notes: headcanony mini drabble, afab/fem reader, mentions of periods, potential body image issues if you read into it, briefly suggestive, sweet and fluffy.
ser gwayne hightower is somewhat of a stranger to the world of women. he remembers little of his mother. alicent was raised away at court. his faith and honor would not permit him to frequent brothels. yes, he has lived among soldiers. he hears the crude jokes about their wives and mistresses. yes, he knows what a corset is. he wagers he could even unlace one without any assistance (how different could it be from unlacing a pair of boots?). but in the finer matters of the ladies of the realm, he must admit his ignorance.
but you, his lady wife, find in him an eager learner. where other men might scoff, he possesses only curiosity. he’ll watch you embroidering, eyes narrowed, puzzling over how you can create so many different shapes just with needle and thread. and what’s this one called? he’ll ask each time he sees a new stitch. whip stitch, chain stitch, back stitch, he’ll learn them all and file them away in his mind so that when he looks over your shoulder and says blanket stitch? you’ll give him a proud smile and a yes! that makes his chest swell.
there are some assumptions that need undoing, of course. he quickly finds that what he did think he knew of women are mere generalizations. perhaps his confusion is too obvious when he finds you deep in the pages of a book on the flora and fauna of the reach. detailed anatomical drawings and measurements adorn the pages. do you think ladies only read poetry and romances? you’ll tease (and perhaps, indeed, he had not expected you to have such scholarly interests).
then there is your daily routine: hair, jewels, perfume, layers upon layers of skirts. what is this made of, valyrian steel? he mutters whilst attempting to undo the clasp of your necklace. it takes him several evenings before he masters the art of unlacing your corset (a skill which, he insists, any good husband ought to have). does this not pain you? he asks, genuine worry etched onto his forehead. it’s the price one pays to be shapely, you reply, though that does not seem to ease his concern. the only shape i wish to see you in is this one, he’ll murmur, smoothing his hands down to your hips once your corset has been discarded to the floor. he’ll show you exactly how much he venerates your bare body when it’s free of all the vestiges of daily life.
not to mention the matter of your moonblood. he’ll find you abed with a cool cloth on your forehead or a hearth-warmed stone pressed to your back. when you teach him that there’s far more to your cycle than merely bleeding, it’s as if you’ve unveiled a dark secret. but gods be damned if he doesn’t see to it that every month hence, you’re brought warm compresses and teas to soothe an aching head before you even need to ask.
he may never come to understand all the unspoken rules and customs of womanhood. but he realizes that is not his quest; what he wishes to understand is you. he wants to learn the vocabulary of your world, to memorize each small habit and preference of yours so that he might be the kind of man who is worthy to be your husband. to study you (if only to win one of your sweet smiles) becomes his life’s purpose. how else should a devotee worship his goddess? how else ought a husband honor his beautiful, wondrous wife?
morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron. inspired by daeron asking for gwayne in the latest episode .
daeron knows that love exists because you and gwayne exist.
its fluid, golden liquid, dancing in the way gwayne spoons the honey in your sweetened tea before you've even made it to the breakfast hall. he hasn't eaten yet, he waiting for your entrance and the moment his eyes set foot on your frame through the door he's up in an instance. daeron doesn't even hear the scrape of his chair or the clunk of his shoes on cold ground, nor does he hear the small breaths from his uncle's quickened pace. no, this happens at light speed, like a natural born reaction that gwayne is drawn to you.
daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.
daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.
he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.
"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.
gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.
"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.
"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.
"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.
"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.
"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.
daeron eats the rest of his breakfast with quiet contempt and as he stares out to the resting sun with all its beautiful blue and white, he wishes that in his lifetime he hopes to get as lucky as you and gwayne have. to find a love seems an easy feat, but to find a love and yourself in another and to find reasons to fight for that love each and every day, that is rare.
summary : after gwayne's absence, spiralling into the hours of the morrow, he seeks his bethrothed in the library of hightower. with a thoughtful gift held tightly in his grip, it seems that young love continues to grow between the soon to be couple.
word count : 1k
warnings / other information : not proofread, general relationship fluff, mention of arranged marriage, use of female pronouns for the reader, f!user, mentions of arranged marriages and betrothal, oneshot, possibly oc gwayne (?), no physical descriptions of reader; ambiguous reader, sfw!
