyra will be there, as will her father-”
“And will you?” Gwayne interrupted. “Be in attendance?”
“I shall.” She smiled brightly. “Now come along and follow after me closely.”
He tilted his head. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”
“Maegor’s tunnels.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “They were made as an escape plan. Now the servants use them to move around the castle unseen.” The corridor was dark, the lanterns doing little to illuminate the path.
Gwayne felt a chill run down his spine, and he reached out, grabbing her hand. “Are you quite sure this is safe?”
“I have used them my whole life.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “Trust me.”
He smiled, all fears of imminent doom leaving him as her skin touched his. “Lead the way.”
“You are going to break my hand.” Rhaenyra hissed.
Y/N smiled guiltily, releasing the Princess's hand. “My apologies, Princess.” She straightened the fabric of her dress, sitting tall. “I am simply excited. I love tourneys.”
“You do not. You have not been to a tourney since we were ten years of age.”
“Untrue,” Y/N muttered, looking over the edge of the box for her knight. “I am simply busy.”
“With what?” Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “Who are you looking for anyhow?”
Alicent sat on the other side of the Princess, leaning forward and wiggling her eyebrows. “I believe she is looking for my brother.”
Rhaenyra grinned. “Has that-” Alicent elbowed the Princess, widening her eyes.
Y/N tilted her head. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” Rhaenyra muttered, holding her side. “Nothing.”
A knight approached the royal box, and Y/N grinned, waiting for Rhaenyra to stand first, as was customary. Rhaenyra smirked, looking at Alicent quickly before approaching the ledge. “Ser Hightower.” Alicent and Y/N approached second, arm in arm. Curstying quickly, she smiled at Gwayne brightly. The knight nodded his head. “Your Highness.” He turned to Y/N, his eyes softening. “My lady.”
“Ser Hightower.” Y/N greeted. “This is quite the tourney. I’m impressed.”
He grinned. “May I-” He swallowed. “May I have the honor of wearing your favor?”
Her cheeks grew bright red. “You-” She looked at Rhaenyra. “Do you not-”
He laughed. “I believe it is quite obvious I do not.”
Rhaenyra laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. She leaned over, whispering in her cousin’s ear. “This is when you give the man your favor, Y/N.”
“But, I-” She turned back to Gwayne once more. “Are you quite sure?”
He nodded, cheeks slightly flushed. “Yes, my lady.”
She turned around, pulling her arm out of Alicent’s. As she was a bastard, her house colors were unknown, opting to simply decorate the ring with her favorite flowers.
Of course, Rhaneyra and Y/N had known, but to blatantly defy the order of the king… she locked eyes with King Viserys, who was gazing at her curiously. Her eyes darted to the floor, turning back around. “May your luck bring you to victory, Ser Hightower.”
“As long as I have you to think of…” He looked positively giddy. “I shall never lose.”
Y/N was sure her cheeks were bright red. She rolled her eyes, ignoring his compliment.
Her heart twisted, knowing that they could never marry, as who would allow their firstborn son, their heir, to wed a bastard? She pushed his lance playfully, pulling herself out of her thoughts. “Go on, then.”
“You look stunning.” Alicent smiled, placing her hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “The very picture of a lady.”
Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “I cannot name a time I have dressed so…” She smiled. “So elegantly.”
“It is a ball,” Rhaenyra interjected. “I will not have my dear friend in something drab.”
Alicent glared, and Rhaenyra stuck her tongue out. “She knows I do not mean that she is drab. I was simply-”
“It is alright, Rhaenyra.” Y/N laughed. “I was not offended in the slightest.”
“Red is most definitely your color.” Alicent grinned, spinning her friend around.
Rhaenyra smirked. “Your knight shall not know what to do with himself.” Alicent gasped, smacking Rhaenyra’s arm. The Princess winced, glaring at her friend. “You cannot keep hitting me whenever you are disappointed.”
Y/N tilted her head. “My knight?”
“It is no matter.” Alicent stopped the Princess from blabbing anymore. “Shall we?”
The ballroom was filled to the brim with nobility from all over the Seven Kingdoms, the Hightowers, the Tullys, even the Starks had come to participate in the tourney and celebrate its results.
Y/N stepped back, watching as her friends entered. The squire stomped his cane, effectively silencing the ballroom. “The Princess of Dragonstone, Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, accompanied by the Lady Alicent Hightower.”
They looked elegant, lighting up the room as they walked. Y/N walked up to the squire, smiling lightly. “No need to introduce me, Orvyn.”
He nodded, smiling kindly. “As you wish, my lady.”
The ballroom had not paid attention as she walked, not that she minded. It was better that way, she convinced herself as she glanced around the room. She smiled, waving at Gwayne, who was already staring back at her, rather intensely. His eyes… she shivered, ripping herself away from his gaze as she curtsied before the King. “Your Majesty.”
Viserys smiled, eyeing her royal red dress with curiosity. “Y/N.”
She rose; she could still feel Gwayne’s eyes fixed on her. Sitting beside Rhaenyra, she took a large gulp of her wine. “Is Gwayne still-”
Rhaenyra nodded, laughing to herself. “He is walking over.”
“What?” Y/N’s eyes widened, her heart pounding. “Why?”
“I assume…” She whispered, Gwayne now mere inches away. “He is going to ask you to dance.”
“He-”
“Your Highness.” The knight bowed. “My lady.”
Y/N avoided eye contact and took another large sip. Rhaenyra smirked. “Ser Gwayne, congratulations on your victory.”
“Thank you, Princess.” He smiled. “Would you mind terribly if I stole your lady for a dance?”
Rhaenyra shook her head. “Not at all, my lord.” She looked at Y/N, enjoying this situation too much. “Y/N?”
“What?” Y/N whispered.
“He is asking you to dance.” Rhaenyra hissed. “Now get up.”
“I-” Y/N looked at Gwayne for the second time that night, feeling as if she could faint at any moment. “I would be delighted.”
His hand waited for hers, as it had so many times before. He whispered, placing his arm around her waist as they stood on the dance floor, his touch shocking her to her very core. “Is something the matter?”
She shook her head.
“Then why, pray tell…” His voice sounded desperate. “Have you refused to meet my eyes? I have missed your company.”
She raised her gaze, falling for the trap he’d set. “I saw you but two days ago, Gwayne.”
“There you are.” He grinned, pulling her closer as the dance began. “Now tell me, what is the matter?”
“You are leaving soon.”
“I am.” He replied as if this were any normal conversation. And perhaps it was, but Y/N would not say so. No normal conversation made her heart beat as fast as this.
“And I-” She sighed. “I did not want to bother you while you prepared for your journey back.”
“Back?” He tilted his head. “And where am I journeying to?”
“To Oldtown, of course.” His eyebrows scrunched, and Y/N fought the urge to burst into laughter. “I assumed-”
“Well, there’s no good in that, is there?” He whispered. “Assuming is a dangerous business.”
“But why would you stay?” She felt entirely confused. He had won the tourney and now would go home to tend to his duties. “There is no-” His eyes sparkled as she spoke, halting her momentarily. “No reason.”
Gwayne leaned down, his breath hitting her cheeks. “There is one reason. A very compelling one, in truth.”
Her heart stopped. “Is there?”
He nodded, eyes fluttering down to her lips.
Oh.
She was the reason.
Before she could fall for his spell, she pulled back, disrupting the dance. His eyes widened, reaching out to hold her hand. “Y/N?”
