Romance - Aegon Targaryen X Reader (Targaryen)
Rating - 18+ (Nudity / Fingering / Orgasms)
Reading Time - 7 min 28 sec (969)
Aegon was frustrated; he’d been forced to train all day in the yard with Ser Cristen, and his mother had ordered the castle servants not to bring him any more wine. He couldn’t even sneak out, since the castle was locked down for the storm that lay over them. The harsh wind whistling through the halls and rain attacked his windows. So he lay on his bed, knotted with the furs and covers as he tried to keep his mind straight.
A loud knock came from his door, which made him groan and pick his head up, “Fuck off!” He yelled,
“Prince Aegon!” The voice called, he knew that voice, it was Y/n, Rhaeynra’s daughter,
“Ughhh, go away, Y/n!”
But the door opened anyway, and she poked her head around the door, “I bring ale.”
He fully perked up but narrowed his eyes, “What kind of ale?”
“Honeymead from Oldtown,” she smiled, showing off the flagon,
“Hummm… leave the ale and go.”
“I also bring pie,” she smiled, showing off a steaming pie,
“What kind of pie?”
“Roasted stag and potato pie.”
“… You can stay,” he accepted begrudgingly, “Close the door.”
She smiled and closed the door as she came in, handing the ale to him and putting the pie beside him,
“Does your mother know you're here?” He asked, grabbing a fork and a goblet from his table,
“No, my prince.”
“Good, does my mother know you're here?” he asked, filling his goblet to the brim and taking a sip,
“No, my prince,” she giggled,
“Alright then, sit.”
She smiled and happily sat down on the bed with him,
“What do you want?” he asked as he began to eat,
She pressed a hand to her chest, “want? What makes you think I want something?”
“Y/n.” he glared, “I may be an idiot. A drunk. A shit bet. A terrible son, a worse brother, a mediocre user of High Valyrian and the least qualified person in the seven kingdoms to ever be king… but… uhhh… what was my point?”
“You think I want something?”
“Oh yeah! Yes, but I’m not an idiot. Wait, that was the first one. I’m not stupid.” He told her, “You brought me ale, pie, and neither of our mothers knows you’re here. What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything, can’t I just bring my uncle a nice pie on a stormy night?”
“What. Do. You. Want. Y/n?”
“… Something,”
“Speak. Or get out.”
“Could… you do that thing for me again?”
“That thing?” he raised a brow, already unable to hold back a sly smile,
“Mhm,”
“What thing?” he chuckled,
“That thing, you did… under the table during high valyrian lessons.”
“… That thing?” He smirked,
“Yes,”
“You liked… that thing I did for you?” he bit his bottom lip, already letting his eyes trail down, trying to find a way he can do it most efficiently, get under the skirts of her dress,
“Mhm,” she blushed,
“And you want me to do it again?”
“Yes, please.”
He scoffed, “Alright, spread your legs and pull up your dress for me.” He ordered, leaving no room for misunderstanding or hesitation,
She blushed hard and giggled, but nodded and obeyed his orders. She adjusted herself on the bed and pulled up her skirt, leaving it bunched around her waist, exposing her legs clad in her soft knee-high stockings and bare cunt.
“Good girl,” he growled. He gave her cheek a small kiss, and his hand slid up her leg and stroked gently over her outer lips, “I am more than happy to do… that thing for you again. So long as you make those adorable little noises again.”
“Mhm,” Y/n cooed, her breath already hitching,
He laughed smugly and stroked his index finger slowly between her lips and stroked the pad of his finger over her clit, watching as her face reacted with gentle pleasure, her cheeks flushing. Feeling the wetness gather against his fingers,
“Uuughhh… Aegon…” she whimpered,
“You are so cute,” he smirked, nibbling on her neck as he sped his finger up, rubbing up and down in fast and smooth movements,
“Uhh! UUuughhh-” she moaned,
Aegon growled, biting harder on her neck, leaving a hickey in the deepest crook of her neck as he added a second finger to rub, turning his vertical strokes into tight circles, “Does that feel good, princess?”
“Mhm-”
“Words. Use your words.”
“Yes…”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, my prince.”
“Good Girl,” he growled, his hand becoming drenched with her arousal, “Do you love it when I do this… thing to you?”
“Yes,” she began to tremble, closing her eyes tightly as moans fell freely,
“Does this thing feel good?” he asked, moving his thumb to her clit, shoving his index and middle finger inside her with ease,
“Yes!” She moaned, her hips bucking towards his hand,
“Do you want me to keep going? Hu? You want me to make you cum again?” He asked,
“M- mhm- Yes! Yes Please… My prince…” she whimpered,
“Yeah? Just like I did under the table in the library, when you had to hide all your cute little moans from the maester?” he growled, thrusting his fingers as fast and hard as possible,
“Yes! Yes! Aegon, please!” She moaned,
“Go on, cum, or I’ll stop and leave you like this all night again.”
She whimpered, but luckily, with only one single thrust more, she hit her release, squealing and trembling, tumbling into his awaiting arms.
Aegon laughed, sliding his fingers out and licking them clean before he gave her a long wet kiss on the lips, “You really like that… thing, don’t you?”
“Mhm,” she cooed, nuzzling into his tunic,
“Alright,” he laughed, lying down and pulling her with him, “Sleep, I’ve got you.”
“Really, Aegon?”
“Yes, sleep, stupid girl. We can talk when your brain works again.”
She nodded, leaning up to give his lips a peck before she nuzzled up and almost immediately feel asleep,
“Humm… such a funny little thing.” He chuckled before he rested his head on hers.
tw 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ 18+, NSFW, explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!recieving), penetrative sex, creampie, overstimulation, verbal praise/degradation, involuntary release, semi-public, rough/impatient handling, dubious decorum/misuse of authority, flirting, alcohol consumption, Gwayne is utterly pathetic
Summary 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ Ser Gwayne Hightower happily endures your constant scolding—until another knight tries to court you at the feast. Losing his composure to jealousy, Gwayne lies to interrupt and surrenders to his obsession. Losing all knightly dignity to pathetic moans and worshipful praise.
Word count 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ 3.2k
Notes 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ Gwayne Hightower is so cute, I could combust from literal awe. I had to work with show Gwayne so I had little to none to work with, but hope everyone likes my version of him. He's like a lovesick spaniel puppy to me. Not proofread, guys. Reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated
The walk from the quiet armory tents to the Red Keep took scarcely ten minutes, though it felt considerably longer thanks to the weight of your gown, the ache in your feet, and the endless list of grievances you had apparently been saving for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
Your deep burgundy silk was beautiful, certainly. It was also currently your greatest enemy. The boning of your corset dug viciously into your ribs, the petticoats dragged at your ankles, and you were beginning to suspect your maid had laced you with the express intention of killing you before supper.
"I am going to strangle my brother before the feast is over," you announced, your silk fan fluttering with unnecessary violence as you rested your hand on the crook of Gwayne's arm. "I swear to you, Gwayne, if he makes one more remark about the Arbor Gold harvest or my 'improper posture' in the grandstands, I will pour an entire carafe of wine into his lap."
Gwayne looked like a man who had just been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.
He walked beside you with an effortless, infuriatingly pleased stride, his green cloak sweeping behind him. There was still a scrape along his cheek from the joust, and a darkening bruise beneath the collar of his linen tunic, but neither seemed to trouble him in the slightest.
"And my cousin," you continued. "She spent the entire morning whining about potential suitors from the Stormlands, as though I have any desire to spend the rest of my life in a castle where it rains nine months of the year."
"A terrible fate."
"My feet are aching. My corset is trying to kill me. And the servants served the wine lukewarm."
Gwayne glanced down at you. "That," he said gravely, "is unforgivable."
You snapped your fan shut. "And then there is you."
"Ah, finally."
"You paraded around those lists like a man determined to get himself executed, and now half my family has been asking me why a Hightower knight was wearing Redwayne silk over his heart."
"You could have told them the truth."
You halted as Gwayne took one more step before noticing, turning right away to look down at you with an expression of innocence.
"The truth?" you repeated.
"The truth."
"The truth would have my father drag me back to the Arbor on the next ship."
"Would he? How unfortunate..."
You stared at him. He grinned—not his usual arrogant one, but something gentler, almost silly, and so openly pleased with himself that you could hardly stand it.
"Gwayne," you sighed. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Every word."
"Then why are you smiling like an absolute simpleton?"
His blue eyes dropped briefly to your hand resting upon his arm. "Because you've been talking to me for ten minutes."
"That is your answer?"
