☾ alicent & gwayne hightower x top m reader (separate)
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ y'all like to fuck siblings huh
cw: trifling with siblings at the same time but not in the same place, finger sucking, practically free use, manipulation
Being in the Keep usually makes anybody feel like they're drowning. Even when the realm was in peace, tensions were high. The new generation of heirs being born, by Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent alike, put quite the strain on the palace. It was a battle of sons, that was for sure. Who could produce the strongest heirs?
In this time of war, tensions are even higher. Servants grow grim and curt in the solemnity of their masters, maesters are never out of work, the Masters of the Small Council have to come up with new strategies constantly. Guards are always in rotation, sworn to the royal blood as well as any person important enough in the castle. After the infiltration that took the war's second son, security has been at its highest.
But you've got a plan to survive it all. You always do. If you hadn't been Master of Ships, perhaps you should've been Master of Whisperers. You just need a ship to survive the tide.
In her hurry for privacy, Queen Alicent picked a random, quiet room to scurry away to. She needed some place to pace, to collect herself, to think her thoughts and develop them alone. A perfect time to strike for someone such as yourself.
"Might I ask what it is that troubles you, Your Grace?" You ask, putting down your open book, placing your other hand to your heart.
"Gods!" Alicent jumps in place, then presses a hand upon her own heart as well, with the other against a nearby table to stabilize herself. "You've startled me."
"I apologize." You set down the book fully, showing her that she's got your full attention. "...well?"
Eyes still wide, she breathes out sharply to calm down. Her head then darts from side to side, as if questioning whether she should really confide anything in you... you'd been a young master whilst her husband was still alive, after Corlys Velaryon. Surely you've outlasted the madness.
"Right," She proclaims with another sigh, sitting down in front of you. "might I confide in your ability to keep a secret?"
You strive to show her your utter devotion, and yet at the same time mediating your interest, by remaining in place and simply nodding your head, "Always."
Queen Alicent confides in you every single detail of what ails her, sparing you no expense, at least to your knowledge. In her state of physically contained but mentally unkempt disarray, she spells out all her troubles for you—and you don't learn a single new thing, except for her state of mind, the most valuable of information.
"I'm sorry to hear of what troubles you, Your Grace." You bow your head, then extend your hand to offer her a touch, should she choose it.
To your contentment, she does. You bring it up to your lips and press kiss to her knuckles. "I'd like you to know that, if ever there is something the Master of Ships may do for you, then I am at your disposal. Your requests shall not even be voiced at the Small Council meetings, should you wish. And if there is anything I can do for you, not as a Master of Ships, but as a Lord, or as a man of sympathy, I shall strive for it vehemently."
Where they softened when you kissed to her knuckles, after hearing your words, her eyebrows furrow. Suspicion, right there on her vulnerable face. She asks, "Why do you extend to me your entire arsenal of favors?"
Or, alternatively, do you want me to feel indebted to you? Is it because I am the Queen? Do you want to gain my favor?
"Because I find you to be, beneath the heavy weight of that crown, a kind woman who believes in every choice she makes deeply." You reply, squeezing her hand reassuringly whilst looking her deep in the eye—the look of utter devotion in your eye isn't a facade, because her unmentioned beauty captivates you in that instant. Those striking dark eyes of hers bare her emotions unabashedly.
Her eyebrows and eyes relax, a smile fights its way onto her face for the first time in your entire conversation. "Well, thank you, my Lord."
In all honesty, Queen Alicent did not pick a random room. She chose one of the Keep's various lounges, one you so happened to know that she favored. All you had to do was sit down and wait.
The Queen's requests started off simple: get this person or cargo from point A to point B. Eventually, they turned personal: find my sons quality fabrics from Essos, find my daughter exotic insects, carry this letter to Daeron, for my children deserve happiness even in war, as is their birthright.
And once the Queen discovered that she could not find reprieve in any single point of the castle, she sought trips out of the suffocating atmosphere of the Keep.
...which is to say, eventually, she became the cargo.