She ripped her hand back, staring wide-eyed. “I am not feeling well.”
His tone was gentle, it made her stomach flip. Gods, he had to stop being so- so perfect. “Would you like me to-”
“No!” She yelped, slapping a hand over her mouth. Nobles from around the room curiously gazed at the couple. “No, I shall go alone.”
“Y/N-”
She whipped around, stalking out of the ballroom. It broke her, to walk away from his hold. She knew she could no longer be around him; she was fighting her very soul to leap up and attach her lips to his.
There was only one solution to this problem, this vexing complication - she would have to avoid him entirely. No more traipsing around the halls waiting for him to see her, no more walking by the stables or the training yard.
No, she would have to stay confined to her and Rhaenyra’s rooms.
That was the best course of action, for both her and Gwayne.
Little did she know, Gwayne would not stand for it.
“They say-” Rhaenyra spoke carefully as she addressed her cousin. “That your knight is leaving today.”
“Ah.” Y/N nodded, staring off into the distance.
“Y/N…” The Princess sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Punishing yourself because of your birth… You must stop refusing any sign of affection or love simply on the-”
“Who said it was love?” Y/N scoffed, walking out to the balcony. “Certainly not I.”
“Anyone with eyes can see it. He is mad for you, as you are for him.” Rhaenyra muttered under her breath. “Even if you refuse to admit it.”
“I cannot admit something false, Rhaenyra.” Her lips curled into a twisted sort of smile. “I am content with my life, serving you.”
“All perfectly fine with me,” Rhaenyra reassured. “But you have a chance with Gwayne. Swear to me you will not waste it.”
“I-” She sighed. “I must retrieve your dinner, my lady.” Y/N curtsied before racing out of the room. By the gods, she couldn’t breathe when Rhaenyra lectured her. It was horrible enough that Alicent had begun to look upon her as if she was a kicked puppy, now Rhaenyra had began to do the same.
She pushed open the servant's door, twisting through Maegor’s tunnels with ease. It was odd, she told herself, at the lack of maids in its halls. Normally, she was dodging servants left and right. This felt strange, unnerving in a way.
Footsteps echoed behind her, and her heart leapt when a hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her into a dark corner. She gasped, flailing her arms around, doing anything that could beat this intruder off her. Gwayne’s familiar voice ripped her from her panicked cries. “It’s me! It’s me.”
She rolled her eyes, pulling her arm out of his grasp. “What possessed you to drag me-”
“You will not talk to me.” He crossed his arms, staring at her intensely. “I am sorry if I scared you.” She turned around, walking back to the hallway. Gwayne followed diligently. “My party is set to leave today.”
Y/N nodded, ignoring the way her heart clenched. “So I’ve heard.”
“I wanted to say goodbye before I left.” His voice wavered. “I will miss-”
“You’ve said goodbye.” She cut him off, whipping around. “Now you may leave.”
He closed the space between them, eyes running wild with confusion. “Why must you be like this? Have I truly upset you?”
“Will you not respect a lady’s wishes?” She took a step back, scoffing. “I thought you were a knight, Lord Hightower.”
“Don’t.”
“I must attend to my lady. Her dinner is past due.” She continued her walk through the tunnels, ignoring his overwhelming presence.
“Damn her dinner.” He hissed, walking a pace behind her as he whispered. “I have been trying, for weeks, to court you, and you’ve denied me every step of the way. Just as soon as I-”
She scoffed. “Court me? Did Lord Tyland put you up to this?”
He shook his head, laughing. “Is it so hard to believe that I am interested in you? That the very thought of you consumes me?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
She could only imagine his expression, his beautiful face creased with shock. Her cheeks flushed at the thought. “I am a bastard, you a lord’s son. By the gods, your father is hand to the King, and I am merely a lady in waiting.” She frowned, eyes watering. “It is not proper-”
“Then damn propriety!” He yelled, grabbing her wrist and halting her in her tracks. Her back was pressed against his chest. “I- I am mad for you, you must see that.”
Her shoulders shook, tears falling down her face. “Gwayne, it is for the best.”
“No!” He twirled her around, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “You- you make me think, and feel, and act as none have. Your laughter- it brightens my day. Your wit makes me proud. I am-” He sighed, smiling brightly at the mere sight of her. “How?”
She tilted her head. “How?”
“How can I show you?” Her back collided with the wall, her breath leaving her, her heart thumping at their proximity. “How can I make you believe?”
“Gwayne…”
“Damn it to hell…” He leaned down, colliding his lips to hers. She gasped, eyes fluttering shut as she instantly pulled him closer. “I am not deterred by your status, nor do I care. I will have you, regardless of what the court thinks is proper.” His forehead leaned against hers, his hand resting at the bottom of her neck.
“We cannot-” Tears continued to fall down her face. “Gwayne, it cannot happen-”
“Do you want it to?” He remained steadfast. “Is this what you truly feel, or merely what the lords and ladies of Kings Landing shall say?”
“Gwayne, your father will never approve.”
“By the gods woman…” He laughed. “Do you love me?”
“Love?” She choked on a sob. Her body felt as if it could burst into flames at any moment. He was standing close, closer than what was deemed appropriate. “Do I-”
“I do.” He whispered, nudging her nose with his, lips barely touching. “I love you.”
“Gwayne, just listen to me.” She was fighting every bone in her body not to kiss him senselessly. “I am not good enough for you. There are hundreds of ladies-”
“You are, you are good enough. Perhaps too good. Besides…” He whispered. “I want you. Only you.” His eyes were intense, his thumb caressing her collarbone. By the gods, he was trying to make her burst into flames. “Only you.” His lips collided against hers, her eyes fluttering shut once more.
Her hands found their way to his chest, slowly pushing him away. “We cannot.”
“Oh?” He looked around the hallway. “I do not see anyone.”
“You know what I meant, Gwayne Hightower.”
“Would you like to stop?”
“No!” Her eyes widened, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.
His eyebrows rose, laughing to himself. “So eager.” He nudged his nose against hers. “Whatever shall I do with you?”
“Why have you stopped?” Gwayne’s voice was but a murmur.
“I did not know you were listening.” She smiled. “You appeared to be sleeping.”
“Merely basking in your presence, my love.” His eyes fluttered open. “I must say, you look radiant in this light.”
She laughed. “As opposed to?”
“You know that I find you impossibly perfect.” His eyes shut again. “How long has it been since you began this book?”
“Hard to say. Possibly half an hour?” She squinted suspiciously. “Why?”
“No reason.” He smirked, finding comfort in her lap once more.
“Well, there must be.” Her laughter filled his heart, his soul. “You never ask for the time.”
“May I not ask the beautiful woman, whom I love, what the time is? I simply want to know how long I have been lying in the garden.” His eyes peeked open once more, her eyebrows raising in amusement. “If you must know, I have an appointment at half past three.”
“An appointment?” She shut her book, running her hand through his hair. “Whatever for?”
“It is a secret.”
“Really?” She pulled her hand away from his hair, laughing as he sat up, obviously disappointed by the sudden lack of touch.
“Really.” He stood, extending his hand. She smiled, placing hers in his gladly. “It is with the King.”
She laid her head on his shoulder, smiling as they walked. “Has something happened?”
“Yes.”
Her heart dropped. “Is it serious?”
He nodded. “Deadly.”
She groaned. “Now you must tell me.”
He sighed, stopping by the fountain. “Fine, fine. But you must not tell.”