"It's an excellent answer. I would happily listen to you complain about your family, your gown, the weather, or the entire bloody court until dawn," his thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. "So long as you keep talking to me."
Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away before he could see the smile threatening to betray you. "You are a sick man, Ser Gwayne."
"Devoted," he corrected, giving you that radiant smile once again. "The word you're looking for, My Lady, is devoted."
The Great Hall greeted you with a deafening roar of music, laughter, and conversation. Flutes trilled beneath the high stone arches while servants hurried between the tables carrying platters of roasted meat and fresh bread.
At the high table, King Aegon was already several cups deep into his wine, surrounded by young lords shouting over one another.
Gwayne, being on duty as a Hightower knight, could not sit beside you at the Redwayne table. That did not stop him from becoming a nuisance.
Every few minutes, he found some flimsy excuse to wander past.
First, he intercepted a servant and sent him back for a bottle of properly chilled Arbor Gold. Then he appeared beside your seat while you were reaching for a lemon tart.
"Would Her Majesty like me to provide a softer cushion?"
You kicked him under the table. He barely moved—chuckling beneath his breath as he returned to his post near the stone pillars looking unbearably pleased with himself.
Your cousin watched him go, then glanced back at you. "Honestly, I don't know how he puts up with you."
You frowned. "With me?"
"He has spent the entire afternoon listening to you complain."
Across the hall, the redheaded knight happened to glance over. "I find it rather adorable," he mouthed, barely moving his lips.
Your cousin raised an eyebrow as you rolled your eyes at him.
Then Ser Lucamore of House Tarly arrived to ruin everything.
He was a pleasant knight from the Reach, broad-shouldered and well-spoken, with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went. He approached your table carrying a small silver box filled with candied plums.
"Lady Redwayne." He bowed. "I noticed you sitting here while your knight keeps watch. I thought a lady of your refined tastes shouldn't have to endure the feast without proper company."
You blinked, caught off guard. "Ser Lucamore. That is very kind of you."
Down the hall, Gwayne went stiff.
He tried very hard not to stare. He took a slow drink, looked toward the high table and back at you...Lucamore was still standing beside you.
Gwayne's fingers tightened around his goblet. Beside him, Lord Commander Criston took one leisurely sip of wine.
"Something troubling you, Hightower?"
"No."
"You look murderous."
"I am observing the room."
"You're observing aggressively."
Criston's eyes dropped to the goblet in his hand. "You're crushing your cup."
Gwayne looked down to find that the silver had indeed begun to buckle beneath his fingers. He loosened his hold and placed the damaged piece on the nearest ledge. "Poor craftsmanship," he mumbled.
At the Redwayne table, Lucamore was still smiling. "Would you honor me with the first dance of the evening, My Lady?"
You opened your mouth. Before you could answer, a shadow fell across the table.
"Ser Lucamore."
Gwayne stood beside you. He had not run—that would have been undignified—he had simply arrived with suspicious speed.
"Forgive the interruption."
Lucamore looked up. "Ser Gwayne. Is something wrong?"
The knight paused. For one terrible moment, it was obvious that he had absolutely no idea what to say. Then, with the confidence of a man willing to lie directly to the King's face, he said, "His Grace requires the Redwayne party at the royal pavilion."
"Does he now?"
His blue eyes remained firmly on Lucamore. There was a long beat of silence.
"He might..."
Lucamore stared at him, then at you, before a grin laced his lips. He rose, looking thoroughly amused. "My apologies, Hightower. I didn't realize the lady's dance card was already so fiercely guarded."
He bowed to you and disappeared into the crowd.
You waited until he was out of earshot, then glared at Gwayne.
For perhaps the first time that evening, the knight had nothing clever to say. He merely exhaled, caught your elbow gently, and guided you through the nearest archway.
The courtyard outside was still and cool beneath the moonlight.
Gwayne walked three paces away from you before stopping, his hands settling on his hips, his head bowed.
You leaned against the balustrade, watching him with a smile you were making no effort to hide. "Were you jealous, Ser Gwayne?"
"Pardon me?"
"You dented a goblet. Followed me halfway across the hall and lied about a royal summons." You laughed, and Gwayne's expression softened despite himself.
"You nearly glared a hole through poor Ser Lucamore's head."
"He was standing too close to you."
"There were three feet of space between us."
"Exactly, My Lady."
You let out a groan."That makes no sense."
"It made perfect sense to me." He stopped closer. The moonlight caught the scrape along his cheek—the same one she had cleaned for him in the armory tent—and suddenly he looked less like the smug knight who had been tormenting you all afternoon.
You tilted your head. "You know, Ser Lucamore was actually rather charming."
Gwayne's smile fell instantly. It happened so quickly that you almost burst out laughing.
"Do not say that...please."
"Why?"
He looked away. "Because I don't want to hear it." There was no teasing in his voice now. Only honesty.
You watched him for a moment. Then you stepped closer and lifted your hand to his cheek, your thumb stroking over the little cut near his eye.
His eyes closed for a fleeting second as he leaned instinctively into your palm.
"I wasn't looking at him, Ser Gwayne."
His eyes opened. "No?"
"No," you said with a smile. "I was waiting for my very foolish, very dramatic knight to come and take me away from the feast."
Then the tension left his shoulders, and a slow smile pulled at his mouth. "You needn't wait any longer," he murmured, covering your hand with his. "I am taking you away."
"That sounds awfully suspicious."
"Somewhere no one else can ask you to dance, and somewhere I can have your attention all to myself."
Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter. "Is that so?"
"It is." He leaned closer, his voice melting into a murmur meant only for you. "Her Majesty has been neglected terribly tonight."
You laughed softly. "Have I?"
"Abominably."
And with that, Gwayne offered you his arm again. You took it—leaving the noise of the feast behind, stepping out into the shadows of the Keep together.
The night air was crisp, scented with blooming jasmine and salty tang of Blackwater Bay. Moonlight flooded the graven paths, turning the stone archways and manicured hedges into a labyrinth of silver and shade.
You hesitated at the edge of the terrace, looking down at the quiet greenery. "Where are we going, Ser Gwayne?" You looked back at the glowing windows of the Great Hall, where the faint sound of flutes still echoed, then back at him. "What if someone notices we're gone?"
Gwayne unbuttoned the high collar of his tunic with one hand, looking unbothered as he said, "then I'll tell them Her Majesty ordered me to escort her."
"And if they ask where?"
"I'll lie," he spoke plainly, a shameless little grin flashing on his lips.
Once again, your heart did a silly, treasonous flip. He was standing there looking so incredibly proud—as if he had just won the realm, instead of walking a lady out into the garden.
"You are far too pleased with yourself," you teased.
"Then punish me for being so." His blue eyes gleaming with playful mischief.
"How?"
His smile widened, bright and wicked. "Make me catch you."
Before he could even finish the sentence, you slipped your hand out of his, pivoted on your heel, and took off down the gravel path.
"Oh, you little—" Gwayne gasped out behind you.
You didn't look back. Even weighed down by your heavy petticoats, you knew the layout of the Royal Gardens far better than a knight visiting from Oldtown. You darted around a massive marble fountain, slipped behind a towering wall of clipped ivy, and let out a breathless laugh as you heard his boots crunching against the gravel somewhere behind you.
"You know, for a knight who claims to be so devoted, you're terribly slow!" you called out over your shoulder, deliberately letting the edge of your skirt trail into the light before ducking down another winding path.
"I am pacing myself, My Lady!" Gwayne's voice echoed back, rich with amusement. He wasn't even rushing; he was trailing you with the easy patience of a man who knew how this game was going to end. "A proper knight does not rush a victory."
You rounded a tall rose trellis, cutting into a secluded courtyard surrounded by stone hedges. You stopped, pressing your back against the wall, holding your breath, and listening intently.
...
Nothing but a rustle of leaves and the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs below.
You let out a sigh, a smug little smile curving your lips. You smoothed down your skirts, stepping out into the center. "Looking for someone, Ser Gwayne?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
The voice came from right behind you.
Two strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you backward until your spine was pressed against the solid, warm chest of his before you could even take a gasp.
A startled laugh escaped your lips, instinctively bringing your hands up to grip his forearms as he held you fast. "Gwayne!"
"Caught," he murmured against the crown of your head, his chest rising and falling on your back, vibrating with triumphant laughter.
"You cheated!" you gasped, trying and failing to pry his hold from your waist. "You let me think I got away!"
"I am a knight of Oldtown, My Lady. I used superior tactics."
"Then why chase me?"