AN : this is unbelievably short and unbelievably bad (╥ ᴗ ╥), i lost most of my motivation around halfway through this, and i think that's quite clear. ALSO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN LIKE TWO WEEKS. i've been really busy recently, but i have a lot of ideas after the new episode, and i'm hopeful that i can post more consistently!!
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Footsteps cascading across the library's wooden floorboards drew your gaze up. They were in a pattern of approach towards the daybed you lay on, positioned in such a way so that the sun hit you and the book resting on the skirts of your lap with its warm afternoon rays. Your attention was now away from the inked words littering the pages of the book and focused on something entirely different.
Gwayne.
Your bethrothed.
You feel the flesh of your cheeks warm as your lips unconsciously shift into a meagre, almost timid smile at the sight of him and his advance. It was young love, you supposed. Youth was said to be full of such things; intimacy and affection bound by raw, inexperienced optimism and hope. Your mother had always said such things, yet her tone was derived from regret and affliction with all her years instead of the fantastical longing one would expect. Near Gwayne, you couldn't fathom ever feeling the way your mother felt about your father.
Gwayne stops before you, a small bundle resting in his calloused grip, a chivalrous smile gracing his lips as he offers a nod of greeting. "My lady," he begins, formality raveled in an almost boyish excitement he tried to cover wth poise and etiquette. He sits across from you on the daybed that mirrors your own, a small wooden table placed like a marker between the two pieces of furniture.
You fold the book resting in your lap over, the two sides of the book coming together with a muffled thump, before you move it away from you, placing it on the softness of the cushioned seat like a relic, which it most definitely was. "Ser Gwayne," you nod back, hands clasping together in your lap as you face him, gaze faltering now and then for reasons that could only be described as nerves. You had been in Oldtown for almost half a moon now, but it all still felt undoubtedly new and uncharted.
His gaze lowers for a few moments, smile deepening with lighthearted amusement. He adjusts his posture on the seat, leaning forward slightly as he speaks, "Here," he begins, outstretched his hands and placing the neatly wrapped bundle on the table. Your gaze lowers with them before following his hand and returning to look at him as he continues, his voice low to avoid disturbing the peace of the Hightower library.
"A merchant from Lys was selling them. I thought you might like them." He hums, his hand moving slightly as he talks, as though he were annotating his statements. His gaze stays on you, hopeful and observant as your expression shifts to one of gleeful surprise. Your lips part in a statement before you can think of and articulate what you wish to say, "I-….I…Gwayne, I thank you. Truly." You say, the smile that remained dancing across your lips unrelenting and growing with each passing second.
Merchants were common on the streets of Oldtown; people from all of Westoros, the Free Cities, and across the seas set up stalls along the streets and harbour, specialties and knick-knacks lined around them as they called out to passersby for business. It now made sense why Gwayne had been gone for most of the morning; it seemed easy to find yourself occupied and entertained by the wide range of items and curiosities from all over huddled into a few streets and ports.
Your hands stretched out to the bundle, which was wrapped in a vibrant orange cloth and tied with a string, riddled with bumps from the objects inside. You hold it gently in your grasp, the soft sound of glass clinking together arising as you pick it up, untying the bow of string to reveal the item. Now in your hand lies an array of oils in glass vials, detailed with intricate designs and titles. You move the opened bundle to rest in your lap, bringing one of the vials upwards, uncapping it, and smelling it.
The smell of something flowery, backed by subtle notes of cicrus fill your nose, a gentle hum of delight escaping your lips. You can see Gwayne's form slowly relaxing as you express your joy for the gift, thanking him yet again, smelling the vial in your grasp once more before placing the metal cap back on and placing it with the others. You admire the small vials, all filled with a clear liquid, but varying in hues; some lie with hints of orange or yellow, while some are underlying shades of blue or purple.
Each seemed to be a different scent; clearly, they were not brought as a set, and all were undoubtedly hand-picked. A heavy warmth arises in your chest at the thought of Gwayne, spending time, thinking, and contemplating which oil to get his soon-to-be lady wife, based upon the knowledge he had acquired over the past two weeks together. Your eyes move towards him after admiring the vials for a few moments longer, feeling the material it was wrapped in between the buds of your index finger and thumb.
"You are too kind, Ser Gwayne. You did not have to do this... I do not expect you to do things like this," you say, a statement riddled with reassurance rather than admission. Gwayne watches you for a second longer, lingering on the soft curl of your smile, before shaking his head. "You are to be my wife. I wish to care for my wife," he replies with a subtlety of a nod, his words to be undisturbed, but not by the means of a commander, but by the means of someone genuine and wishful.