She nodded, interlocking their pinkies. “I swear.”
He leaned forward, whispering in her ear. “I am asking the King for your hand.”
Her eyebrows crinkled. “My hand?”
“In marriage, my love.” She stood there speechless. He laughed, kissing the back of her hand gently. “I cannot be late.”
He had been halfway down the trail when she’d been brought back to life.
“Gwayne!”
He turned around, laughing at the sight before him. Y/N was racing toward him, skirts in hand and book discarded, grinning wildly. “Gwayne, you come back here this instant!”
He shook his head, running away. “This is highly unladylike, I must say!” She glared, almost tripping over a tree root, his laughter cascading through the garden. “Almost makes me rethink my question!”
summary : spencer is on the hunt for a book that might help him crack a case. despite the heatwave, he'd walk through the whole city to get a very special bookstore owner's attention
word count : 1.8k
pairings : early seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader (meet cute)
notes : dual pov, inspired by s2ep8 "empty planet", where the unsub uses a sci-fi book as a prophecy. the heatwave is just self indulgent, and my swet glasses!reid is a sweaty and blushing mess
it was a hot day in seattle.
afternoons in late june felt inexplicably long, as if time was enjoying making spencer suffer from boredom during such cases. the sweat clinging to his skin, thepowerful burn of the sunlight on the almost melting concrete, it all made him wish he could be anywhere but here on a crime scene.
most people were busy welcoming the summer season. on this day of summer solstice, walking around the public garden or enjoying a picnic by the water, life seemed to have taken on a slow rhythm timed by the need for rest and relaxation.
no one could've possibly guessed the city was under a bomb threat.
back at the police department, when the team gathered around the makeshift conference room with no AC, he swore he could feel his braincells decompose. there was no way he was making it to the end of the day in that lifesize oven.
this is why he practially jumped up when hotch sent him on the hunt for a particular book. some obscure science fiction novel he must've mumbled about in a heat caused haze.
at least he got to be outside.
the first bookstore he saw was the one that caught his eye.
a few blocks near the park, between a coffee shop and a vintage store, was a ridiculously old building that looked straight out of an animated movie. the bricks were cream colored, hidden behind leaves of ivy and numerous flower pots that were somehow surviving the heatwave.
he was glad to have a reason to go in.
usually, he drove past bookstores and libraries he dreamed to visit in the black sedan, and could only promise himself he'd go once the case was over, which almost never happened.
the little bell above the wooden door made a clear noise when he pushed it open, stepping into the cozy atmoshpere. the first thing that hit him was the freshness of the air - slightly smelling of the distinct scent of books he loves so much, and a hint of something sweeter.
lavender, maybe. he too, a look around.
it wasn't too vast of a space, but the aisles weren't narrow either. rather welcoming, inviting, books on the shelves stacked just right in a way that scratched his neurodivergent brain.
naturally, he felt compelled to profile the person who owned the place.
his eyes roamed over the titles of the books as he took a couple of steps further. the titles were highlighted by the giant windows, that bathed the store in sunlight. yet, the temperature was more than delightful.
"looking for anything in particular ?"
someone said right behing him.
it took him a moment to realize the saccharine words were destined to him. he was the only one to be book shopping of all things, on this blazing day.
"i'm just looking around, thank y-" he turned to face her and gesture the shelf in front of him - the book he was searching for on full display - but froze.
she was beautiful, the girl standing before him.
suddenly, the outside heat felt like nothing compred to the one spreading on his cheeks, shades of pink matching those of her flowy sundress. it almost reached the floor, cascading down your hips where the fabric hugged her skin.
staring, he was staring. get a grip, reid.
"yes, actually." the lie came out smoother than intended. good, a semblance of dignity in front of such an ethereal presence was all he hoped for. "is that... the fiction aisle ?"
"yes, all the way to that shelf over there" she pointed to the opposite side, her smile rather amused than anything.
real smart, genius.
for someone who was searching for a book, he didn't make it sound like he even knew how to read. the sign just above his head listed the different sections of the bookstore, how pathetic.
she added kindly, her hand smoothing the fabric of the dress - the dress of the undoing. "but we also have a vast selection of non-fiction books over there, and a little cafe area"
"o-okay."
"if you need something fresh to cool down, or..." she shrugged, and it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen. kindness radiated out of her so easily, he wanted to say yes desperately.
or at least to say something, anything.
but on top of forgetting how to read, he'd also seemed to have lost his speaking abilities.
so he did what perhaps was the most insensitive thing to do and grabbed the book from the shelf, muttering something along the lines of a poorly enunciated thank you before heading to the checkout.
sliding behind the counter, their fingers brushed when she took it from him gently, giving him the change in return.
"you'll like it," she spoke, carefully placing it in a brown paper bag. "it's not my favorite genre, but the plot unfolds pretty nicely."
he rubs the back of his neck sheepishly and manages to say.
"not mine either, really. it's for scientific purposes, but i usually stick to classics or true crime novels"
"me too !!" she says enthusiastically.
as he took the bag from her, it appeared to him that small talk might be the closest thing he'd ever get from her, and suddenly regreted the way he dismissed her out of nervousness.
"this place is nice,"
she looks up, smiling at the compliment. not bad, he thinks, does he sound too eager ?
"thanks you, i’ve been working here for a while... not alone, usually, but it’s hard to attract people with that heat”
“not for you,” he answers, instantly biting his lip.
“what ?”
attract as in interest, in books. shoot, the haze in his mind was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced and made him stupid.
“i mean, uh… you’re great. a great salesperson, basically. you’ve got the social cues down”
she let out a genuine chuckle, closing the cash register as the coins clinked.
“don’t you ?”
“no, not really…" he hints at in a bashful tone, slightly shifting positions to lean against the counter in an attempt to appear nonchalant.
the rays of the sun are filtering through the glass, hues of gold spreading around her, reminding him of an angel's halo. bright is the smile she gives him, the magnetic field around her promting him to get closer, closer.
"there's nothing wrong with choosing books over people, trust me" she says as she hands him the bag.
"less disappointing"
he nods, brain too focused on how they almost touched for the second time today. outside, the hot weather is almost nagging him, knowing he'll have to rush back to the police station. spend his day locked in yet another enclosed office, bathing in the discomfort of his own sweat and loneliness.
but he should be getting going.
so, reluctantly, he disappears with an ironic sound of the silver bell as the door closes.
every step he takes is unsure and reluctant, as if his body contemplated betraying him by turning back around. the urge was too strong, similar to the desire he felt to be near you, the scent of sugar and roses you emanated.
except the bell rings not too long later.
you had barely found the time to catch your breath - that had been taken away by the handsome boy on aisle three earlier this morning, the only person in the whole town who’d actually thought it would be smart to come here today of all days - that the sharp sound was heard again, pulling you out of your daydreams.
rays of sunlight hit your eyes, his figure appearing like a mirage in the light.
“you’re back,” you exhaled breathlessly.
quickly, you got up from the shelf you were rearranging. kids picture books, sorted by themes instead of colours.
“i’m back,” he said at the same time.
your brows met halfway, nerves wracking. surely, you couldn’t have spent so much time reading under your breath, nostalgic about your favourite childhood book.
a gasp escaped from your lips.
“you didn’t like the book ? no. it was the wrong one ? what’s wrong ? i forgot the change ?”
shy stranger chuckled again, a sound you couldn’t get enough of. “no, it was the right book and you got everything right.”
