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.
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?
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?
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
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.