"What is the fastest way to Oldtown?"
Alicent startles, not because she does not expect your presence, but because she doesn't expect the question. "You are Master of Ships, my Lord," She muses with an easy smile, they get increasingly easier around you, "how could you not know?"
"I concern myself only with matters of the sea." You excuse yourself, though the excuse is so pathetic it makes her laugh, which is of course, your intention. "Forgive me, if I am Master of Ships and not of transportation."
Alicent scoffs lightly, then turns towards you, rather than the view of the ocean she was only just enjoying. "By carriage."
"You mean by horseride?" She rolls her eyes, but before she can speak, you continue. "Have you never ridden a horse for at least a leg of a trip yourself?"
"No." She says, like the idea is preposterous, and yet the corners of her eyes light up with joy. "They don't let women ride their own horses half the time because we are "much too dainty". Always, we must have a male companion, usually a knight, leading the horse. So yes, that is why I say by carriage."
And not because she is spoiled.
You pause, your cheeky smile melting into something soft. "I do not think you are dainty."
She does not tease you for saying such a thing, does not claim that the implications are that she is rather gnarly and unsightly—she instead turns back to the ocean, a bashful flush upon her cheeks. "Thank you."
Because the opposite of dainty is, of course, strong. By saying a such a thing, you are congratulating her resolve. You are complimenting her.
Her hand settles atop yours upon the ship's rails.
You do not bed her that same trip. Instead, your relationship grows farther from friendship and towards companionship, and then, eventually, towards romance over several sea ventures. You never go too far from King's Landing's coast. The city remains always in sight for whatever pressing matters that might occur, but the ocean provides privacy enough.
It's funny: it's only out here at sea that Queen Alicent does not feel like she's drowning.
In fact, she feels quite stable.
Everything here, she initiated herself. The dress coming off, the petticoat, the rest of her clothing... your hand exploring the expanse of her skin, bringing warmth wherever it goes.
Her hands are behind her on the mattress as she lowers herself onto your length, letting it nestle deep inside her. Her breaths come steady, focused. She's not panicked.
You let her go the pace she wants, but eventually your hands find her hip, not as control but as support.
Her breath quickens as her pace does too, both of which occur because her hunger envelops her, because she wants more of you. Soon, she can barely control her lips. Soon, they part with a moan.
Alicent should feel embarrassed, but she doesn't. "Ah... my Lord."
Your voice comes out strained, too, when you reply dutifully, "Yes, Your Grace?"
An embarrased blush does overtake her then, when she shakes her head, though her hips don't still. They keep rolling, adjusting your length inside of her, increasing friction for the both of you. "I was just..."
Moaning, your mind fills in. "Oh."
The endeavor turns from serious, focused entirely on releasing stress, to light when you can't help but laugh.
She huffs too, back to your usual banter. "Oh, shut up."
It's hilarious too, how your laughs sound shaky because of her determination to ride you well—and she is doing it well, might you add. She found a good pace, rising with each exhale and lowering with each inhale.
"Use my name." You say, cutting through the laughter.
She smiles, "In that case, call me Alicent," and then she leans down. You meet her halfway in a kiss so tender, so soft, so genuine. It almost feels real.
And for Alicent, you're sure it is.
You're her reprieve. You take a different ship out here every time so as to not arouse suspicion. Your trips out are not recorded. You're cautious, smart, she likes that.
She likes you. Why else does she intiate this—why else does she let and want your cock to slide in and out of her cunt like this? Why else does she do it herself?
Alicent grows more tired every minute, despite her determination. When you start helping her, she gasps first, then moans. If a thank you is in her mind, you don't hear it in words, but in her hands finding an intimate hold of your cheeks.
And also, as you pull her to roll her hips and her cunt against your cock or raise her with an easy strength to bounce, with her whimpers. You swallow them up in the kiss until you can't anymore.
Until she throws back her head with a groan and the chanting if your name, because your thumb's found her clit.
