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?
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.
