a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Ormund Hightower x Targ!reader, Daeron x sister!reader (maternal relationship)
summary: And what is the eldest sibling, but a shield for the younger?
words: 2k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest (Ormund is technically her cousin and I guess that does not count in GOT terms, but I am warning it anyways), allusions to sex, toxic relationship themes, co-dependent dynamics, manipulation, slightly OOC Ormund?, religious themes, talks of blood “impurity”, reader rides Silverwing, reader is Aegon’s twin, but no physical description is used, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
Next Part
Most forget that you came out first. It was something that nobody truly talked as it would send a few of Otto's plan out of motion. It would make Aegon seem like he deserved it less. So, it was something that was pushed under the rug and never truly talked about.
But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.
To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.
You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.
You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.
He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.
Yours and Ormund's son.
Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.
A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.
You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.
"Ormund. "
He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.
"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.
He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.
The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"
You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.
Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.
The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.
Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.
His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.
"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.
He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.
"We must alter our scheme," he told you.
You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."
For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.
He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.
"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.
"You will never have to find," you assured him.
Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.
"I want what is best for him," you whispered.
"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.
Not yet.
You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.
"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.
It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.
"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.
"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"
"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.
"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.
You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.
You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.
Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.
You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"
You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.
"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.
"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.
"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.
"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.
"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.
"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."
You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”
"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.
It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.
Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"
You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.
Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.
"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.
He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.
"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.
You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."
He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.
You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."
"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.
He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.
"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.
"I know."
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."
divider by: @cafekitsune & @strangergraphics & @uzmacchiato
word count: 3.9k
synopsis: Forced into a political marriage, you and Ser Gwayne Hightower can’t stand each other. What begins as a war of sharp tongues and spiteful jealousy slowly unravels into an all-consuming obsession, proving there’s a very fine line between hatred and desire.
warnings: enemies to lovers, jealousy, arranged marriage
As a Targaryen, you were accustomed to getting your way—or fire and blooding your way through those who stood in your path. Yet, here you were, bound by a political decree to marry Ser Gwayne Hightower. A man whose pristine armour matched his equally pristine, frustratingly smug attitude.
The feeling was entirely mutual. From the moment the betrothal was announced, your interactions consisted of sharp glares, venomous masked insults disguised as courtly pleasantries, and a profound, simmering hatred.
Gwayne Hightower was everything you detested: impeccably groomed, insufferably dutiful, and fiercely loyal to a faction that viewed your family as an existential threat. He thought you a reckless, arrogant dragon; you thought him a rigid, sanctimonious knight.
When your hands were joined before the High Septon in the Great Sept, your skin crawled beneath the heavy silk of your gown, the ceremonial ribbons feeling less like a holy union and more like iron shackles. Later, at the wedding feast, when he leaned in to press an obligatory kiss against your cheek, his lips were ice. His jaw was clenched so tightly you genuinely wondered if his teeth might shatter under the strain of his compliance.
"Try to smile, my lady," Gwayne murmured smoothly through a fixed, public grin. His breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to his chilling demeanour, even as the lords of the realm raised their goblets in a roaring toast to your long life together. "The court is watching, and you look as though you've just been served a cup of nightshade."
"I would prefer the nightshade," you shot back, keeping your own smile perfectly, deceptively radiant for the court. "At least it would kill me quickly, rather than boring me to death over a lifetime."
Even once the bedding ceremony was announced, the two of you flatly refused to participate. When the drunken lords and giggling handmaidens finally shoved you both into your marital chambers and barred the heavy oak doors from the outside, the festive atmosphere vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.
The massive canopy bed sat heavily in the center of the room, lit by dozens of flickering candles. Gwayne stood near the edge of it, his hand hovering awkwardly near the fastenings of his breeches, his green eyes cold and tightly guarded.
You didn't give him the chance to speak.
"If you take that cock out, I will cut it off," you hissed, your voice dropping dangerously as you stood rigidly in your rumpled wedding shift. "I want no part of your seed infecting me."
Gwayne’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in sheer shock before narrowing into slits of pure fury. Slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, taking a single, step toward you.
"Infecting you?" he repeated, his voice pitching up at your sheer audacity. The polite, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man whose patience had been stripped entirely raw. "You speak as though my blood is a disease, my lady, when it is your house that carries the plague of madness to the realm.”
He leaned down slightly, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "Rest assured, I have absolutely no desire to plant my seed in a field as barren and venomous as you. You want no part of me? The feeling is entirely mutual. I would rather couple with a pit of vipers."
"Then we are agreed," you spat, refusing to back down an inch, your eyes flashing with Targaryen fire.