“then what ?”
frankly, you could’ve forgotten a dollar or two. it happened often when your preference for literature over maths showed. or when a handsome client with eyes of gold showed up.
“actually… i finished it.”
somehow, he looked bashful.
like it was a truth he hated to admit, disguising the unique parts of him under a joking tone he didn’t quite master. crossing the store to approach you tentatively as if you were in the middle of something, his eyes never left yours.
“the book ?”
“yes, the book.”
stupid question. and incredibly intelligent man, or so it seemed.
his mouth opened once before he spoke, gathering the whirlwind of thoughts as they rushed through his mind.
“twenty thousand words per minute. that’s my usual reading speed,” he explains, like it’s the most natural thing ever.”
“if you minimise factors such as the environment or time of the day. usually, my brain is more active in the early morning.”
you nod along.
“so,” in an attempt to understand, you put your hands on your hips. the little dimple on your right cheek is probably showing, you think. it always does when you’re intrigued.
he almost stares, you notice before he says again.
“so, i was wondering if you had any recommendations. you said classics, right ?”
classics.
jane austen, dostoevsky, maybe some hugo or brontë. the energy he brought felt like a calm breeze, a yearning soul perhaps. looking at his hazel eyes and tall frame felt like discovering a puzzle part you didn't know was missing.
oh, you had plenty of suggestions for him. questions too popped up in your mind as he leaned against the shelf, tilting his head in silent obsrvation.
caramel curls were sticking to his temples, rebelling from the way they'd carefully been pushed back earlier.
he took the silence as an opportunity to ask, round eyes pleaing. "you said something about fresh drinks ?"
the world seemed to stop when you giggled, his inner thermostat skyrocketing.
that's what it was.
it was the expression on your face he wanted to decipher.
your thoughts that he truly wanted to read.
"sure, i'll get you some iced tea" flowing dress creating a delicate movement at every step, you made your way to the coffee station.
"right, i'll just... wait here"
books, fresh air, you. eveerything here seemed perfect, he never wanted to leave, followed you after a couple of seconds as if a magnetic force had pushed him to.
the rest would just have to wait.
౨ৎ if you liked this, try reading you're in my way now
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Now the public is speculating on whether Superman is taking Clark to the Mighty Crabjoys concert. Clark should really switch his profile to private but he doesn’t know how.
“It’s good luck to spill a little with martinis.” — said right before spilling his entire cosmo in Lex Luthor’s lap
“Can I take this for my son?” — said about anything, including crime scene evidence, but said so charmingly that 80% of people just let him take whatever he’s holding
“Sorry I’m on the Bluetooth.” — said while gesturing to an ear that definitely does not have an earpiece, usually mid-conversation at a party
“No yeah, they get walks every day.” — said about his kids, no one can ever 100% tell if he’s joking
Had this image of Lex pursuing Clark romantically, partly because he has contact with Superman and could be a way to destroy the alien bastard but also because... Well, Clark is a fucking tree and Lex wants to be the squirrel that climbs him. So cue Lex flirting with Clark at events and sending him elaborate gifts and bouquets, trying to woo him. It's so overt that it becomes common knowledge that Lex wants that reporter. It launches a thousand edits and fics.
Bruce appears at a gala held in Metropolis and after a chilly exchange with Lex, he makes a beeline right to Clark. They chat warmly, Bruce is laughing at something Ckatk said and he sets a hand on Clark's shoulder and all anybody can hear is Lex Luthor's teeth gnashing. Bruce being Bruce starts to send Clark his own gifts: a new sports car, bouquets larger than Lex's, watches, chains etc. Bruce utterly spoils Clark and he wants to because Clark is a friend but also, tweaking Lex's nose is hilarious.
Clark is torn between embarrassment and appreciating how nice the gifts are and how funny it is to see Lex and Bruce fight over him in the media. Lex and Bruce start trash talking each other, accusing each other of stealing their man. They're literally at a gala having a catfight over Clark.
Lois is having the time of her life, documenting the drama, trying to interview that most elusive but apparently, the most desirable man in Gotham and Metropolis while Clark just rolls his eyes. It gets calmer after a while until multi millionaire Oliver Queen proposes to him in the middle of a televised interview.
I need children of darkness armand to be in the trenches when it comes to yearning. I just think he'd be so gross with it but also oddly endearing
children of darkness armand is such a weirdo (affectionate)
also timeline wise this is a little iffy. both lestat and nicki are vampires at this point. armand is being slightly more chill than he should be during his cult leader era for bestie specifically. all of this is needed for bestie verse plot reasons <33
----
If beings of perpetual darkness can exist, creatures that only serve the purpose of inflcting suffering onto mortals, then surely entities that belong to the healing light of daybreak must be permitted to walk the earth as well.
Armand hasn't spent much time thinking about vampirism's natural counterpart. If vampires are the demons of this world, then the person blissfully sleeping before him must be this world's version of an angel.
Perhaps that is why you seem so inclined to ruin him, some instinct imbedded into the very essence of your soul that desires to snuff out anything that belongs to the shadows.
Armand takes a step forward. The floorboards let out a low groan. He instinctually stills at the sound. It's unnecessary, but he finds himself focusing on your breathing. You sleep with a soundness that borders on grating. It's the kind of total rest that only the truly unconflicted and unafraid can achieve.
You wouldn't be able to think of him as often as he thinks of you and still sleep as well as you do. Something akin to resentment settles between his ribs. If you can't bring yourself to think about him because of personal sentiment, then you should at least worry about his existence in regards to your safety.
Maybe you feel that protected by Lestat and Nicolas. It would make sense. Both of them seem beyond committed to doting on you. Nicolas, because you're his darling baby sister. Lestat, because of his love for Nicolas and a childhood attachment to you.
For all the love they seem to have for you, neither Lestat nor Nicolas seem particularly concerned about leaving you to fend for yourself during the hours in which monsters roam most freely. They're much too preoccupied by their foolishly indulgent romance to properly care for you.
Armand continues forward, his steps silent as he approaches your bedside. You look particularly fragile in your sleep, like Armand might be able to consume you entirely without utilizing any of his vampiric abilities.
Without thinking, Armand extends an arm out towards you. His knuckles carefully brush against the side of your face. Your skin is so warm it should burn him. He's never felt closer to the sun.
The feeling is both unsettling and mesmerizing. He can't keep himself from pressing his palm against your cheek. Your breathing nearly falters at the contact. He brings his hand back to his side, but it's too late. He's woken you.
You squint your eyes open carefully, your thoughts cautious. After a second, you register the fact that he's the one standing over you. That seems to ease you.
"You're here again," your voice is heavy with sleep.
Armand presses his lips together briefly before responding, "I should not have woken you."
"It's alright," you say quickly, "I can be awake."
There's an easiness to your words that reminds him of a tone of voice he's heard you use when reuniting with Lestat after one of his performances. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure," as if to prove that you mean what you're saying, you push yourself into a sitting position. You cross your legs beneath you before patting the now available space on your bed. "You can sit if you'd like."
He nods once before accepting your offer. Armand sits next to you, his feet remaining firmly planted on the floor.
Armand isn't directly facing you, but he can feel you carefully watching him. These visits seem to bring out a specific kind of nervousness in you, one not rooted in fear but social uncertainty. You dislike not knowing what to say, and you dislike being aware of the fact that his presence in your bedroom would be considered inappropriate by anyone else.