Gwayne leaned down, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder, his breath fanning across the skin of your neck, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Because I wanted to catch you."
The laughter halted in your chest.
The playful energy in the quiet garden shifted, turning thick, and sweet. Gwayne didn't loosen his hold, but his grip changed—softening, his hands resting over your ribs, pulling you a little closer to his heat.
He turned his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. Patiently, he turned you around in his arms until you were facing him.
Gwayne's mocking armor had vanished in the pale gloom. His hair was slightly tousled, collar open at his throat, exposing the subtle bruise beneath his collarbone. His eyes were so dark and hopelessly smitten that it made your knees weak.
His hand came up, his long fingers trailing up your arm, resting gently at the side of your neck, his thumb over your jawline.
"No more running?" he asked.
Your eyes raised up to meet his—at the arrogant, proud, lovesick knight who had teased you, flaunted himself for you, and glared at other men all day to keep your attention.
"No more running," you whispered, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest, right over his hammering heart.
"Good girl."
He leaned down, closing the distance between you, and finally—finally—pressed his lips to yours.
The change from that long-awaited kiss to raw desperation happened in a fraction of a second.
Gwayne's mouth was hot and sweet over yours, his tongue gliding against yours with a ragged groan. For all his knightly composure and clever banter, the moment he finally had you tasting of wine and yielding in his arms, his restraint fractured.
He backed you against the secluded hedge, his hands dropping from your waist to the heavy silk of your dress.
The knight didn't bother with the dozens of delicate pearl buttons. Nor with the petticoats. He was entirely done playing the patient, dignified gentleman.
With a harsh breath, his long fingers bunched up the thick layers of burgundy, dragging the fabric up past your knees and your thighs, until the night breeze hit your bare skin.
You gasped out against his lips, your breath hitching as his rough hands slid up the inside of your bare thighs, spreading your legs wide. "We are in the garden—anyone could—"
He didn't give you a second to process. Before you could even draw another full breath, Gwayne dropped straight to his knees in the grass.
"Gwayne—!"
He hooked your legs over his sturdy shoulders, anchoring your hips firmly against the wall behind you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs like a starving man clinging to a lifeline.
"You've been tormenting me all day," he muttered breathlessly, looking up at you from between your legs, his blue eyes wide and utterly blow out with desire. "Complaining, scolding me, wearing that silk...I'm going to make you forget your own name, Her Majesty."
Right away, he buried his face right into your wet cunt.
Your knees weakened as his hot tongue swept over your clit, slow, soaked, and agonizingly deep. You let out a helpless gasp, your hands moving to his head, your fingers tangling frantically into his auburn hair to keep your balance.
He didn't just taste you; he devoured you.
He worked his tongue over you with a fierce pace, licking you clean, sucking hard on your clit until you were crying out into the quiet night. Every time you tried to squirm or arch away from the overwhelming sensation, his hands squeezed your thighs, holding you pinned, two of his fingers sliding effortlessly deep inside your tight heat to fuck you in rhythm with his tongue.
"Look at me," Gwayne pleaded, his voice muffled against your wet pussy as he raised his eyes at you through his lashes. He loved it—loved hearing you whimpering in the open air, loved watching you roll your eyes back while he tasted your cunt like a king kneeling before his queen.
"Look at your knight."
You gripped his hair tighter, pulling his face against you as he sped up his pace, his tongue flicking expertly over your sensitive core while his fingers pumped inside you, until a violent crash of pleasure ripped straight through you.
Your thighs clenched against his shoulders as you came, a stifled sob breaking from your throat as you hid your face against your arm, your pussy pulsing hard around his fingers.
"Oh—ffuck me, I'm comin—"
Gwayne drank in every drop of your release with a low moan. The sheer sight, sound, and taste of you unraveling on his face was too much—his own breath hitched hard, his body going rigid between your legs as he brought himself to a shuddering release right inside his breeches, coming completely ruined by you without even touching his own cock.
He pressed one last, sloppy kiss to your dripping folds and the inside of your thigh before rising up off his knees. His hair was a mess, his collar thoroughly wrecked, and his mouth glistening wet with your slick.
He didn't look remotely embarrassed. Rather, he looked insufferably proud of himself.
Gwayne smoothed down your skirts back with care, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes heavy with a promise.
"Now," he whispered, a wicked smirk curving his bruised lips as he hooked his arm through yours once more, "shall we find a proper room so I can put my cock where my mouth just was, My Lady?"
The mattress beneath you creaked under his weight, the velvet canopy above casting shadows across the bed, but Gwayne was nowhere near quiet.
He was making the most embarrassing, pathetic, impure sounds you had ever heard a sworn knight make in his entire life.
His head was resting in the crook of your neck, his face burning hot against your collarbone as he let out another long, ruined groan. Every single time his hips rolled forward, driving his throbbing cock all the way to your cervix, Gwayne sounded like he had died and gone to heaven.
"Gods...gods, you're so wet," he choked out, his voice wrecked and devoid of any dignity. "You're fucking killing me, my love."
It had been an absolute, chaotic scramble from the moment he dragged you into his quarters.
He hadn't even made it three steps past the oak door before he had you backed against the panel, his mouth bruising yours while his hands tore at the suffocating laces of your corset. He had been practically overflowing with impatience, muttering curses under his breath as the boning resisted his fingers, until he finally ripped the silk free, letting your gown tumble to the floor in a heap of burgundy.
He had carried you to the bed like a madman, stripping off his tunic and unbuckling his soaked breeches with hands that were visibly shaking.
And then came the moment he actually pushed inside you.
When he had lined the gleaming head of his cock up against your dripping entrance—still drenched from where he had eaten you out in the garden—Gwayne had paused for one brief second. He had looked down at you, his forehead slick with sweat, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
"Tell me it's me. Say my name." His hips hovering above yours, hands trembling where they braced beside your head.
"Gwayne," you had moaned, reaching up to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down. "Put it in. Now."
He hadn't needed to be told twice.
Gwayne had nudged his entire length inside you in one unrelenting thrust. The sheer heat of your tight cunt clamping around him had sent his head snapping back, a ragged sob ripping from his throat as he froze, overwhelmed by how impossibly good it felt to finally be buried to the hilt inside you.
Now, he was setting a punishing pace, his thighs sliding against yours as he fucked you deep and slow, his hands locked around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.
Gwayne whimpered against your lips, his hips stuttering as he dragged his cock almost all the way out before slamming back inside you, making you gasp out his name. "Look at what you do to me. I haven't...fuck—I haven't been able to think about anything else for months."
"Harder, Gwayne. you're so good."
"Every time you scolded me...all I wanted was to fuck this pretty cunt," he babbled helplessly, his chest heaving as he pumped into you, his rhythm becoming faster, harder, more sloppy as he felt your walls pulsing tightly around his shaft. "I'm yours. I'm so fucking yours—"
His thrusts were coming in short desperate bursts. He was past the point of holding back, his eyes half-lidded and glossy with tears of pure pleasure as he voiced his love against your jaw.
"I can't—I can't hold it, please," Gwayne whimpered.
That milking rhythm triggered his release, sending him crashing over the brink. With a guttural sob, Gwayne slammed his hips, sinking himself to the root as his cock surged wildly inside you, shooting hot, heavy spurts of cum deep into your cervix.
You cried out, the sensation of his thick release filling you pushing you right over your own, your cunt rippling and contracting frantically around his tip.
That was his undoing.
Instead of easing off, the clenching of your climax caused a second, involuntary wave of pleasure through his body. Gwayne's legs almost gave out, his cock throbbing once more, releasing more cum into your tight heat as his eyes widened in disbelief.
"Gwayne—gods—" you moaned, nails digging into his bare back, overstimulated by the endless, intense sensation.
"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, I can't stop—" He was at the mercy of your body. Every tiny twitch of your pussy sent another pulse through his reddening cock, keeping him locked in a continuous release that left him sobbing softly into your skin.
Completely undone, drained, and utterly ruined for anyone else forever.