You turned on your heel, violently ripping the heavy furs off the mattress and flinging them toward the far corner of the room. “You can take the settee.”
“I will not,” he growled, refusing to be displaced from his own quarters by a defiant dragon. “These are our shared chambers, and I will not sleep on the floor like a dog to appease your arrogance.”
You huffed, climbing onto the mattress and pulling the remaining silks up to your chin. “Then ensure you stay on your side. If any part of you crosses the center line, you will find that part missing by morning.”
Gwayne let out a harsh, dry laugh, watching you adjust the pillows with furious, aggressive movements. "A charming threat for a bride on her wedding night. Truly, the Seven have blessed me with a fortunate match."
He marched over to the opposite side of the bed, ripping off his heavy, embroidered doublet and threw it to the floor, betraying just how deeply you had gotten under his skin. He climbed into the bed fully dressed in his linen undershirt and trousers, turning his back to you.
"Goodnight, wife," he bit out into the darkness.
"Go to the seven hells, husband," you bit back, staring at the canopy above as the candles slowly burned down to ash.
The first weeks of marriage were a silent war of attrition. You occupied opposite sides of the massive chambers assigned to you, speaking only when absolute necessity demanded it. In public, you traded barbed pleasantries; in private, you weaponized a freezing, unyielding silence. But hatred is an exhausting emotion to sustain in isolation. Soon, the cold resentment turned into something far more volatile.
It started innocently enough. Gwayne was down in the training yard, unarmored but sweating through his training shirt as he ran through gruelling sword drills with the City Watch. He was, infuriatingly, a spectacular warrior—fluid, powerful, and possessing a sort of grace that made it impossible to look away. You watched from the shaded gallery above, purposely sitting beside a handsome young knight of the Kingsguard.
You knew Gwayne had noticed you. From below, his jaw clenched as you laughed a little too loudly at a joke the young knight made. Testing the waters, you leaned in closer to the Kingsguard, letting your hand rest conspicuously on his silver armoured forearm.
Below, Gwayne completely missed a parry. His opponent’s blunt training sword struck his shoulder with a heavy, echoing thwack. He didn't even flinch. Instead, his green eyes locked onto yours from across the yard with a burning intensity. The polite facade cracked, replaced by a dark scowl that promised retribution.
Two nights later, at a grand feast hosted by the Queen, Gwayne executed his counter-move. He spent the entire evening in a candlelit alcove, attentively pouring wine for a beautiful, doe-eyed lady-in-waiting from the Reach. He laughed—a genuine, amused sound you had never once heard him utter in your presence—and leaned in close to whisper something that made the maiden blush furiously and swat at his chest.
A sharp, hot spike of irritation flared in your gut. You didn't care for him, you reminded yourself. You hated him. But the sheer audacity of him flaunting another woman in front of the entire court—in front of you—was a direct insult to your Targaryen blood.
You immediately retaliated by inviting a charming stormlander lordling to dance, pressing closer to him than decorum allowed. Across the crowded hall, you caught Gwayne’s gaze. His grip tightened around his silver goblet so fiercely that his knuckles turned stark white.
From that moment on, the silent treatment was replaced by a silent war. Over the next few weeks, the animosity didn't vanish— it simply began to change. the Red Keep became a chessboard of manufactured jealousy.
If Gwayne spent an afternoon openly escorting a beautiful lady of House Tyrell through the godswood, handing her a winter rose with a theatrical bow, you would ensure he saw you the next morning at the tilting grounds. You would be draped over the gallery railing, tying your silk favour around the lance of a dashing young Royce, ensuring you were caught perfectly in the sunlight.
To formal dinners where you knew he would be seated directly across from you, you began wearing gowns with daringly low necklines, only to spend the entire evening conversing exclusively with the eligible lords to your left and right. In response, he would return from the training yards dripping with sweat, purposely unbuttoning his linen shirt to expose the damp line of his chest while recounting, in vivid detail, the flattering compliments paid to him by the highborn maidens in the gardens.
It was madness. It was childish. It was the only time either of you felt truly alive. The original hatred had evaporated, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension that left you both breathless and constantly on edge. You were playing with fire, forgetting that while dragons thrive in the heat, Hightowers were the ones who lit the beacons.
The explosion finally came on a stormy night, deep within the belly of the castle.
You had spent the evening at a private supper, deliberately sitting next to a dashing southern lord who had spent the night praising your beauty. Gwayne had sat directly across from you, acting as a silent, brooding sentinel. His grip remained white-knuckled around his goblet, his entire posture radiating pure, unadulterated malice.
When you finally returned to your shared chambers, the heavy oak door had barely clicked shut before the storm broke inside.