"I did not see you at the theater tonight." The comment is an attempt at polite conversation.
Armand was in no mood to watch yet another audience hold onto Lestat's every word. He has also recently fallen into the habit of sitting with you in the theater hallway as you wait for Lestat and Nicolas to finish up backstage and collect you.
He did, however, spend some time in one of the alleys between your flat and the theater so that he could watch you walk home. Lestat and Nicolas have yet to leave you wandering the streets of Paris by yourself, but Armand's sure it's only a matter of time.
"I had other responsibilities to tend to."
You nod, the motion a little stiff. "Right." He doesn't need to look into your thoughts to understand the silence that follows. You're trying to decide if asking him about these other responsibilities would be considered polite or an overreach of your unlabeled dynamic.
There are times in which Armand enjoys watching you attempt to apply the habits you consider socially correct to him. You press your lips together slightly in a way that reminds him of someone focusing on a puzzle. He likes the thought of you perceiving him as complex enough to warrant constant analysis.
Armand watches you fold your hands together on your lap as you finally settle on a question, "was your evening pleasant?"
"Fairly," he answers, "though most things feel tedious when compared to your company."
He can't bring himself to look at you directly, but he can hear a shift in your heart's steady thudding. "I'm not so sure," you say carefully, "something seems to have you in a particularly amicable mood."
You don't mean much by the comment. It's rare for anything you say to be particularly sharp unless you've been provoked in some way. You aren't attempting to subtly acknowledge his ever shifting disposition. And if you are, you're only doing so to tease him over his inconsistency.
There are nights in which Armand wishes that he could be steadfast in the way he regards you. When he's particularly overwhelmed by your kindness and beauty, he wishes himself capable of expressing his adoration openly. When he becomes overly aware of the true risk that the sentiments he can never free himself from pose to his way of life, his frustration manifests itself into an acidity that you do not deserve.
He lifts his gaze enough to look at you, you're staring at him expectantly. "Perhaps it was the reprieve from watching Lestat's performances."
You are as irritatingly protective of Lestat as you are of Nicolas, which is something Armand has thought about more than he should. Still, his response must feel light enough to you because the corner of your mouth lifts itself into a look resembling a smile.
"Amusing, dear," the words are incredibly facetious.
He frowns slightly. "I did not mean it in jest, darling."
You're quiet for a moment, your lips pressing together in that puzzle-assessing way of yours. "Whatever keeps you in good spirits."
The retreat is surprising. A part of him expected a lecture about Lestat's objective talent. Everyone seems so committed to acknowledging Lestat's ability to hold an audience hostage through body language and line delivery alone.
"No defense for your beloved Lestat?" The comment earns him another sigh. "I thought you adored him, that you appreciated any opportunity to praise his talents."
You frown at him, and for the first time since he first woke you, Armand notices the traces of drowsiness still coloring your features. "I care for Lestat deeply--"
"Evidently."
You lift your chin slightly at the interruption. "As family," the response is calm, measured, "he has practically known me since the day I was born. Lestat is as much of a brother to me as Nicki." It's an argument that you've presented to Armand before, but it's never eased him the way you want it to.
Lestat does not experience any hardship when it comes to connecting to others. Everyone that so much as looks at him seems to fall at his feet, hungry for his attention and desperate for his favor. He does not deserve to have the world wrapped around his finger and a significant history with you as well.
You will always love Lestat and your brother in an incredibly patient and forgiving way. They may be monstrous and unnatural now, but what can that darkness do to taint your perception of the boys that grew up with you? Armand is too far from his humanity and too far from you to ever be loved in that way, to ever even want it.
"So you've said," his voice feels much too hollow.
He studies your hands, carefully folded over your bedsheets. You pull them apart and then seem to think better of it, intertwining your fingers together again. "Because I mean it."
Yes, you always seem to mean what you say. You 'mean it' when you tell him that you only care for Lestat in a familial way, you 'mean it' when you tell him that you enjoy his company...and yet these claims are never enough to ease him.
This tension, this lack of certainty occupies more of him than it should. He dwells on anything from you that could be interpreted as a sign of warmth. There are times in which the uncertainty takes so much from him, Armand has to wonder if there's something more to this pull of yours. Perhaps you're a test from God that he's constantly failing, a catalyst for his eventual destruction.
He should loathe you for making him feel this way, should drain you as a way of freeing himself from your spell. Instead, he looks at you. There's such warmth behind your eyes, such earnestness. If Lestat or his beloved Nicolas wanted to make you hate him, it wouldn't be difficult. They wouldn't even need to lie to you in order to do so.
"They are both against me," his voice is raspier than it should be.
You straighten slightly before extending an arm. You place your hand over his, the warmth of your palm soothing to an extent that feels dangerous. "But I am not."
For now. The pathetic, desperate response tangles itself in the back of his throat, making it impossible for him to speak at all. The importance of your opinion of him is a secret meant to rot inside of him.
He remains silent, focusing on turning over his palm so that he can bend his fingers in between yours. He allows himself to enjoy your warmth, to attempt to absorb it in a way that his body would never be able to.
"And I--" Your voice feels a little softer now, but not any less certain, "I will not be made to be against you, either."
Your ability to see through him as if you're looking at nothing more but the shapes and lines making up a preliminary sketch that might one day become something is beyond unsettling. "That is an easy thing for you to say now, while we're alone in the dark of your bedroom."
You're staring at the hand that he hasn't let go of yet, your bottom lip just barely jutting out. If he felt more comfortable, he might have had it in him to tease you for pouting.
"That is not fair." He focuses on the back of your palm. "I am accepting of your moods, your bouts of silence, and your lack of explanation for all of it because I--I enjoy your company. I have given you no reason to think that my sentiments would be so easily swayed."
A suffocating warmth washes over him with no warning. Armand has been generally aware of the fact that you find aspects of his presence pleasurable. You never send him away, even on nights in which you're clearly half asleep; you're always an active participant in conversations with him, regardless of the topic. But there's something comforting about hearing you verbally admit it.
"You enjoy my company?" He repeats the words, a hint of amusement pressed into the syllables.
You blink, still surprised over your confession. "Not when you're egotistical about it."
Armand feels himself openly smile at the response. "Beloved saint of mine, I am more than willing to humble myself for the pleasure of your company."
You angle your head to the side slightly, giving him an openly irritated look. You attempt to pull your hand away from him. He lets you nearly escape, your fingers brushing against his. Before you can bring your arm back to your side, Armand extends an arm.
He catches your wrist with a speed that's just a little too quick to pass as truly human. The vague reminder of his supernatural abilities leaves you stiller than you usually are.
The shock isn't overwhelming, but it is noticeable. Armand does not understand the reaction. He's personally seen Lestat make a game out of using his mind gift to predict the exact color you were thinking of. It's possible that Lestat and Nicolas are intentional about what they show you, only utilizing vampiric abilities that can be presented as shiny and un-predatory in your presence.
Before he can overthink your stillness, Armand pulls your hand towards him. He presses his lips to the back of your palm. Your breathing stalls at the contact.
"They'll return soon." This is a phrase that Armand often uses to bring both of you back to reality.
Lestat and Nicolas are likely on their way back to you. Even if they weren't, Armand's time here would still be limited. Armand can only slip away from his coven for so long before his absence becomes noticeable.
You drag your thumb against the side of his hand. "But not yet."