· · ─ · Here's an updated list of all my current works for this fandom, more will be coming soon. Just let me know if you want to be tagged in any current or future works! Most of this contain mature, sexual themes, so minors, dni, as I will not be held accountable for your media consumption. ─ · ·
Pairings: mentioned Criston Cole x Gwayne Hightower, Gwayne Hightower x wife!Reader
Synopsis: Through Tumbleton’s dark and Ormund’s cold sneer, he mourns for the lost while holding her near. With Cole in the mud and his armor undone, her love keeps him anchored when all else is gone.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Physical Intensity, Grief & Bereavement, mentioned War & Violence, Verbal Bullying/Emotional Abuse, Homophobia, Themes of Infidelity/Extramarital Intimacy (Consensual), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, mentioned Canon Character Death, Bisexual Male Character
Word Count: 3.9k
The heavy stone walls of Tumbleton Castle smelled of wet soot, damp earth, and horse sweat. The host had marched for weeks through the Reach, setting up its staging ground in the shadow of the keep. The dragon Tessarion rested beyond the outer walls, her low, rhythmic breathing vibrating faintly through the foundation stones like distant thunder. Outside, the campfires flickered in the dusk; inside, the drafty solar offered little comfort against the creeping autumn chill.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, the iron bolt sliding home with a dull, final thud that seemed to echo through the cavernous quiet of the bedchamber.
Gwayne stood just inside the threshold.
He did not move to unbuckle his sword belt. He did not step toward the hearth to warm his hands. He simply stood there, stiff and unnaturally tall, like a gilded suit of armor left behind in an abandoned hall. In his right hand, crushed into a tight, white-knuckled ball of parchment, was the raven’s missive Lord Ormund Hightower had handed him in the Great Hall—a message fresh from the Crownlands detailing the aftermath of the Butcher’s Ball.
When Gwayne had been ordered south weeks ago to join the Hightower army advancing on Tumbleton, Criston Cole had still been alive. They had parted in the dark on the muddy road—a quiet, sharp-edged farewell where nothing explicit was said, yet everything was understood between two men bound by trauma, duty, and the terrifying shadow of dragons. For weeks, Gwayne had endured the brutal, filthy realities of the march believing that Criston was still fighting, still breathing.
Until the last turning of the glass.
Lord Ormund Hightower had summoned Gwayne before his Council of War, surrounded by captains, knights, and young Prince Daeron. With a cold, lingering smirk, Ormund had smoothed out the parchment and read the raven’s words aloud to the room.
Shot down like a stray hound by three archers. Died in the mud without a sword in his hand.
Ormund had let the silence stretch before delivering his final, cutting remark. He had laughed softly—a dry, noble chuckle—noting how fitting it was for a commoner raised beyond his station to die in the ditch where he belonged.
Then, turning his gaze directly to Gwayne, Ormund had added with deliberate, venomous mock-sympathy that at least now Gwayne could stop pining after the Lord Commander like a wounded hound and finally focus on bedding his wife properly to secure the Hightower line.
In the flickering light of their shared quarters, the golden, pristine knight of Oldtown looked reduced to ash. The immaculate swagger—the sharp, aristocratic arrogance that he wore so effortlessly—was utterly gone. In its place was a hollow, sun-baked exhaustion. His sharp jaw was covered in a light growth of stubble, and his eyes were sunken, bloodshot, and rimmed with red.
His wife sat at the edge of the low vanity, a silver comb frozen in her hand.
She had not chosen to be at Tumbleton. Lord Ormund had ensured her presence. When the host had marched from Oldtown, Ormund had dragged her along under the flimsy pretext of 'noble protection', but she knew the true, vindictive reason.
Ormund, with his rigid, ancient pride, had long hated Gwayne’s quiet deviations from the traditional Hightower mold. Ormund sensed the hidden softness in his cousin, the subtle resistance to being a mere pawn in Otto Hightower’s grand machine. To punish Gwayne, Ormund had kept her trapped in his camp—parading her as a living reminder of Gwayne’s noble duty, mocking Gwayne’s masculinity at every feast, and sneering that a 'true knight' would not let his bride wander the Reach like a widow before the battle was even fought.
Setting the silver comb down on the cold marble, she stood up slowly.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind howled outside, rattling the thick glass of the narrow lancet window.
”Gwayne,“ she breathed softly.
He did not look up. His gaze remained locked onto the stone floor between his mud-caked boots, his chest rising and falling in shallow, hitching breaths. His gloved hand tightened around the crushed parchment until the skin of his knuckles turned white beneath the fabric.
Finally, the letter slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to rest quietly on the floorboards.
When he finally lifted his head, the bleeding, unvarnished agony in his dark eyes made her lungs seize.
”Ormund read it aloud,“ Gwayne rasped. His voice was ruined—rough, dry, and scraped raw from dust and days of total internal isolation.
”He read it before Daeron. Before the captains.“
”I know,“ she whispered, taking a slow step toward him.
”I heard the whispers in the gallery.“
”He smiled,“ Gwayne said, a bitter, broken laugh escaping his lips before turning into a dry cough.
”My cousin smiled as he read how Criston died in the dirt. Three arrows in his chest. No grand duel. Just shot down by men whose names nobody will ever know. And then Ormund looked at me... and he told the room that at least now I have no distraction from my marital duties.“
”Ormund is a parasite,“ she said firmly, closing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him.
”He uses his title to hide the fact that he is a cruel, small-minded coward.“
She reached out, her fingers brushing against the leather straps of his doublet. Gwayne flinched violently at the touch—a reflexive, battle-hardened reaction—before recognizing the soft, familiar warmth of her hand. He sagged forward, his heavy, leather-clad hands coming up to hover uselessly over her arms, trembling so violently he could not even form a fist.
Slowly, methodically, she began to strip away his outer shell.
She unbuckled the heavy leather straps across his chest. The fabric fell to the floorboards with a heavy, dead slap. Next came his sword belt, the heavy steel blade clattering against the stone as she leaned it against the wall. Through the linen of his undergarments, she could feel the feverish, unnatural heat radiating off his skin—the frantic heat of a man whose nerves were burning alive under the strain of grief and public humiliation.
”He died alone,“ Gwayne whispered, his eyes staring blankly at the wall behind her.
”I left him in the Crownlands, my love. I mounted my horse, I rode south to join this host, and while I was sitting at Ormund’s table, Criston was bleeding into a puddle of mud. And I was not there.“
A ragged, choking sound tore from his throat—a sound far removed from the polished courtier or the brave captain. His knees buckled. The tall, proud knight collapsed forward, burying his face directly into the curve of her neck, his heavy shoulder digging painfully into her collarbone.
She did not step back. She planted her feet firmly against the stone, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders, feeling the violent tremors racking his spine.
”He was so full of hate,“ Gwayne sobbed against her skin, his hot breath scalding her sensitive skin as his hands clawed at the fabric of her dress, pulling her into him with a frantic, desperate strength.
”He was so full of ash and guilt... he marched into the Riverlands because he could not bear the weight of his own name anymore. Every morning he woke up wanting revenge. And I... Gods save me... I could not stop him.“
”You could not save a man who had already chosen his grave, Gwayne,“ she murmured into his hair, holding his head tightly against her beating heart.
”I kissed him,“ Gwayne choked out, the secret finally spilling into the cold room where no spies or Hightower lords could hear it.
”Before I rode south... behind the war tents in the dark. He tasted like copper and old wine. His hands were so cold... even in the summer, he was always cold. I held him by his cloak and I begged him to stay alive. I told him he did not have to die for Alicent, or for Aegon, or for any of them. And he just looked at me with those proud eyes... and now Ormund sits in the hall and uses his death to spit on me.“
Gwayne pulled back slightly, his face a wet, ruined mask of mud, salt, and red-rimmed misery. Oh, her beautiful husband. Her poor, poor husband.
His trembling hands tore off his heavy leather riding gloves, hurling them into the corner of the room. When his bare palms touched the skin of her face, his callouses were rough, but his touch was frantic, searching, and terrified.
”I am broken,“ he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers, his tears dripping down to mingle with the grime on his nose and cheeks.
”I am sitting in this castle while our host prepares for a siege, holding my wife, while my heart is rotting in a ditch.“
”Ormund knows nothing of love,“ she whispered back, her heart aching with a fierce, protective sorrow for the man in her arms.
”He knows only duty and ambition. You loved a man who was drowning, Gwayne. There is no shame in that. Let me hold you. Let me remind you that you are still alive.“
He did not answer with words. Instead, his mouth crashed down onto hers.
It was not a soft or courtly kiss. It was a collision of long-repressed agony, bitter grief, and a desperate, clawing need to feel human again. He kissed her with a feverish intensity, his lips hot and salt-stained, his tongue parting hers with a breathless, jagged rhythm. His hands tangled themselves in the loose waves of her hair, pulling her head back, his fingers digging into her scalp as if trying to anchor himself to the earth before the wind swept him away.
She opened herself to him completely, meeting his frantic mouth with her own unyielding warmth, accepting the wild, chaotic grief he poured into her throat. She reached down, undoing the laces of his linen tunic, pulling the sweat-stained shirt over his head and tossing it aside.
