content tags are extreme diabolical yearning, fluff, canonical views of gender and marriage, canon divergence, reader uses she/her pronouns, discussions of sex but no smut, pet names, reader walks him like a dog, no physical description of reader, this is my first time writing for gwayne so i hope you like it :) thanks for reading <3
Marriage was duty. Marriage was merely a political strategy. An arrangement to be struck between families; marriage had no place for matters of the heart. That is what Gwayne Hightower told himself before he met you, his betrothed. He told himself it did not matter if he found you beautiful or not. It only mattered to produce viable heirs and that you become a capable Lady of House Hightower.
He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.
Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.
Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.
Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-
Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.
The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"
"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.
"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”
Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”
"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"
Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.
Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.
"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"
"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."
Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."
Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.
When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.
“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.
He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.
You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.
You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.
A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.
Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.
You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"
He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"
"Later." You tighten your hold on his long hair, secretly enjoying how much there is to tug on and manipulate in your small hand. You could feel his hot breath against your cunt, panting, building on the dampness that already gathered the moment he fell to his knees. You smile, giggling at the second whine that escapes his lips, "Have some propriety, husband." What were you going to do with him?
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips, tasting of boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You were so blessed to have a man as kind as he was as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was entirely besotted now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into pure bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because even the Gods know he loves you so damned much.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp and curling against his neck, sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry. There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...” He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to pressed him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes, dark with heavy desire, searched your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted, his voice thick. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life, but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul, even as a child. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The young boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of pure frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late,” he nodded somberly, his eyes kept drifting from your form— forcing the words out.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort... but in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the the summer heat only drained your strength, leaving you uncomfortable.
Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I just went through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and red hair, and you really wished your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, feeling incredibly silly and weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“I have told you so many times already, how is it that you always forget it?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen. Instead, catching the warm candlelight, were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful for how she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to make him drop to his knees right at the edge of your mattress.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, his conceit evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie. Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours of your labor finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, choked laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out before kissing your temple, then pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
I was watching Braveheart recently and now I've got a dark little thought rattling around in my brain that is quite different from my normal fare.
Do we think Westeros has anything resembling right of the first nigh? Because I can completely see Ormund being the sort of cruel, entitled lord who would try to exercise such a “right,” especially where Gwayne’s bride-to-be is concerned.
Whether he actually covets her or simply sees it as another way to exert control over his cousin and remind Gwayne of his place remains to be seen.
A small little blurb beneath the cut. Warning for dubcon and sexual coercion.
“You may stay to watch, if you wish,” Ormund offers Gwayne, though his attention never leaves you. “I am generous, after all.”
His thumb and forefinger tilt your chin upward, forcing your gaze toward him. Instead, your eyes find Gwayne over his shoulder, and an ache so deep blooms in your chest it feels as though you have been run through with a broad sword.
When your attention lingers there a moment too long, Ormund’s other hand settles at your hip, his grip tightening just enough in warning. Slowly, reluctantly, your gaze returns to him.
For a moment, he seems content simply to look at you, as though savoring the discomfort he has caused. Then he leans closer, his nose brushing your cheek as he draws in your scent.A slow smile spreads across his face, but his eyes remain cold and calculating.
“Lavender and honey,” he murmurs. “My favorite.”
I have no idea why but I apparently just love the idea of torturing Gwayne like this.
You arrived at Oldtown to finally meet your betrothed, you were pleasantly surprised to find a handsome man waiting for you.
Gwayne Hightower was renowned across the realm to be quite the catch, despite being the eldest of the second son. He did not lack for the affections from ladies of noble birth, and even those of the smallfolk.
So, it came with a surprise, and disappointment when it was announced he would wed the sickly younger sister of Cregan Stark. Rumors and gossip filled old town as the news of his fiancé arriving soon for the wedding.
"I heard she has a big nose that is filled with snot from how frozen its up in the North" servants whispered in hush tones, as their hands neatly removed any crease from the bed they were preparing.
The small whispers between servants, circled around oldtown like a noose ready to be pulled on his neck. Gwayne was raised better than to listen to the petty gossip of common folks, he was a knight raised under the light of the Seven— yet he could not help but kneel before the statue of maiden.
Begging for what? His betrothed to be a beauty? To be able to look at her face and not want to feel disappointment?
He was pulled from his prayer by the arrival of older cousin Ormund, accompanied by his wife.
“Ah— there you are!” Ormund’s loud voice cuts through the quiet prayers of Gwayne. He looks up and finds his older cousin, standing before him, his lady wife smiling apologetically “We do not wish to intrude, but we have received news that your betrothed is nearing Oldtown” She quietly explains.
Gwayne nods in understanding, offering his cousins wife a thankful smile before getting on his feet with a heavy sigh.
“We must keep our heads up cousin, lest we seem ungrateful to what the gods have planned for us” Ormund offers his cousin a pat on his shoulder, an almost patronizing smile gracing the lord of Oldtowns face.