An attempt at convincing him to stay longer, which is something you only ever try on occasion. "They are expecting to find you asleep."
"I can fall asleep quickly." He gives you an unconvinced looks. "Or I can tell them that I woke up because I was thirsty. I'm much better at keeping my thoughts to myself than I used to be."
You're gotten slightly better at suppressing certain thoughts, but if Lestat or Nicolas believe that you're lying, it wouldn't be difficult for them to confirm their suspicions.
"Fine," he says quietly, almost as if he's attempting to keep his answer from you, "I'll stay for a few more minutes."
You smile, pulling his hand towards your lap. You squeeze his hand between both of yours. "What do you do when you leave here?" He can feel you immediately regret the question. "I am not looking for specific details...or information regarding your responsibilities, I was only being generally curious."
Your uncertainty is always slightly amusing. You never seem to know what to do after saying something that could be misconstrued. "I know." You don't immediately ease. "Sometimes, I wander the streets, looking for someone to feed from, and then I return to the ground."
The answer, though vague, seems to satisfy you. "What is it like to spend so much time underground? Is it familiar to you now?"
It's rare for you to ask him questions related to vampirism or his life within the coven. He wonders if Lestat directed you to do so. He doesn't see anything implying instruction in your thoughts, but that isn't enough to dismiss all of his concern. Despite your secrecy, Lestat and Nicolas are aware of the fact that you and Armand converse on occasion. It would be impossible to hide it completely.
Still, if Lestat has instructed you to press Armand for information, he's done a poor job at explaining what kind of information might be useful. What he does after an unofficial tryst and his thoughts on living underground aren't exactly secrets.
He keeps his gaze focused on a blank spot on your wall as he answers, "it's meant to be uncomfortable."
You don't know what to make of his response but you've also decided that you've pushed your luck enough for one night, so you nod instead of asking him to expand. A part of Armand is relieved that he won't have to directly tell you that his existence is meant to be devoid of all pleasure.
"My mother used to tell me a story about a girl who wandered into the catacombs to never be seen again," your voice is strangely pensive, "but I think she only wanted to scare me enough to keep me from wandering into dark spaces."
A lot of good your mother's stories did you. He cannot think of a darker place for you than the space beside him. "Did you believe her?"
You're quiet for a moment, as if deeply reflecting on your answer. "For a little while, at least." You're focusing on his fingers now, bending and straightening each of them with such care. "Nicki got me past it eventually. He and Lestat enjoyed exploring, and I enjoyed being with them."
"How loving." You lift your head enough to give him a disapproving look. It's unfortunate that he enjoys how you look at him when you disapprove...or are irritated, or content, or overjoyed.
He likes dissecting each part of your expression, sometimes pairing things like a furrowed brow or a barely there smile with your thoughts so that he can teach himself to read you as easily as he reads your mind.
Armand wonders if Nicolas or Lestat have ever put that much thought into knowing you. The fact that they've likely never needed to, that they've never had to try twists his stomach into knots. They have so much of you, parts of you that he will never know.
They both seem to care about you in a way that often makes Armand feel something that is much too similar to nausea to not be psychological. Still, all that adoration hasn't been enough to convince either of them to make you a permanent part of their eternity.
He understands why Nicolas wouldn't try to turn you. He doesn't seem like he would have the strength or needed control to turn someone, but Lestat has made a fledgling before. If Armand was in Lestat's position, he would have turned you the moment he learned about the Great Laws, maybe even before then.
Instead, they've left you unguarded and incredibly vulnerable. If it wasn't for Armand limiting the awareness of your existence and constantly monitoring you, your life would have already been ended for your awareness of their existence.
Someone else could have also turned you at this point, permanently linking themselves to you. Armand pushes this idea out of his head as soon as he registers it. "All of that care, and neither of them have ever thought to turn you."
The comment seems to tarnish your tranquility. You still, your fingers partially bent around his thumb. "Lestat and I have spoken about it," you pause awkwardly, "it is--not the right time for me, but eventually, it will be."
There's something strange about your explanation, something a little too accepting. You have to be aware of the vulnerability they're subjecting you to on some level. "I would think the right time would be while you're surrounded by a group of vampires that believe all mortals aware of the dark gift should be killed."
You blink, lifting your shoulders in an awkward shrug. "Yes," you say stiffly, "that is a factor."
The phrasing makes him immediately suspicious. "Are there other factors?"
You let go of his hand for a moment just to reach for him again. "Well, there is an emotional component to everything."
Hm. Armand is convinced that you're hiding something. He reaches into your thoughts. Your mind is doing the little it can to try to keep specific pieces of information away from him. Lestat is hesitant to turn you because of your brother.
"I do not like it when you look into my thoughts," you pronounce each syllable carefully, with an underlying sharpness that doesn't suit you, "it is too great a sign of mistrust."
He doesn't know what to make of the second half of your comment. There are moments in which he can feel himself trying to claw his heart out of his chest for you. Of course he doesn't trust you.
"Mistrust is warranted when it is clear that you are keeping something from me."
You part your lips just to press them together again, unable to speak. After a brief stretch of silence, you finally speak, "I am not keeping anything from you that is mine to give."
That is the issue with lingering in the world that only exists when the two of you are alone together. Something or someone always tears it away from him eventually.
"Of course," his voice is barely a whisper. Armand pulls his hand away from you. He then stands, keeping himself angled towards the window he uses as his entrance point. "You have your brother to think about, you have Lestat--"
"Armand." He hates himself for stilling at the sound of your voice.
He listens to the quiet rustling of bedding being pushed out of place and the sound of your feet finding the floor. You take a step towards him, but don't attempt to come any closer. "Think about our situation from my perspective. If I say the wrong thing about either of them, you might decide that you need to get rid of them."
There's an irony in you keeping things close to your chest to keep Lestat and Nicolas safe. Nothing has ever made Armand want to rid of them more. "I could decide that anyway. They do not live by our standards, they openly violate one of the Great Laws by letting you live."
Armand focuses on the rhythm of your breathing. You seem tense, but not as afraid as you should be. "You are not going to kill me over this."
He finds himself deeply offended by your certainty. He turns to face you. "You sound so convinced."
"I have vexed you worse than this, and you did not kill me then. It would be impractacle to kill me over a lesser offense."
The hint of humor in your voice should be his primary focus. You should not be so cavalier, so dismissive of the very real threat he poses to your life. He should also remind you that your greatest offense is constant, your awareness of his nature an insult worsened with each beat of your heart. But he cannot bring himself to care about any of that right now.
You are in your nightgown. Which is not unexpected, and not something he was unaware of when you were still mostly beneath blankets. Now, you are near him, standing close enough to the window for the moon's silvery glow to reach you in an incredibly thin dress.
He can physically feel the fight being drained from him. "Amusing, dear," he borrows your words from earlier to have something to stand on, and even that is not enough to keep him from sounding breathless.
"I did not mean it in jest, darling." You smile slightly after that, the dreadfully proud smile that lets him know you think you're winning something.
He forces himself to take a step forward. "You find yourself terribly amusing."
You lift your head slightly to better look him in the eye. "Other people find me terribly amusing as well."
Armand presses his lips together to keep himself from smiling. "I'm sure."
You're looking at him with a dazzling warmth that he could get drunk off of. "I am really enjoying your company."
He feels a phantom warmth inch its way up his neck. "But not enough to share your secrets."
You let out a sigh. "They are not my secrets."