His chest was bruised—purple and yellow marks from the weight of his breastplate lining his ribs, alongside long red scratches from the leather harness he had worn for weeks without rest. At his collarbone lay a deep, angry scab—a gift from a stray arrow during the march through the Reach.
She pressed her lips to the jagged scar, feeling the deep, violent shudder that ran through his whole body.
”Gwayne,“ she breathed against his bare chest.
”Please,“ he rasped, his hands sliding down to grip her hips through her gown, his fingers pressing so hard into her flesh that she knew dark bruises would bloom there by morning.
”Please, my love... make me feel something else. I cannot let Ormund’s voice stay in my head. Put me somewhere else. Put me here... with you.“
He lifted her off her feet, setting her down onto the edge of the high wooden bed. He followed her down immediately, heavy, hot, and suffocating, looming over her in the dim firelight like a fallen structure. His hair fell in messy curls around his temples, sticking to his damp forehead.
When he looked down into her eyes, the sheer depth of his despair made her chest ache. She reached up, her fingers framing his sharp jaw, smoothing back his tangled hair with a gentle, deliberate tenderness that made his breath catch in his throat.
”I am here,“ she whispered, guiding his face down until his lips hovered above hers.
”I am your wife. No matter what Ormund says to the court, you are my husband, and you are safe within my arms.“
”I do not deserve you,“ he choked out, a fresh tear spilling over his pale lashes.
”Ormund dragged you through the Reach to humiliate me, and yet you open your arms. I bring the memory of another man to our bed, and you hold me.“
”Because I love you,“ she said, holding his gaze without flinching.
”I loved you when you were the arrogant knight in Oldtown, and I love you now in your ruin. You are the kindest man I have crossed my paths with. You are patient and loving. I cannot stand to see you suffering. Give me your pain, Gwayne. All of it.“
He let out a broken groan—a sound that was half-sob, half-surrender—and buried his face in the crook of her neck as he pulled the fabric of her gown over her head, stripping away the last barrier between them.
When her bare skin met his, the heat was overwhelming—a sharp, burning contrast to the cold drafts swirling through the castle chamber.
Gwayne’s hands moved over her body with a desperate, possessive rhythm. He traced the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the dip of her spine, his calloused palms scraping against her soft skin. He touched her not merely out of desire, but like a man trying to convince himself that he was still solid, that the ghost of Criston Cole had not dragged him into the grave as well.
He parted her knees with his thigh, settling his heavy weight between her legs. His breath came in fast, ragged hitches against her ear as he kissed his way down her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the valley between her breasts. Every caress was heavy with the weight of unexpressed mourning, yet filled with a deep, reverent devotion to her—his understanding lady wife.
When he drove himself into her, it was slow, deep, and agonizingly complete.
A sharp gasp escaped her lips, her head tilting back into the white feather pillows as the sudden, intense fullness filled the quiet ache that had lived in her body through the long weeks of separation ever since this war started. Gwayne froze above her, his hands planted firmly on either side of her head, his arms trembling violently under the strain of holding his weight off her chest.
He stared down into her face, his eyes wide, wet, and filled with a raw, terrifying vulnerability.
”Did I hurt you?“ he whispered, his voice trembling with panic.
”Gods... tell me I did not hurt you–“
”No,“ she gasped, reaching up to wrap her legs tight around his waist, drawing him deeper, locking him into the absolute center of her body.
”No, Gwayne... do not pull away from me. You did not hurt me.“
A broken, breathless laugh escaped his chest, his forehead dropping down to rest against hers as he began to move.
The rhythm was not a storm born of anger or haste, but a slow, agonizingly reverent tide—a quiet, mournful worship where every deliberate movement felt heavy with the weight of loss. He did not take her with the rough desperation of a man trying to outrun his demons, but with a slow, deep reverence that made the sorrow between them feel almost tangible. He slid into her inch by agonizing inch, the slick, burning friction of their joining a quiet counterpoint to the cold draft of Tumbleton Keep.
Gwayne moved with a measured, aching slowness, his hips drawing back until they barely parted, only to press deep within her once more, sinking into her warmth as if searching for the exact place where his soul could rest. Each slow, unhurried slide was drenched in a profound melancholy, a physical confession that needed no words. He did not want to drown the image of Criston’s body in the mud through force; he wanted to bury the memory beneath the pure, sacred sanctuary of his wife’s body, feeling the soft arch of her back, the velvet heat of her walls gripping him tight with every deep, lingering stroke.
His chest heaved silently above her, bare skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat and tears, pressing flat against her breasts with every agonizingly sweet push. His hands were not harsh, but possessive in their tender terror—his fingers lacing tightly through hers, pinning her hands to the soft linen beside her head, his knuckles white with the strain of holding himself back, of ensuring every slow, agonizing inch was felt entirely by them both.
He leaned down, his mouth tracing a trail of wet, trembling kisses along her jawline, down the exposed column of her throat, and back to her lips. They were lingering, sorrowful kisses that tasted heavily of salt and unshed grief, his lips parting hers to swallow her breathless gasps whole.
”Look at me,“ he whispered, his voice cracking into a ragged plea as he pulled back just enough to hold her gaze, his hips continuing that slow, deep, devastating slide.
”Look at me, my love... tell me I am still here. Tell me I am not dead in the dirt with him.“
”I am looking at you, Gwayne,“ she whimpered softly, her head tilting back into the feather pillows as the exquisite, aching fullness settled deep in her core. Her knees tightened around his waist, drawing him deeper still, her body rising slowly to meet each reverent, deliberate push.
”I have you. You are here with me. You are alive.“
The intimacy coiled tighter, steeped in a quiet, unbearable sorrow. To see her husband—the proud, sharp-tongued knight of Oldtown—stripped of all his swagger, moving inside her with such slow, heartbreaking devotion, tore through her chest. She felt her own tears slipping down her temples, soaking into the sheet, but she did not break his gaze. She held his bloodshot eyes, absorbing the agony pouring from him, her body opening completely to his slow, worshipful rhythm, offering herself as the safe harbor for his grieving heart.
With every slow, deliberate thrust, the friction grew hotter, more intense, a slow-burning fire that built from the deepest part of her belly. He pressed into her until there was no space left between them, his forehead coming down to rest against hers, their breaths mingling in hot, shallow gasps as the agonizing pleasure began to overlap with the sorrow.
When the release finally claimed him, it was not a violent explosion, but a total, shattered surrender.
Gwayne let out a broken, weeping gasp—a quiet, shattered sound—as his hips pressed flush against hers one last time, his body going rigid above her. His fingers tightened around hers until the pressure was almost painful, his chest shuddering violently as the slow, deep spasms wracked his frame, pouring himself into her with a long, agonizing surge of warmth.
A heartbeat later, her own climax broke over her—a thick, drowning wave of heat that made her toes curl, her breath catching in her throat as her body contracted tightly around him, drawing out the absolute final tremor of his release.
He did not pull away. He simply collapsed softly forward, his heavy, sweat-dampened chest resting fully against hers, his face buried deep into the crook of her neck as his body continued to tremble with quiet, weeping hitches in the dark.
Gwayne slid downward, resting his head heavily upon her bare breast, his cheek pressed flat over the steady, rhythmic beating of her heart. His ear rose and fell with each deep breath she took, an anchor holding him fast against the tides of the dark room.
He felt reduced to something small, stripped of all knightly posturing and aristocratic armor, lying exposed in the quiet aftermath.
Slowly, gently, she brought her hand up to his head. Her slender fingers began to thread through his soft curls, soothingly playing with the damp locks at the nape of his neck and sweeping the messy hair away from his forehead. Her palm was soft, a comforting contrast to the cold stone walls of Tumbleton Keep.
For a long while, the room was silent save for the quiet rustle of the velvet quilt she had pulled over them both and the wind whispering through the lancet window.
”He was not always so quiet,“ Gwayne whispered into the dark, his voice barely more than a gravelly rasp against her skin. His breath brushed warm and damp over the swell of her breast.
”When we first rode out from King’s Landing, I thought him the most insufferable, dour bastard in the Seven Kingdoms. So stiff... so swallowed up by his own pride he could barely speak a sentence without sounding like a priest at a funeral.“
A small, faint trace of his old, dry humor flickered in his chest, making his ribs expand against her side before fading back into sadness.
”I provoked him endlessly,“ Gwayne continued, his eyelids heavy, closing as her fingers continued their slow, rhythmic stroke through his hair.