You arrived in Oldtown, and the first thing that hit you was the salty smell in the air. It was nothing like the north, nor the Riverlands you sometimes would accompany your older brother with. The air felt warmer, so much so you feel sticky despite wearing the thinnest and lightest clothes you have.
Your hair tied into a braid, as you tried to wipe the feeling of sweat from your neck and face.
“It is my first meeting with my betrothed, yet I look so horrid” you huffed, letting the two servants who travelled with you fuss over your dress and hair. You may have lived in the north, but gossip and tales of the oldest son of the hand of the king reached even to the ladies up in the north.
So when you heard your brother had arrange for your betrothal to the young knight, a man who is the fancy of many women in the south and in the north, you could not help but have your heart skip a beat. It is no secret to you all the gossip that comes with being the sickly sister of the warden of the north, one could say that people grow to underestimate your ability to hear and understand the words that come from their mouths.
Yet you hold unto the hope, that your betrothed is as gentle and kind as he is in person. The carriage comes to a stop with a jolt, you’ve arrive.
A deep breath, and you carefully lifted the curtain. Your breath catches in your throat, Handsome you thought to yourself. His hands lift to guide you down your carriage, you smiled grateful for his thoughtfulness as you grabbed his hand.
It was warmer than the hands of a man from the north, you couldn’t help but note. Once your feet were firmly on the ground, the man takes a few steps back. “Thank you” you whispered, though you were not certain if he heard you.
Looking ahead, you we’re met with an imposing man, with a woman on his side. “The lord of Oldtown, Lord Ormund Hightower, with his wife, Lady Samantha” the man who helped you down introduced.
And finally, “Ser Gwayne HighTower— Eldest son of the Hand of the King, and brother to the Queen of the seven kingdoms”
Your felt your heart flutter in your chest, you take it back- your betrothed is far more handsome than the knight who helped you down.
Gwayne takes a step closer to you, you couldn’t help but notice how kind his eyes were, such a warm blue colour. “I hope your travel was fair my lady” and oh- You could easily melt with just the sound of his voice.
Feeling your cheeks flush, as you lowered you gaze in an attempt to hide you embarrassment “It was fair my lord- “
“Gwayne, you may call me Gwayne my lady… After all, you will be my wife soon”
You tried to stop the smile from blooming across your face “I do not wish to impose” You muttered, trying to drown out the small giddy giggles from your two servants behind you.
“You would never my lady” He assures, before finally offering me his arm “Shall we?”
I happily took hold of his arm, feeling the warmth of his body despite the heavy doublet he wears. And how thick his arms are-
“I heard Old Town is home to the faith of the seven” you murmured, eyes flittering between making sure you do not fall on your face, and your betrotheds face. Which you happily note of the small freckles that litter across his cheeks.
“Yes, if you mean by the starry sept- I can bring you there if you wish to join me for prayer?” You could feel the small hope in his voice.
Your steps falter a little at the invite, though you tried not to show it. You felt Gwayne tense beside you, slowing in his tracks “Apologies my lady- It had slipped my mind that the north worship-“
“I do not mind!”
Gwayne halted in his steps, and you flushed at the realization you just raised your voice and now had servants and other knights staring at you. You lowered your face in embarrassment, your arm already pulling away from Gwayne.
When you felt him chuckle and ever so gently touch your cheeks “You do not mind what my lady?” he asked, voice low and gentle. As if he was scared if his voice were any louder, you would grow scared and run back home to the north. He isn’t wrong.
“I…do not mind- If you took me to see the starry sept” You huffed, embarrassment fueling not just your anxiety but your pride. You came here to be wed, not to make a fool of yourself.
You saw Gwayne’s eyes widen, before breaking into an understanding smile “I would be more than honoured to accompany you my lady”
Making a turn at a corridor, you no longer saw the various nobles walking around, and only servants fluttering around. Seeming to notice your confusion, “we are no longer at the main hall of the castle my lady, this side of the castle is where I— we will reside once we are wed” He explains softly, eyes wandering to see my reaction.
It would be a lie for Gwayne to say he was not enamored when he first saw you get off the carriage. You were truly nothing like the rumours, especially now as he sees your eyes light up looking around what is to be your new home.
“We are here, my lady” At last, you arrived at the door of what is to be your chambers. One of your servants hurriedly opened it, and what greeted you was something far different than what you had in the north.
Silks and tapestries of the mother and maiden hung the wall, the bedframe had wooden carvings of vines and flowers on each poster. The windows were open, letting in the cool sea breeze inside the room.
“You may change it to your liking— I had asked my cousins wife, lady Hightower and my sister for help however—”
“It is lovely! The…room is lovely” You cut him off, smiling at him so beautifully how could he possibly find his words to respond back to you.
Nodding awkwardly, Gwayne nodded to your servants “your remaining items will be delivered soon, please take the moment to rest after such an arduous journey my lady” his eyes darting between you and your servants. Before turning on his heel to leave your room to give you privacy for rest.