"They are a part of your life," he counters, "they involve you."
You cross your arms in front of your chest. "And the things that involve me are that important to you?"
"Yes," he answers before he knows what he's saying. Regret immediately begins to burrow itself into the pit of his stomach.
Armand has to force himself to look at you. The lighthearted humor from moments ago has faded from behind your eyes, replaced by a barely restrained warmth he could lose himself to.
"If I tell you something, can you promise that you--that you'll go on as if you never heard it? That you won't tell anyone or use it against them?"
You're watching him openly, your eyes wide and innocent. In a way, Armand is fortunate that you're only asking him for his discretion. He doubts that there's any vow you wouldn't be able to convince him to make while looking at him like that.
"Yes," he says, his voice distant, "I swear it."
You remain silent, staring at him like you're capable of seeing past his flesh and into the dark space that once held his soul. "Alright." Armand doesn't know what to make of your acceptance, of your trust. "Nicki has--he has always struggled with his moods, but because of some of his recent behaviors, there are some concerns that vampirism has amplified things for him. That is why Lestat is hesitant to change me."
What a delicate way of telling him that your brother's sanity seems to be slipping away from him. Armand is well aware of Nicolas's peculiarities. This was no secret to him, but it seems to be one to you.
Armand has always been generally aware of the fact that you've likely experienced Nicolas's moods before, but he's never let himself dwell on the potential dangers of it until now. An erratic fit could easily lead to an accident...or perhaps these fits make him intentionally aggressive. Maybe that's why this is such a secret to you.
"I am going to ask you something," his tone is sharp, urging, "and I want you to tell me the truth. I will know if you are lying, and if you lie to me about this you will lose any favor I might regard you with. Do you understand?"
You blink, your brow furrowing slightly as you try to adjust to his sudden intensity. "Yes?"
"Has he ever hurt you? Is that why you and Lestat think--"
"What?" You're as confused as you are offended. "No, Nicki wouldn't--"
He instinctually reaches for your arm, his fingertips pressing into your shoulder. "Even accidentally?"
"No, nothing similar to what you're implying has ever happened. Nicki has never and would never hurt me." Armand presses into your thoughts, sifting through your mind to confirm your story. You're telling the truth. "There are nights in which he cannot will himself to do anything but lie down, staring at nothing for hours, and there are times in which is behavior is...more erratic, but he is not violent."
Armand holds off on responding, allowing your words and thoughts to blanket him. You have not been harmed.
"I should not have told you," your voice is low, cautious.
He carefully drags his thumb over your shoulder, "I am glad that you told me." If nothing else, Armand is pleased that you trusted him enough to share something you considered a secret. "I only asked because it seemed a reasonable concern."
The corners of your mouth are angled downwards, your expression somewhere between a frown and a grimace. "I understand." There's a heaviness behind your eyes that doesn't suit you. "Nicki is good. I know you do not see him that way, but he is. He used to comfort me during thunderstorms. And he--even when he was at his worst, he could always force himself out of bed if I really needed him to. I do not want him to be reduced to his moods. He is more than that."
The use of past tense for your second point feels significant. Maybe that is why you and Lestat are so concerned. Nicki can no longer bring himself to pretend for you.
An uneasy silence falls over both of you. Armand knows that he's meant to say something, but he cannot think of anything worth telling you. Commenting on Nicolas's mental state would further upset you, and agreeing with you would seem strange and insincere.
"He loves you," the response feels a little stiff, but it's also honest.
You nod pensively. "I did not mean for our conversation to become so bleak."
The comment sits between an attempt at politeness and a weak retreat. "I asked."
"You were well intentioned," your words are kind but a little flat.
He adjusts his hold on your shoulder. "There are, at times, factors more important than intentions."
You take a second to reflect on the sentiment. "But they are still nice to hold onto."
Intentions do seem like something worth holding onto, if for no other reason than to potentially absolve oneself of the guilt that can accompany extreme action. He's sure that you believe that there's a nobility in being well intentioned, but he doubts that intention would be enough to make you look past the consequences of another person's actions.
Romantic feelings, attachment...these are things that breed good intentions and terrible consequences. "In a way."
You tilt your head slightly as you assess his reaction. "You sound particularly solemn."
Reminders of your ability to read him are always unsettling. Still, there are some benefits about you being direct about the way you perceive him. Solemness does not suit you, Armand cannot imagine you caring about a truly solemn person.
"I apologize," he forces himself to sound more sarcastic than he feels, "next time, I will try harder to be more deserving of your attention."
You let out a heavy sigh, bending your arm so you can reach the hand that he's resting on your shoulder. You bend your fingers around his forearm. "You are already deserving as you are," the words feel overwhelmingly genuine, "solemn, content, whatever you need to be."
A sharp warmth begins to burn its way up his chest. "You're very sentimental tonight."
You drag your thumb against his arm. "Well, I was pulled out of my sleep with no warning."
You're being lighthearted, but Armand does know that he often steals sleep from you. "I should let you rest."
"I did not mean it that way." Your hold on his arm tightens.
"I know." He releases your shoulder, relaxing his arm carefully so that he can reach for your hand. "I need to go."
You frown, but you don't say anything to try to convince him to stay even longer. You're likely more tired than you have been letting on.
Armand lifts your hand slowly, bringing the back of your palm to his lips. The gesture seems to surprise you, your breath briefly catching itself in your throat. He tries not to dwell on the reaction.
"I will see you tomorrow." He shouldn't be making promises to you, not when he's unsure if he'll be able to slip away unnoticed again. There's at least some deniability in his wording. He could have easily meant that he would see you at the theater while you wait for Lestat.
You ease significantly after he says it, your eyes lighting up in a way that makes all of the potential difficulty seem worth it. If he's tactful about it, he might even find the time to acquire a gift to leave on your bedside table.
"At the theater or here?"
Armand is well aware of the answer he should give you. "Coming here is easier than sitting through another one of Lestat's performances."
You smile at him in a way that could make any risk feel worthwhile.
children of darkness armand is all over the place. he starts off lowkey crashing out in bestie’s room because what right does she have to consume his every thought? what is her ultimate goal? a possession of every part of him??
it’s so late and bestie is so sleepy and a little sad so she just stares at him for a second before telling him that there is no goal, she just loves him.
armand immediately melts. all anger and uncertainty evaporate into thin air. he’s on her in a second, pressing his face into the side of her neck and kissing whatever skin he can reach. he’s swearing all of his loyalty to her, telling her they can be together forever.
everything is so happy and perfect until armand finds something else that plants a seed of insecurity in his head and the cycle repeats 😭
I love the idea of armand being so in love with bestie that he goes "witch 🫵" everytime he sees her. it's kinda funny but also sad when you think about how armand has never had anyone properly love or understand him, and here comes this beautiful mortal girl with a heart of gold who threatens his celibacy everyday.
I can see him taking his resentment towards lestat out on her as well unfortunately. not only does lestat publicly flaunt their nature to the point where it destabilizes his coven, but bestie happens to be a very important part of lestat's life. there will be days where he's all over her and is unashamed of his adoration towards her existence, and then on other days he'll crash out and threaten to kill her.
bestie being who she is wouldn't want him to feel like he's forced to be with her, so she might give him space after a particularly bad episode. this only backfires and makes armand crash out even harder, because being with her is better than not being with her at all.