Where once she was cautious with your name, now she finds that it is all she can say. Your name comes out like prayer—her visits to the Sept are as frequent as your trips to sea—a chanting, a worship.
Your hand left her hips to do this, but her hips jerk with life anew, and yet your thumb follows through all the way.
Alicent finishes explosively, continuing to bounce ferociously through her whole high, until her cunt jerks away from your thumb and her body is forced to still due to overstimulation.
Her body can't take it, but she certainly wants more, for she steals from your lips another long kiss.
And then, when she finally pulls away, she looks quite content atop you—for once, in her life, she feels like she's in control. "Thank you."
"You'll get a thank you back once I finish." You dare to say.
And again, for once in her life, Alicent finds the utter lack of reverence amusing, for she replaces her cunt with her hand. "If I must."
All your plans went to waste when Gwayne Hightower arrived at the Keep with his outsider mindset. You'd quickly come to learn from your whisperers that Gwayne held the same beliefs as her sister. He wanted to keep his family on the throne at all costs—but his mind had never known the Keep as his home. He did not share the same logic as one might in the castle, nor did he experience the suffocating atmosphere enough to sympathize well.
One look at you in a bad light, you think, and you might be dethroned from your pedestal amongst Alicent's most trusted men.
So you endeavour to meet him yourself to, just like you did with his sister, curry his favor.
"My sister told me, with great lament, that you wish to come with my army on our excursion." Gwayne's full attention is on you, and from a stranger, it is quite the piercing look. "I shall assume the lament comes from the Master of Ships journeying on land?"
You don't let him get to you. Instead, you stay in your place, relaxed and unbothered and rather informal. It paints you as the opposite of a threat. "You know, I started my life as a knight."
He scoffs as subtly as he can to remain polite, then says, "Really?"
"Really." You insist, offering a casual laugh of your own. "I know swordsmanship and horseriding much better than I do the act of sailing."
Gwayne's lips purse. That's not what he wants to hear, and you know it.
You continue, "I'm a master of navigating courses and recordkeeping, nothing more. I spent the better part of my life as a knight. You must believe me, Ser."
He scoffs again, because what do you know of knighthood and of honor, up in your little tower, up in the luxury of the keep?
"Even as Master of Ships, my duty is to serve the common folk, actually."
As is the duty of a knight. You've got Gwayne's attention now as he tilts his head with curiosity.
"I bring shipments of food overseas during winter. I ensure commerce stays strong in King's Landing. I assure the passage of hundreds of men and women into the city everyday." You sigh and look down because, of course, the task must seem hard. You cannot risk seeming arrogant. "It is different from the way honor is curried by knights, through defending from violence, but it is the same because we swear, as knights and as masters, to serve."
You can tell you've gained Gwayne's interest and some of his respect because finally the man stills and deigns to sit down in front of you. "Tell me more about your time as a knight."
In truth, that time was very brief—but just like a bard's tales, sea shanties are exaggerated.
As a Master of the Small Council, you already had your own tent within the army encampments, wherever you might settle down for a day or too. However, Gwayne's respect for you, having grown since your began your excursion, would've allowed you one too.
Tonight, however, he invades your space, as he has taken to doing these days, to speak to you in hushed tones.
You've gained his respect but slowly, you've gained his trust too with each tale of honor.
"Does it not weigh upon your shoulders?"
Stripped of his armor, Gwayne's got nothing but the light clothes on his back and a figurative honor weighing him down, as well as whatever mix of emotions he's got swirling around in his head.
"It got easier, with the years." You reply, folding your fingers absentmindedly, appearing human.
"I wish I could say the same." Gwayne huffs out a dry laugh. His knighthood has surely gotten harder from the years of his family's growing political importance. Once, his father was the hand; and then his sister, the Queen, and his nephew the King.
You shift in your spot, raising your chin at him with narrowed eyes. Gwayne visibly shrinks in turn, and no longer is he baffled by your lack of decorum. "Are we speaking of duty here?" You ask.