”I made my jests. I insulted his march, his silence, his grand, tragic posture. But out on the road, when the sun went down and the men were sleeping, the armor came off. He had a way of looking at a man... a way that made you feel as if he saw every single flaw you were trying so desperately to hide, and somehow... did not care.“
Her fingers paused for a fraction of a second at the back of his crown before resuming their soft, gentle combing motion.
”He sounds like a man carrying the weight of the Realm on his back,“ she murmured into the quiet.
”He was,“ Gwayne agreed, letting out a long, ragged sigh that settled deep into her skin.
”He was a tragic creature. But Gods, my love... if you had known him—if you had been on the road with us, or if he had ridden south to Oldtown before all this madness began... you would have liked him. Truly.“
He shifted slightly, turning his face further into her warmth, his lips brushing against her collarbone as he spoke.
”He had a sharp mind for warfare, yes, but beneath all that dreadful Dornish stubbornness, there was a quiet honor. He did not care for court games or noble titles. Criston only cared for the duty he had sworn to my sister, even when it was breaking him to pieces.“
Gwayne’s breath hitched, his hand creeping up her side to rest over her ribcage, his fingers hooking gently into her waist.
”You would have seen right through him, just as you saw through me,“ Gwayne whispered, his voice trembling with a quiet, lingering grief.
”You would have laughed at his solemnity, and he... he would have respected you. He would have known you were the only thing keeping my foolish head on my shoulders.“
She smiled softly in the dark, her lips pressing a gentle, lingering kiss into his hairline as her fingers continued to trace circles over his scalp.
”Then I am sorry I never got to meet him,“ she whispered back, her heart swelling with an overwhelming, tender devotion for the man resting upon her chest.
”I would have welcomed him to our table, Gwayne. For your sake.“
Gwayne let out a small, shuddering breath—the last lingering remnant of his weeping—and tightened his arm around her waist, anchoring himself completely against her warmth.
”He is gone,“ Gwayne whispered, the words finally settling into the quiet room without the sharp edge of panic, softened by the gentle strokes of her hand in his hair.
”And I am here. With you.“
”Yes,“ she answered softly, her fingers continuing their gentle play through his hair as the embers in the hearth slowly faded to white ash, leaving them wrapped in the dark, safe and together in the quiet sanctuary of the bed.
do you have any mlm stories planned involving aerion? i love him
I have two currently written!
Falling for a stranger with dom Aerion
The pretty ones are always temperamental with sub Aerion
I’m always up to write more or x male reader of any akotsk or hotd adult characters! I’ve been struggling with inspo recently so if there’s something specific you would like to see pls let me know! 🩷🩷
Following other targ name spellings, Rhenae might be the best way to go. Rhanae could also work but i think doesn't look as nice. Honestly i might choose a different name if i were you to make it easier but of course you must do as you like.
Rh - like Rhaenys
En - not aen because in targ names ae makes the a (day) sound. It can also be the e (egg) sound like Aegon. But Rhaenae looks like 'ray nay' so having the ae at the end works better in my opinion.
Ae - like Daemon and Baelor.
Sorry for my bad english! Good luck :)
Thank you lovely! I actually ended up doing Rhaenae as others had said it as well but I will keep what you said in mind!
You didn’t trust Aegon or any of the men on his council. They all looked at you so predatorially that it filled you with fear anytime you walked past them in the halls. You felt like one of the mice in the Keep, knowing that you were being constantly hunted by the cats who were ready to pounce the second you showed any weakness. You had to protect yourself to the best of your ability, especially as your husband wasn’t allowed to be beside you. Jace had been confined to his apartments, Aegon not wanting his nephew to run to his dragon and fly away even though Jace would never do that to you or your children. He made you a promise to stay by your side until the end, and you knew he wasn’t going to break that promise. He found himself reading through the histories again and again, practicing his swordsmanship, and bonding with his children during this period of time. It was ironic in a way, the man who had let you be encased in a tower on Dragonstone was now experiencing what it was like to live through those conditions. Even still you didn’t allow yourself to gloat in it too long knowing the danger you were in when he wasn’t there.
One of the few times your husband was allowed out was to join the rest of the Targaryen family for dinner each night. It was one of the few times he was able to see his younger brother as well, the boy being terrified to do anything and would hesitate to even use utensils to eat, often only eating small amounts throughout the meal. Aegon the elder sat at the end of the table, struggling through being able to eat anything while drowning himself in wine, next to him was his daughter Jaehaera. The young girl seemed afraid of the man, no longer recognizing the man she knew as her father so long ago. Across from the young girl, the dowager Queen Alicent sat. She looked like a shell of her past self but you couldn’t have said why at this moment. You were sat next to Queen Alicent, being the last two Hightowers in the Red Keep. Your daughter was sitting beside you, too small to have her own chair but too big to sit in either yours or Jace’s laps at that moment. Jace sat beside your daughter at the other end of the table, Lucaerys held in his lap as he wanted the boy as close as possible. Lord Corlys sat across from your daughter next to your husband, none of you being able to discuss reality after you had petitioned Aegon to free the older lord. Next to the older man the younger Aegon sat, the boy was beside Jaehaera who was the closest to his age at the table. Aegon the younger was ten years old while Jaehaera was eight and Aemma was only two and a half. The boy was sat across from you but never looked at you or spoke a word to you, terrified of what would happen if he did so.
“I propose a toast to our new king. May he live long and bring the realm into a new era of peace.” Lord Corlys stood raising his cup high which the rest of you copied in agreement. Jace clenched his jaw as he raised it slightly before downing the liquid that was still held in it. He slammed the cup back onto the table making everyone turn to look at him, Aegon smirking at your husband. “Is there a problem nephew?”
Jace’s eyes didn’t leave the other man’s as he spat out, “no. Everything is fine.” Aegon smirked as he brought his eyes to you “this night is too boring, my lady let’s dance.”
You choke around your wine, coughing a few times as you said “I-I’m sorry my king, I have two left feet. You can ask my husband, I have bruised his feet quite a bit while dancing.” Jace smiled at the memory of your wedding and how you had struggled to keep your feet off of his during the dance.
Aegon waved it away as he struggled to stand finding his feet under him as he said, “nonsense! Come let’s dance!”
You turn to look at your husband who was glaring at his uncle. Feeling your eyes on him he turned towards you and gave a slight nod, approval to join the burned man for a dance in the dining room. You slowly rose from your seat, placing the napkin from your lap on top of the table. You took cautious steps towards the man who stood with his hand out, a smirk painting his face as you got closer and closer. You eventually placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you along as the music started up, you followed his lead carefully trying to avoid stomping on his foot and drawing his ire. You stumble slightly as his hand wrapped around your back, pulling you closer to be chest to chest. You looked at him with wide eyes as your husband quickly stood from his chair. Aegon let out a hearty laugh that was quickly cut off with coughs that left him bent over and gasping for air. You quickly stepped away from the man to get beside your husband who held you tight against his side as the both of you watched as guards surrounded Aegon. The room fell silent as all eyes were on the burnt man as his guards led him back to his chair as he still struggled to take a breath in.
Once Aegon was situated back in his seat he was able to take a few struggling breaths in, the air sounding hollow as it filled his body. You held onto Jace’s arm, partially hiding behind him to ensure no one could blame you for the coughing attack that had overtaken the new king. Jace stood protectively in front of you, seeming to be of the same mind you were. Jace turned his head slightly to see you giving you a quick once over before he looked over to his uncle who was taking it wheezing breaths. Aegon waved his hand, silently telling everyone to leave him alone in the room, a ruling you would gladly abide by. You picked up Aemma from her seat and held her on your hip as Jace collected his son and followed behind you as you made your way out.
You moved your daughter to your husband’s arms, telling him you had forgotten something in your solar and would join him after you collected it. He nodded before continuing on his way down the hall towards your apartments together. You quickly moved to your solar to find the vial you had hidden ages ago when you first arrived in King’s Landing, buying it as you knew Daemon craved your head and you did not want to give him the satisfaction of being the one to kill you.
You held the vial in your palm, it was tiny not even the length of your finger. The liquid inside was clear with a slight blue hue, the woman you bought it from said it was tasteless and odorless but you didn’t dare try to figure out if that was true. You stuff the small vial under the hem of the chest section of your dress ensuring it was not obvious to anyone you would pass by. You left the solar to make your way back towards you apartments but stop dead in your tracks at the sight of Lord Corlys Velaryon making his way opposite to you.