You feel silly for a moment, for a reason you couldn't place your finger on, maybe it was because you realised that you were borderlining being head over heels for him, or that you realised that he too, was head over heels.
Thinking about reader soon to be betrothed to ormund hightower in exchange for the safety of her house and the forced bend the knee situation to the hightower
But you catch the unsettling atmosphere when you're in the presence of him, your suspicion grows harder when you meet daeron, the boy that ormund ward, looking off and uncomfortable beside him
One day you accidentally see ormund crashes and screaming in anger in the displeased news the ravens send, daeron looking terrified and scared yet he didn't leave
The union is already announced, meaning you can't escape this situation if you don't think of something inconvenient. You pray to the gods that you get out of this situation, for you've met and bonded with daeron, and oh that sweet boy doesn't deserve any of this. And you get this fierce urge to protect him from the violence that ormund is
Luck is thrown at you when gwayne comes here and meets you. He sees your gentle nature and the nurturing ways you treat daeron and his heart fall for you. He somehow has a talk with ormund and... Makes you his.
Well, not yet. He takes you and daeron under his protection. And god helps his weakened heart to fall in love deeper with you everyday, watching the way you treat daeron and the way he feels safe with you and even talk to you about things
You can't say you're not falling in love with gwayne too. The slow, torturous process of your blooming love witnessed by daeron himself, he sometimes makes small teasing comments about it to gwayne when you're not around, and gwayne would clear his throat and steer the topic away, the boy looks unbearably pleased
ever since your sister has called you to war, it's been so long since you've seen your husband! gwayne and oh how your heart longs to go home to your lover.
its the faded ginger in the horizon that tugs at your heart, luring you to him before you can even see his face. it's futile, your soul has memorised the exact bend of air around his being, the beat of his heart tethering out to yours and it only makes seeing this vision of him worse. the lines in his forehead, the frowns hardened in the corners of his mouth by war and your absence- how you long to kiss them away, to chase away the concern and take you back to three moons ago before the king had died, before heirs had fought and sides had been taken. before your uncle daemon had summoned you in the dead of the night whilst your knight husband had been locked with his father in secret plans. he had lured you under the pretense your sister was sick with grief, ailed by illness and needed you by her side except when you arrived you slowly began to understand. you were there as an ally, a prisoner to your blood broken by the oaths you swore under love, miles away from the family you had chosen.
you had written obviously, you had sent an army of ravens flooded to your husband, each parchment checked thoroughly by tens of hands before they were sent to ensure you were still loyal to your sister and had not let any secrets of her plans to the throne slip. you had received fewer letters in return, each one shorter than the last and your heart ached at the thought of disappointing your husband, at the idea of you abandoning the holy sanctity of marriage you had protected for so long. the last letter had been sent two weeks ago and you knew he'd be here at this meeting.
you had begged to come. rhaenyra had refused, claiming you were safer at her side. she needed you more than anything but the feral look in your eyes, cooled to a dangeous steel had daemon infront of her narrowing his own eyes at you as she sighed in resignation from behind him.
"you just don't understand," she had muttered and the tears bit down your cheek furiously.
"no, you don't understand," your shout came out hoarse, fatigued and choked with the accumulation of impatience, anger and pure longing for your lover, "you still have your husband! you call me here to war, i am here. you have forced me to abandon my home, my family and my love-"
"war requires sacrifice!" she hissed.
"this is not our war! gwayne is not the enemy-"
"he is a hightower!"
"he is my husband! i swore an oath to him, rhaenyra," you plead, "he is all i've ever wanted and known and i haven't seen him in months," you whisper in ache. "you are not the one who sleeps or walks alone. daemon will fight for you but when the time comes? it is my husband standing on the opposite line and it is because of you we are separated by this distance."
"you are my sister," her jaw sets with a familiar posession.
"and i am his wife, the two can co-exist," you refuse, a long breath is released through her nostrils in a dangerously long exhale and she nods.
"daemon will ensure your return," a hand is placed on your shoulder but all you can feel is the burden of its weight on your buzzing heart because for the first time in months, there's hope.
the hope feels like its sinking six feet deep, buried eith your desire for reconciliation at the way his body is reclined away from you. he stands proud on his horse behind his cousin, the wind and war settled in his hair, drafting the strands in a small airy dance. he is yet to look at you and you bite down your lip in anticipation.
words are shared between daemon and ormund but its deafening on your ears, its muffled as you sink under the weight of abandonment as you try and focus on him. the skin that rests under his dirty plates of armour. the calluses on his worn hands that wrap around yours, the relish of his touch.
he looks older now, the quiet settling in his bones as his focus is placed on his cousin. its only when the talking has ceased entirely and your own voice escapes your body before you can catch it.