"He was practically drooling into your wine," Gwayne snarled, ripping off his heavy velvet cloak and hurling it onto a chair. The polished, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man possessed by a seething fury.
"Who, Lord Lannister?” you asked airily, unpinning your heavy collar with practiced indifference, though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs. "I found him delightfully attentive. A refreshing change from the sour company I am usually forced to keep."
"Attentive?" Gwayne strode across the room, his boots thudding ominously against the stone floor. He stopped mere inches from you, looming over you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "He was looking at you as if he wanted to tear that gown off your back. And you let him. You smiled at him. You touched his arm."
"And what if I did?" you challenged, tilting your chin up as your Targaryen pride flared to match his rage. "Are you going to forbid me? You, who spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon letting Lady Tarly press her favours into your hand? I saw the way you looked at her, Gwayne. Don't play the wounded husband with me."
"I don't give a damn about Lady Tarly!" Gwayne roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the candles flicker.
"Then why do it?!" you screamed back, finally losing your grip on your composure. The weeks of built-up tension, the longing disguised as spite, the agonizing game—it all came crashing down in a single torrent. "Why look at them? Why smile at them? Why do everything in your power to drive me mad?!"
"Because you were already driving me mad!" Gwayne yelled, reaching out to grab your upper arms. His grip was firm and unyielding, but careful not to hurt you. His green eyes were wild, dilated, searching yours with a desperate sort of need "From the moment we wed, you looked at me like I was dirt beneath your shoe. I wanted to see you look at me. I wanted to see you care! Even if it was anger, even if it was jealousy—I needed to know I could affect you the way you affect me!"
The admission hung heavily in the air, sudden and shocking. The storm outside lashed violently against the stained-glass windows, but inside, the silence was deafening.
"You..." you breathed, your voice instantly losing all its venom, leaving only a raw, exposed vulnerability. "You want to affect me?"
"You have no idea," Gwayne whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, breathless register. His gaze dropped to your lips, his hands trembling slightly where they held your arms. "You sit there, so proud, so beautiful, looking at everyone in this wretched castle but your own husband. It's torture. I hate it. I hate how much I want you."
The last string of your restraint snapped.
You closed the distance between you, fisting your hands into the heavy, embroidered lapels of his doublet and hauling him down into a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn't a gentle kiss, nor was it a surrender; it was a physical extension of the brutal war you two had been waging on for weeks. It was fierce, bruising, and born of a desperate, mutual starvation.
Gwayne let out a low, ragged groan against your mouth. His arms wrapped around your waist like iron bands, lifting you completely off your feet and slamming you back against the heavy, reinforced oak of the chamber door. The impact jolted through your spine, but the pain only fuelled the fire. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, anchoring him to you, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you, your fingers tangling into the thick waves of his auburn hair.
His hands were everywhere now, stripped of all chivalric restraint. They tore at the intricate laces of your gown, bruising the soft skin of your hips, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with a frantic, possessive urgency that demanded a lifetime of retribution for the weeks of forced distance. He kissed you as if he were trying to consume you from the inside out, to brand his name into your very soul, and you answered him with an equal, fiery Valyrian ferocity, biting his lower lip until you tasted the faint, copper tang of blood between you.
"You are mine," Gwayne growled against your throat, his voice a primal promise as his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, marking you and making you arch into his broad chest with a gasping, breathless sob. "Tell me. Say it."
"I am yours," you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, your heart frantic, your mind finally clear of any future schemes. You pulled his face back up to yours, your eyes flashing with a warning fire. “And you are mine, Gwayne. If you ever look at another woman like that again, I will burn this whole keep to ash."
Gwayne pulled back just enough to look at you, a dark, breathless, utterly ruined smile breaking across his handsome face. The green of his eyes was bright with a dangerous, triumphant fire.
"Let it burn," he whispered against your lips, and carried you to the bed.
Inside the marital chambers, the aftermath of the storm lay scattered across the floor—shredded silk, a discarded doublet, torn laces, and the heavy scent of crushed winter roses and sweat.
When you and Gwayne finally emerged into the outer corridors the following afternoon, the transformation was staggering. The icy distance that had defined your marriage for weeks had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of mutual possession. You did not walk a step apart as you usually did, maintaining the stiff, courtly boundaries of rival factions. Instead, Gwayne’s large hand was wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown and keeping you flush against his side as if daring the world—or his own family—to try and wedge itself between the two of you.
But it was the physical evidence that truly set the whispers ablaze.