Gwayne laughs, because you have seen right through him. His head lowers as if questioning whether he should continue, before it raises to meet your eyes again. "No, I suppose not."
He is speaking of loyalty to one's blood—especially that of the royal family now—and you can tell.
But what know you of loyalty? You have seduced the Queen, Alicent, and enjoyed her nightly company just to keep your position in the everchanging political tides; and you are currently doing the same to her brother.
So you say what he wants you to say, because you understand him well enough to know what that is. "I imagine it is not very hard to be loyal to your sister and your nephews. I imagine that... your troubles lie in the uncertainty of your future."
Gwayne, amused, huffs a laugh out of his nose. "You're quite right."
"Eyes are harshest on you when your family's honor is unstable, I understand that plenty well—in fact, all eyes were on me when I campaigned to become Master of Ships."
He hums, interested once more, "And how did you get over that?"
"Well, I must say it was much easier. I proved myself to the people. Most of all, I proved myself to your sister's late husband."
"Easier?" Gwayne rolls his eyes.
You laugh too, "Easier because I had somewhere to go, a promotion to grab. You are, and forgive me for being blunt, a simple knight and you will only be a simple knight until you slice a couple hundred heads off in war or until your father dies and you become the Lord of Oldtown."
When you call him that, simple, and when you spell out the truth to him in plain words, he does not get offended. Instead, he nods his head, as though he never analyzed the truth before.
"Let me offer a solution."
He is quick to jump and say, now that his mood has soured, "I do not need a solution."
"Then take it as advice from a wise man, and if you do not think me wise enough, as advice from a friend—then, if not a friend, at least, a companion, Gwayne."
No titles, no bluffs, no fuckery.
The man huffs and he blinks long whilst heaving a sigh, but then finally he nods, "As a companion."
"Go where the tide takes you. Make the decisions that feel right, focus on the now and not what the Hightower house might look like years ahead. Trust in your judgement, because I find that you, Gwayne, are a levelheaded, honorable man."
Gwayne blows out a breath. His hand squeezes once, twice, into a fist... and then it reaches forward, towards you and over the table, open.
You take it in yours and squeeze tight. It's not a nightly gesture. It's not even exactly platonic.
"Thank you, my Lord. You are a wise man indeed and... I find your counsel to be very valuable." He looks you in the eye as he says this, and you find that in his eyes there's a steadfast, renewed determination.
You did not intend, exactly, to seduce Gwayne Hightower like you did his sister, but you are quite indifferent as to the outcome. It is simply an added benefit that you will enjoy as much as you can.
It has been three days of travel since you have gotten any sort of action, either violent or political. Three days of festering in boredom of course lead to high tension of a different sort than you're accustomed to—not the halls of thick, unsettling air in the Keep, but a thick air of unspoken words and feelings.
They ruptured tonight at your tent, still wordless. All it took was a touch on the underside of Gwayne's chin—as conversation had lulled to an unconfortable silence when it was his turn to reply—for him to lunge forward and kiss you.
The touch came easy, as did the next steps. No armor, no stiff straps to fight against, just underarmor clothing as easy to take off as any garb.
His joints are sore from riding horseback, as are yours, and so though it pains the both of you just slightly, passion calls for you to continue.
Gwayne's legs are spread far apart to accommodate your body, while yours are busy fucking your cock into his hole.
As he admires you above him, with an open mouth that gives no intelligible sound, he can't help but remember the way you look riding your horse and think it's not all too different. It's a wild thought, but it makes his cock spur all the same... mostly because now that this invisible boundary has been broken, he'll only have to look at you in the day to be aroused for the night.
His hands aren't in pain from holding reigns, he only hopes that their roughness doesn't perturb youa as he pulls you down for a kiss.
And as you do, your chapped lips are hydrated by your combined saliva. Relief fills him as you reciprocate the kiss with such a tender loving that his anxieties are quelled.
Somethings between you too are the same: your lips are chapped from the dry weather of your travels and rationed water, your hips ache from riding wide horses.