"ser gwayne?" you call out and the subtle shift of horses and men meaning to make a move back halt at an instant. his head perks up in your direction and you get pulled into the misty ocean blue of his eyes and find yourself drowning once more. "might i a word?" you ask, timid and broken.
ormund sends him a warning glance as daemon interrupts your attempt with an escape of a cough- "i don't think that's wise-"
"i said might i have a word with my husband?" your voice comes out stronger, cemented in devotion and nights youve spent tangled up and torn in his love. gwayne's jaw sets and he nods, without sparing his cousin or your uncle a second glance his horse rides slowly to yours till you are inches away.
its silence between the two of you, the weight of this war is holding you back and you're running out of time. it wont be long before youre due to be enemies again in this cruel twisted fate but suddenly the words and feelings are too large and too fast for you to choose. "i, oh my, i" you stutter and gwayne reaches out, tentative at first and then so bodily sure that he surrenders his palm and places it so sternly and protectively over your shaking hands, bringing them up to his chest, the claminess hitting a cool sensation of his armour. its a bit of a stretch for your arms given the height and gap of your horses but its nothing compared to the ache of your heart without him.
"it's been a while," he whispers, "i've missed you wife," and he reaches across the gap to press his forehead against yours. in this moment it feels as though there is no war, there is no enemy and there is no drastic drama soon to unfold. its just you and him, the way its always been, the way it has always been meant to be.
"i didn't mean to leave you," you choke out, you've dreamed of saying this for months, to explain yourself, to tell him you still love him and there's no place you'd rather be but by his side, "i was called to the queen's side and here i shall remain," you mutter bitterly and his finger finds your chin, hooking underneath it gently and raising your gaze to his firmly. he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth and you close your eyes, relishing and savouring in the way his skin feels against yours. burning this in a memory you'll have to hold dear for more months of loneliness.
"my greatest regret is that i had not caught you in time- it was my duty to protect you," he stresses the words, a punch to his gut and a bruise to his memory, "you're as beautiful as the day they took you from me," and he knows the truth. he's read each letter, imprinted each word of your truth into his heart, sleeping with the ink and whatever little solace it brings him to know that though you are apart and on opposite sides of this dreadful battle, you are safe.
"i want to come home," you whisper and his heart shatter into a million shards, each cut slicing him open and leaving him bare and defenseless. " i want to come home to you," you plead and the glass drives further and deeper. you know its unfair, you know its impossible and leaving now will only result in irreversible carnage and politics far beyond your position. but its the way hes looking at you, the way his heart calls your name and the way you're standing infront of the enemy's army but have never felt so safe in his hold.
"i will find a way," he promises, his hands clutching yours, fingers tightly intertwined in a lock of your desperate love.
"you will?" and you beg the tear to not slip from your sore eyes but it does anyway. but gwayne catches it in an instant.
"i will, my heart," he reaffirms, "nothing, not even above can keep me from you," his brows raise in defiance and strength that when ormund calls his name he holds you tight against him. the tire and groans slip against your skin as he places a longing kiss to your hair. "stay safe and stay strong, wife."
you shake your head in disbelief, the very little time you've been granted disappearing into this horizon. "gwayne i-" you start and he kisses you a final time. he knows what comes next and he's not ready for it. will never be ready to hear any final words from you.
"you will not wish me a goodbye," he shakes his head in a pained defiance "you will write and i will answer," he softly swears, "and you will be by my side soon, my wife." he brings your interlocked hands back over to his chest. "remember little dove, this battle is not ours and my heart will forever be yours," he kisses your knuckles before he feels ormund's horse clutter close than ever.
"i love you," you whisper and he smiles, radiant as the sun as the last months of fatigue fall off his frame.
"i've waited so long to hear you say that, my heart," he breathes.
"it won't be the last time," you promise, "we will be together soon, i swear it." he nods his head slowly as his horse gears ready to leave. you're left to watch his retreating form, the way he disappears into this distance taking your heart along with him. at the final second he throws his head back, mouthing three words of an oath burned into your soul before he completely leaves your view of sight.
it isn't the last time you tell your husband that you love him, but it's a declaration you'll both remember for the rest of your lives.