Lord Corlys smiled softly at you saying, “I own you my life, lady Hightower. I heard you are the one to make my case to our new king.” The sight of the man had a new idea forming in your head, you could have Corlys be the one to put the poison in Aegon’s wine, your hands would be mostly clean then. He did say he owed you after all. You nodded to him, taking the moment to slip the small vial from the top of your dress, “then reward me for saving you by doing me a favor.” You stepped closer, placing your hand over his forcing the small vial into it. Corlys wrapped his hand around it before hiding it in an inner pocket of his coat. He scanned around the two of you, terrified of anyone seeing what the two of you were planning. He looked at you for a moment in fear before nodding his head agreeing to your plan silently. You smiled at the older man, speaking loudly in case of onlookers, “my husband has told me of how Driftmark was when he was younger, I wish for you to come meet our children as you will be their great grandfather.”
The lord of the tides nods stiffly as you begin leading him towards your family room where your children were waiting. You weren’t sure when he would strike or if the poison would even work, but you could pray and that’s all you could do now that it was out of your hands. You distracted yourself by spending the night with your children having Jacaerys introduce them to their great grandsire and your husband greeting the man with a tight hug. As much as Lord Corlys had problems with Rhaenyra he could never hate the boys who were also so good to him. He struggled to lower himself to the ground before examining the drawing your daughter was doing asking her questions about it which she was quick to boast about. You smiled watching the interaction, soaking it all in knowing your lives would be entirely changed from this night on.
—
“Jacaerys…Aegon is dead.”
Jace looked up at you with wide eyes, searching yours for any hint of deception. Before he could speak up you held out a small empty vial, which Jace held between his pointer and his thumb, holding the small glass to the light. There was a slight tinge as if there had once been a brightly colored liquid held inside that was no longer there, the sight made Jace’s breath catch in his throat. Poison. His eyes found yours again where you looked at him with eyes that only held slight interest as you said,
“I killed him. Lord Corlys used the poison I had bought, he put it into Aegon’s wine. No one will suspect us as I have proven my worth to the greens. He will never bother us again.”
Jace had never been so happy in his life, his hands wrapped around your waist as he looked up at you with admiration. He took in a shuttering breath as your hands grabbed his face, having him look up at you, “you are king, Jacaerys.”
Jace leaped up from his seat, holding your face in his hands as he kissed you deeply. He smiled into the kiss, pressing himself into you. One hand came down from your face to wrap around your throat lightly, no pressure being added. He pulled away slightly and in between kisses said,
“I love you.” Kiss
“Gods.” Kiss
“I love you so much.” Kiss
“You are the best thing to happen to me.” Kiss
He attempted to keep going but you pulled away before his lips could touch you again. He let out a whine as you chuckled your hands running up his chest as you said, “you need to be crowned, my king.”
Jace swore his eyes rolled into the back of his head hearing you call him by that title. You pulled away from him to head towards where his clothes were housed, Jace following behind you like a lamb follows a Shepard, happy to see where you would lead him. You stripped him of the clothes he wore making him rush towards you in an attempt to do the same to you. You laughed into his lips before pushing him away, reminding him of the goal of what you were doing in the moment. He allowed you to dress him in dark trousers and riding coat with the Targaryen similar proudly displayed. You pinned a red cape over one of his shoulders, fastening it with a dragon head broach. Above the dragon pin you fastened a seven pointed star one, saying to him, “you must prove you are not against the people or the faith.”
Jace hummed as he leaned down to kiss you again, happy to feel you against him in any way. He pulled you in close, wanting to drown himself in the love he felt for his wife so had made him king. You humored him for a moment before pulling away from him to begin getting dressed yourself. Jace sat and watched as you rid yourself of your day dress, keeping the same sheer shift as you found a new dress for when you would be anointed queen.
You needed to represent house Hightower while also showing that your locality lied with your husband. You found a dark gray dress, similar to the colors of your house when not at war and the black of your husband’s house. The dress showed off your shoulders and neck, an area that was covered in kisses as he showered you in love. The affection caused you to laugh loudly as you wrapped a hand around to the back of his head as he continued to kiss you, his arms wrapped around your waist as he held you close. You attempted to pull away saying to him, “we will be late for your coronation, husband.”
”let us then, they can wait until their king and queen are ready for them.”
“After Jace. We will break in our bed as king and queen, after.”
Jace groaned before finally pulling away, coming back to you with a necklace that resembled a dragon wrapping around your neck. Laid in the middle of your chest was the seven pointed star that Ser Otto had given you years ago, portraying the dragon as wrapped around the star. Your sleeves were tight around your arms as was the bodice of the dress. The skirt of the dress was long and flowing, allowing it to pull behind you with each step you took. You wrapped a sash around your waist that was made of the same fabric as Jace’s cape, interlinking the two of you. You then moved to your hair, having most of it put into a netting with pearls decorating it. Throughout the dress there were dragons and ocean themes inlaid to represent your husband’s houses. Finally you wrapped a belt made of seven pointed stars around your hips, keeping the tie between your family and your husbands and the people of the realm. You turned slowly admiring yourself in the mirror as Jace watched you from the other side of the room, his eyes tracking each movement not unlike Vermax when he saw something he wanted to eat in the field.
You turned fully to look at your husband and catch him in the act of undressing you with his eyes. Jace was quick to step close to you and claim your lips again, happy to bask in your love and attention. You chuckle against his lips before pulling away, beginning to walk towards the door to your chambers so you could go get your children ready as well. He was hot on your heels following you out of the room towards where your children were housed currently.
Lucerys was beginning to stand, pulling himself up to be able to stand on his legs. Currently he was holding onto the edge of his crib, bouncing slightly while letting out babbles of excitement seeing the two of you enter the room. In the center of the room Aemma was laid on her stomach while drawing with Kyra watching over her. The young maid had looked up at you when you entered, the sadness still tinged in her eyes. Aemma had let out a happy shriek seeing her father and sprinted towards him, Jace kneeled down to pick her up with open arms. You moved over to Kyra who had stood from her position on the floor, her eyes were downcast only focusing on the rug beneath the two of you. You hurriedly collected the younger girl in your arms, holding her tight to yourself as you whispered to her only, “I am sorry I abandoned you, my dear. I will never leave you to the vultures ever again.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she buried her face in your shoulder, sobs slowly breaking through her. Aemma may be your first born but Kyra was your first child, you helped raise the girl and saw her as your own even if she was only a few years your junior. You kissed the side of her head before pulling back, keeping her in your arms but allowing you to examine her. Her reddish brunette hair was tied back in a ponytail at the base of her skull, a bandana tied around the head of the tail, representing the two women who you loved and lost while being with Jace. She smiled sadly at you, her freckles having faded in her time inside. You hesitated for a moment before asking her, “why…why was Raina killed?”
She looked at you with sad eyes as she began explaining, “she had tried to stop the guards from getting into the nursery, not wanting you or your children to be hurt…the guards did not like that and dragged her to the great hall…”
You frowned at the reveal, even in her last moments she was trying to protect you. You fought back the tears as you hugged the girl tightly again. You finally pulled away from her to turn towards your children, going to the crib holding Lucerys to change him into a more appropriate black costume that you would change him back out of instantly after the coronation not wanting the baby to ruin the fabric. As you dressed him Kyra dressed Aemma to match you with a gray dress with a red sash around her waist. She also tied a red bow onto the back of Aemma’s head to match the sash and cape draped over Jace’s shoulder. You held Lucerys as Jace led the four of you towards the great hall. Aemma was following behind happily until she let out a loud gasp dragging your attention over to her.
“What is it darling?” You said wanting to get this over with so you wouldn’t have to deal with the lords of the realm longer than necessary. Aemma looked up at you as she explained, “what about Zeph? He needs to come with us!”
Jace shook his head explaining to his daughter, “no this is a people only event, my sweet.”
She pouted and stomped her foot and crossing her arms demanding the dragon be brought along with the four of you. You kneeled down in front of her explaining, “we will get Zephyrax after this, we will take him to the courtyard alright?”
She was still pouting but nodded, taking your hand as you led her the rest of the way to the great hall. Once you were stood in front of the large oak doors Jace turned towards you, fear evident in his eyes. You gave him a soft smile as you nodded, preparing yourself for the eyes that would be on you. The guards at the doors open them as the herald calls your children’s names and titles, then yours, and finally Jace’s as you reached the end of the room. At the end of the room the grand septon stood with the crown of Jaehaerys waiting on a pillow in a young boy’s hands next to the older man. Jace found his spot on one knee before the man as he began the ceremony of anointing him in the light of the seven. As the oil is pressed against your husband’s forehead your son squirmed in your arms letting out a loud “BAH!” Before calming down again. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you and the child, some trying to hold back their laughter while others looked annoyed.