There are some other things that are different, though: Gwayne's been a knight his whole life; and you, only half. His hands are rougher, frequently wrapped around his sword hilt or in demanding use, while yours most often hold quills.
And despite all that, you understand him well. You know what troubles ail him and you know what to press to relieve him.
"Oh–" Gwayne chokes out with surprise as you fuck into him and suddenly his nerves light up with a heat like dragonfire. "fuck, there. There!"
As you fulfill his request, the vague call for you to fuck him there, you think on how much more vocal he is than Alicent. Your lady has a courtly politeness, but her brother remains quite outspoken.
You don't mind, really, it is quite the welcome change of pace... you just wonder.
Your fingertips trace over his chest and then up his neck with a touch so light that even his more sensitive areas don't notice it, in favor of course of focusing on your cock drilling into his tightness. They find their final destination, then, when you push your thumb between his open lips and into his mouth.
Gwayne's lips close around it immediately—with instinct, you suppose—taking it as easily as his hole had earlier.
The sight is gorgeous, a knight taking your fingers in his mouth. It should be quite demeaning for him, but Gwayne has always been one to serve.
Though you'll admit, it shuts him up all too well.
You shift, much to his surprise, but you don't give him time to think about it. Your thrusts turn harder, stronger, not about speed but about making him feel it.
They rouse from him a bursting need to moan and groan about it, and that he does. His hands launch out to scratch at your back.
You hiss, and with surprising courtesy, Gwayne apologizes for it, "Sorry, 'm sorry."
Though you never said it was good courtesy or with particular eloquence.
"That's alright. Keep them there, brace." You coo, and your permissiveness makes Gwayne whimper.
He nods his head, nails digging in harder. He needs to brace, for this shoddy tent bed and the way you fuck him into it might just make him slip off. He needs to brace, because he wants you to keep fucking him.
Even if he won't last much longer.
He's breathless after he finishes, and just barely after he's able to catch his breath, he kisses you sloppily. There's no intention, just need...
...because he has found your companionship to be so strong, he wants as much of you as he can get.
You know how you got here, awoken by a servant in the middle of the night declaring that "the Dowager Queen has requested your presence", only to be interrupted by a second servant—this one of much lower standing—declaring also that "Ser Gwayne Hightower is in need of your counsel".
In your search for one ship to resist the tide, suddenly you have yourself with two, and both are unequivocally Green.
Now the problem is: what happens if both ships are wrecked by a black tide? Though the matter is pressing, it is not as pressing, it seems, as your need to make a decision for the night.
"Tell Ser Gwayne that I will see him as soon as the morning light comes," You sigh, sitting up to begin pulling on some more presentable clothes. "and tell the Queen I will be right there."
You didn't even need to pull on something more presentable, since as soon as her chambers are vacated and it's just you two in the room, Alicent's got her hungry hands on you.
And you, still half-asleep, allow her to do pull off your garments. Your hands find purchase on her hips, and at least, the softness of her body you will partake in tonight. With her anxious energy, it seems she is begging to expend it somewhere.
"You did not even see me once you came back." Her hands are jittery, nearly failing grasp your laces.
"You welcomed us yourself." You laugh, running your thumbs over her stomach to try, but fail, to quell her.
"And do you think that is enough?" She asks, her voice a barely contained whisper, "To have lost my Lord Commander, my Master of Ships, and my brother for weeks on end... you can only imagine what I could do in the meantime. Do you know how to embroider?"
When you return to your chambers a happy man for having some sexual release, you find inside of them an intruder of a harmless ilk.
"Ser Gwayne." You greet, already shedding your boots for the second time.
"Where were you? Are you drunk?" He is not quite so anxious as his sister, but he is just as impatient. He stands up from your bed to take over the work of disrobing for you.
You huff a laugh out of your nose that he catches but does not question, for you are about to get your dick wet for the second time tonight. "No, Ser, just happy. I was..."
Your place at court and in the Small Council is quite secure. You'll just have to pay for it with your energy.