“witch 🫵” is exactly how i meant it 😭. armand’s feelings are consuming him so aggressively, he has to believe that there’s some external explanation for them.
maybe lestat found her to ruin him, maybe the universe is using her as a vessel to test his dedication, maybe she really is a witch that’s enchanted him.
armand sometimes treats her like a siren, like an entity enticing him with what he wants most to destroy him. and feeling this way isn’t enough to stop him from seeking her out. like you said, it’s sad. he’s never been so understood or experienced such warmth.
he’s putting his celibacy at risk every time he enters her bedroom through her window. to be honest, he’s also lowkey threatening his celibacy every time they’re alone for more than 10 seconds.
these theories and his feelings for bestie are constantly overwhelming him in different ways. armand switches between total adoration and anger that more often than not feels fearful.
bestie isn’t going to force armand to be around her if he doesn’t want to be, so when he pushes her away, she’s inclined to give armand what he says he wants.
this makes him so much worse. armand starts losing it. he turns her absence into something that she’s inflicting onto him. eventually, he snaps and returns to her. openly asking if the goal of her silence was to make him reduce himself to ash.
lowkey into the concept of children of darkness armand turning bestie’s existence into a borderline religious crisis. he desires her so badly he’s convinced that she’s only there to test his dedication to the children or darkness and the great laws 💔
Children of Satan Armand stalking human bestie is HUGE for me. He's just so gross <3
The gifts and love letters start generically- flowers, jewelry, sweets- but then they get progressively more personal: The glove she had lost in the Siene, an etching of her hometown, a music box that plays the piece that he saw made her weep at the orchestra, etc. The letters are filled with poetry and confessions, enough to make her blush; there's plenty of praise, and there are secrets written about the people around her- their petty vendettas and the plots they make against her, paired with a promise that he will never let them come true. Bestie figures it must be one of her friends playing tricks on her, not understanding that it's something much darker and older.
I think this era of Armand would be the most liberal with his murders on her behalf- like, of course, ALL versions of Armand would kill for bestie, but Cult!Armand is actively looking for people to feed to his followers. Her landlord that plans to evict her? A creepy man sizes her up? A pickpocket steals her coin purse? Someone even thinks about courting her? DEATH DEATH DEATH
He wants her to notice him, and yet he doesn't; He doesn't want her to be repulsed by him, but he wants her to understand what he is in all his awful grandeur. He likes how compared to him she is "pure", light to his dark. This Armand doesn't have the same humility of modern Armand or Amadeo; Cult!Armand thinks he is biblical judgement, the embodiment of evil, with centuries of anger he hasn't yet processed or compartmentalized. On the other hand... 🥺 can't she see that he needs her? Yeah, he kills people, but he's just a boy inside!
Sometimes Bestie swears that she can see two little orange lights by her window when she wakes in the night, but then it vanishes as if it was never there. Around town too, she sees his eyes glowing from alleyways and balconies, from crowds and from shadows. She thinks it's a hallucination of two flames, and she wonders why she's having seeing this mirage so often.
Armand is probably sending away the cultists before he steals her down to his lair, keeping her trapped there with him until she can see things his way (or until Lestat saves her)
He just needs to be loved 🥺😠 Can’t she see that? He'll take such good care of her 🧡🧡you couldn’t ask for a better guard dog.
Ugh. Children of darkness Armand would be the most mentally unwell when it comes to his pining.
He hasn't had such strong feelings for anyone in such a long time. This level of desire and need belongs to a version of himself that no longer serves him. There's also the added layer of Bestie being human, and Armand being dedicated to the Children of Darkness.
Everyday, he's in conflict with himself. It's too great a gesture to let her live, let alone care about her. However, Armand has learned that self restraint is much more practical than total self denial. So, he permits himself to leave her anonymous gifts.
Like you said, they start off as simple tokens of admiration. Flowers, jewelry, and sweets. Things that could be from anyone. Bestie's an attractive woman, so it isn't the most concerning thing in the world when she receives nice gifts from a secret admirer. (Lestat and Nicky are a little worried, but she brushes them off easily enough.)
And then the gifts evolve into things that are much more personal. Items that Bestie thought were lost, a sketch of her home town, and a beautifully crafted music box that plays a song that brought tears to her eyes when she heard it live.
These gifts also come with notes. Some are beautiful descriptions of love and carefully crafted poems, and others are messages meant to warn her about those that might be plotting against her out of jealousy or other vague, spiteful reasons. These darker notes aren't ever that unsettling though, because the writer always ends the message with a promise assuring her that she'll be okay.
Cult! Armand definitely jumps to murder as plan A 😭 All eras of Armand are willing to kill for Bestie, but this version of Armand's first solution to everything is death. A stranger thinks about pursuing her, a pickpocket steals from her, a wandering vampire gets too close...they're all taken care of :)
"He wants her to notice him, and yet he doesn't" summarizes him perfectly. Armand wants to be with her so badly, but the thought of being that vulnerable and perceived by someone else is sickening. He also wants Bestie to know exactly what she's dealing with, but he's also convinced he wouldn't be able to live with her repulsion.
He has so much anger in him that he doesn't know how to deal with. Armand believes himself so above and detached from feelings of longing, but at the same time...can't Bestie see that he needs her? He really is just a boy. She should let him bury his face into the side of her neck and drag her fingers through his hair gently so that he can finally feel at peace.
I also love the thought of Bestie seeing glimpses of glowing amber eyes that can't be explained. Maybe she even begins to sketch this mirage, a part of her hoping that if she gives them an outlet, they'll stop plaguing her peripheral vision.
This Armand would definitely take Bestie down to his lair as well. She'll see things his way eventually, and by then it will be too late for Lestat to steal her away from him.
Armand is such a good guard dog. He deserves all the love in world for all of the care and attention he's putting into taking care of Bestie.
Armand would in turn spoil the fuck out of besties family. All I can right now is that John mulaney but where he says " do you want me to kill that guy for you? Bc it sounds like you want me to kill that guy for you"
He is like low-key surveillancing them for threats and killing any one who is a threat. He would also buy amazing gifts like gifts so good the family is surprised bc how could possibly know they want this. Or he's making their career better or getting them a job in the field they want.
Bestie is just absolutely heart warmed by this while Louis is teasing Armand so much.
I can't put it into words but I'm sure this has some interesting cultural aspects for the Paris era as well.
The John Mulaney joke 😭 That's so Armand. Anyone who makes things harder for Bestie's family is taken care of immediately :)
Bestie loves what he's doing, but she does let him know that he doesn't need to scare away or eat anyone that might interfere with her parents social or work lives. They're adults, and sometimes adults have to deal with conflict.
Armand is like 'ofc dear :))' and then he keeps doing what he needs to.
Some fashion critic is not going to get away with tearing into Bestie's mother's new collection right before Paris fashion week 🙄 It's her fall collection. They were just discussing it over the phone, Armand knows that's her most important collection of the year.
He would also find the perfect gifts for Bestie's family. Bestie's family is always a little surprised when Armand brings the most perfect gifts to each function, it's like he pulled the idea straight from their subconscious.
Bestie finds the amount of effort Armand puts in with her family so endearing. Armand's brand of caring is so specific, and Bestie knows it when she sees it.
Louis teases him relentlessly about it. Even though Louis also has a wonderful relationship with Bestie's family, he likes flustering Armand and he's okay with being a bit of hypocrite. He jokes that Armand is doing a good job at, "keeping the in-laws happy." Armand rolls his eyes, but the comments do get to him every time.