You watched as the crown is lifted from the cushion with the septon saying, “Jacaerys Targaryen, first of his name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the first men. Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm. Long may he reign.”
A cheer spread throughout the room as your husband looked upon the lords and ladies gathered. A soft smile overtook his face as he took it all in, he was king. Everything his mother had faught for had paid off with her blood ruling the kingdom and her grandchildren filling the keep with joy and laughter.
—
Jace took to being king like a dragon does to the sky. While it was bumpy in the beginning with the help of Lord Coryls and the new king's hand Cregan Stark he came to be a great leader. Originally Jace had protested having the Northern man as his hand claiming his brother Aegon was to fill the role, but Aegon was only ten and three and with the unrest the realm was already in you couldn’t afford for him to not have a true hand by his side. He had forfeited after a week of discussions not wanting to gain the ire of the north and turn his allies from the war away from him.
He also didn’t want to burden his younger brother with holding the realm together with him, wanting the boy to have some semblance of a childhood that was left. Aegon was thoroughly traumatized from watching his mother’s death with even the sight of a dragon freezing him in his spot. He was so like you when you were his age, you couldn’t deny the soft spot you grew for the boy. Aegon was cautious but had started to open up to you and Jace once he knew he was truly safe. He still had nightmares about his mother’s fate and would come to you for comfort in those times. Jace was heartbroken at his brother’s new behavior but understood that attempting to force him would only push the boy away more.
Jaehaera and Maelor were also quiet things, afraid that if they drew too much attention to themselves that their lives would be on the line. Jaehaera was the spitting image of her mother Helaena, especially with her interest in the insects around the Keep. She found comfort in her room almost never leaving it except when she was forced to, she also had the nasty habit of wetting the bed that her maids had grumbled about before you had reprimanded them reminding them that while she is a princess she is still a child who suffered greatly. Maelor on the other hand would spend most of his time with the leftover replicas of Valyria and King’s Landing that the old King Viserys had favored. Being so young he used them more as a play set than how his Grandsire had used them. Being similar in age to your son the two of them became close friends happily spending any time they could together, not knowing of the suffering that had happened for them to be able to have those moments. Jaehaera and Maelor had become like your own children to you, finding yourself worrying over them as you did your own children. Maelor had never claimed a dragon but Jaehaera had a dragon from childhood as her egg had hatched while she was in cradle. Her dragon Morghul was pitch black and incredibly protective of the young girl, never leaving her side even to the point of sleeping in the bed beside the girl.
Soon after taking the throne and having the lords and ladies of the realm swear to him as the king and his son as heir, Jace had called to his cousin, Rhaena, who was living in the Vale to ensure her safety during the war. She returned with a bright pink baby dragon she had named morning. She returned with her betrothed lord Corwyn Corbray, an older man who had already been wed and widowed but Rhaena had made it clear she would marry no one else. Baela hearing of her twin’s return had quickly returned to the Red Keep to see her again after so long. Baela’s mount Moondancer was quite injured during the final battle with Aegon II but had survived. The two twins were scarcely seen without the other, happy to make up the time they lost together during the war. Baela had taken Alyn Velaryon as her husband to ensure her spot as heir to Driftmark, even if she had little interest in men.
It seems that the Keep just kept growing in residents as soon after the dragon twins had returned you had given birth to a daughter. You named her Laenora to honor your husband’s late father, the name had made Lord Corlys give you a watery smile the first time he held her. The little girl had light brown hair bordering on blonde that she demanded be decorated in pearls and ribbons. The dragon egg placed in her cradle had hatched after she had turned five, a beautiful light blue color that seemed to replicate that of her name sakes dragon Seasmoke. Laenora named her dragon Seabreeze to honor the fallen he-dragon.
After Laenora’s birth Lords had begun making comments that the king was obsessed with his wife and more worried about his wife than the realm. Which wasn’t false but it did paint an image of your husband you didn’t want perpetuated throughout the realm. You had attempted to persuade Jace to worry more about ruling but he enjoyed the period of peace he ruled in as well as the sight of you pregnant with his child. Soon after you had recovered from the birth of Laenora you had fallen pregnant again, this time swearing to Jace that it would be your last, it wouldn’t be but it’s the thought that counts. You had another little girl, one you named Raenae, to honor Jace’s mother without drawing the anger of the people or the lords. Raenae was the most spoiled of your children, refusing to take no for an answer and always demanding only the best dressed. You had attempted to put a stop to her behavior but your husband was putty for his children, especially his daughters. Her dragon egg had hatched when she was ten, the beast being a beautiful lilac color that seemed to shimmer as she moved which your daughter was quick to name her precious. You had laughed originally hearing the name but had to admit it fit the pretty thing. The beast was often adorned in matching finery to your youngest, with Raenae even having hair dye that matched the scales of her dragon sent from Tyrosh. You hadn’t known about it until she had already dyed her hair, which you had punished her for by having her separated from the beast for a month's time. She would spend the month pouting and begging to see her dragon which you did not budge on even when she looked at you with your husband’s beautiful brown eyes.
Your children and husband were the most important people to you, even when your children took after you and were hardheaded like you were. You still struggled to connect with your son at times, the trauma of his birth and your pregnancy with him always nudging the back of your head whenever you were with him. You had contemplated sending him to squire for your brother but knew it would make your family look weak. He was the only one of your children who had not bonded with a dragon, making him so alike you. A part of you feared that he knew how you struggled through his birth, that he knew how you attempted to get rid of him and had put little to no effort in connecting with him when he was a baby. You hadn’t put much effort into your relationship with your son until he had fallen sick one winter when he was ten and one. His skin was burning hot with his throat being perpetually dry and his nose continuously running. He could barely eat, spending most of his days sleeping or attempting to sleep. You felt you were to blame, you weren’t paying attention to him if you were maybe he wouldn’t have gotten sick. Maybe the gods were punishing you for favoring your daughters. You spent the period he was sick at his bedside, sobbing and begging the gods to not take your son from you. During one of those nights as silent tears fell down your face and your fingers twiddled with prayer beads you had brought with you. You hadn’t heard your son wake up until he murmured a quiet,
“…Mama?”
He hadn’t called you that since he was just a baby, mũna and mother being too difficult for his young mouth. You gasped as you sat up to watch him, quickly wiping your face so he wouldn’t see the tears. You moved from your chair beside to bed to seat yourself on the edge closest to him, pushing his hair back from his forehead so you could feel how warm he was. You rubbed your thumb against the skin noticing it had gone down since you last felt it.
“It’s alright baby, I’m here.” You whispered to him not wanting the haunted walls of the Red Keep to take the comfort you could provide your son. He whimpered slightly as you pulled away slightly to pull the fabric you had soaking on the nightstand next to the bed, hoping the cold compress would help reduce his heat. You wrung out the cloth before folding it to rest on his tiny forehead, your hand coming to rest on his cheek afterwards. He looked at you with tears in his eyes as he said, “please don’t leave…I’m scared.”
You felt the tears well up in your eyes again as you nodded to the young boy, terrified if you spoke that your voice would show how broken you were at the sight of your son. You cleared your throat slightly as you told the boy, “of course darling, I won’t go anywhere. Go back to sleep sweet boy, I’ll be here when you wake up.”
His eyes started fluttering shut as he whispered a final, “I love you mama.” You couldn’t fight the tears anymore as you told him, “I love you too, Lucerys.” His fever had broken two days later with you still at his bedside until he was well enough to leave the room finally. While you still struggled to showcase your love for the boy, he would never think you didn’t truly love him. When he had grown taller than you and wrinkles started appearing on your skin he had pouted for weeks straight, going to the Sept to stop his mother from aging so you would always be by him.
—
Jace joined you in bed after a late night spent in the council, stripping himself of his outer clothes before joining you in the bed slipping himself behind you with an exhausted sigh. He cuddled into your back, planting kisses on the back of your neck. You groaned slightly upset with being woken up before turning to look at your husband over your shoulder. You carded your hand through his curls saying to him, “your children have driven me crazy.”
He chuckled out, “my children? I remember it being both of us who caused them to be here.”
You pouted at him, “they ride dragons, they are yours.”
He laughed before pulling you impossibly closer smiling into your shoulder, “I will handle whatever they have done in the morning, currently I wish to sleep beside my pretty wife.”
You smiled as you got comfortable again whispering back to the man behind you, “I love you, my king.”
His arms tightened around you as a large grin split across his face, “and I you, my queen.”