The court of King's Landing was a nest of vipers, trained to notice the slightest shift in a lord's posture or the subtle tear in a lady’s sleeve. Today, they didn't even have to look closely; the signs of your mutual destruction were proudly on display. Gwayne, usually the very picture of immaculate, highborn decorum, wore a high-collared doublet that failed spectacularly to hide the deep, purple bruises blooming high on the side of his neck. The illusion of his pristine nature was shattered further because you had playfully, yet possessively forced him to undo the top two buttons of his attire before leaving your chambers, making the marks impossible to miss. His lower lip was slightly swollen, bearing the faint, dark split from where you had bit him in the heat of your desire.
You fared no better, and you made absolutely no attempt to hide it. You had deliberately chosen a Targaryen-red gown with a wider, daring neckline, exposing the trail of marks and the faint, dark shadows of his handprints on the pale skin of your collarbone and shoulders.
The way you walked, slow and languid, spoke of a physical exhaustion that had absolutely nothing to do with sleep. Every lord, lady, and sycophant you passed in the gallery looked, widened their eyes in sheer shock, and quickly looked away under Gwayne's fiercely protective, lethal glare. The court was accustomed to seeing the two of you trade icy daggers with your eyes; they were entirely unprepared for the unified defiance that now radiated from your joined forms.
As you neared the small council chamber, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadow of a carved archway. It was Lady Tarly. She was dressed in a gown of soft, maidenly blue, holding a small silk handkerchief she had undoubtedly intended to offer Gwayne as a favour for the upcoming afternoon drills. Her face was bright with a practiced, flirtatious smile—a smile that died the absolute second her eyes landed on your husband.
Lady Tarly’s hands flew to her mouth, the blue silk fluttering uselessly between her trembling fingers. Her wide eyes darted from the deep, unmistakable bruise on Gwayne’s neck to his swollen, split lip, her expression a mix of genuine horror and mounting panic. To an outside observer unversed in the language of the flesh, he looked as if a wild animal had savaged him in the dark, and she looked as though she were about to call for a maester, the City Watch, or the Kingsguard itself.
She gasped in shock, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Ser Gwayne, by the Mother... what happened? Are you alright? Who did this to you?”
Before Gwayne could even open his mouth to offer a courtly redirection, you stepped forward, tightening your grip on his bicep. The heavy fabric of his sleeve bunched under your fingers, an unyielding, territorial hold that drew Lady Tarly’s panicked gaze straight to you.
"Ser Gwayne is perfectly well, Lady Tarly," you said, your voice dripping with a smooth, lethal satisfaction. You leaned heavily into his side, ensuring the low, daring neckline of your Targaryen-red gown shifted just enough to give the young maiden a flawless, unhindered view of the dark, possessive marks and handprints decorating your own neck and collarbone. "In fact, I don't think my husband has ever been in better spirits. Or better hands."
"My wife speaks the truth, my lady," Gwayne murmured, his tone rougher and deeper than usual, a lingering remnant of the night's exhausting passions. He covered your hand with his own, his large fingers locking yours against his arm, cementing the unified front. "I assure you, I am entirely unharmed. Though... I admit the dragons of House Targaryen are far more feral than the histories lead one to believe."
Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked rapidly between the two of you, the scandalous pieces finally clicking together in her mind with the force of a sudden blow. The colour drained from her cheeks, replacing her initial shock with a burning, mortified blush as she realized exactly what—and who—had left those violent, passionate marks. The pristine, gallant Hightower knight she had been trying to court for weeks had been thoroughly, aggressively claimed.
“Was there something you needed from my husband?" you purred, the word husband leaving your lips like a final, devastating claim of possession.
Gwayne didn't even glance at the Tarly girl. His gaze was fixed entirely on you, his jaw relaxing into a dark, smugly satisfied grin as he felt the fierce, protective grip of your fingers on his arm. He loved it. The realization that you were actively, publicly marking your territory sent an intoxicating thrill straight through him.
Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked from your grip on his arm, up to the dark marks on Gwayne's neck and then yours, and finally to the unmistakable, lethal look in your eyes. The colour drained from her cheeks, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her handkerchief.
"I... I merely wished to ask Ser Gwayne if he required a new favour for the tourney grounds, Your Grace," she stammered, her voice losing all its previous confidence, shrinking under the suffocating weight of your stare.
Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles as he finally looked at her. "That is most kind of you, Lady Tarly," he said, his voice deep, rough, and entirely devoid of the polite warmth he had used to tease her just days before. "But I have already been thoroughly provided for. My wife has made it explicitly clear that I am to wear no one's colours but her own from this day forth."
He leaned down slightly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of your hair, his eyes never leaving the disgraced lady-in-waiting.
"In fact," Gwayne murmured, his eyes shifting back to you, burning with the very same fire that had consumed your chambers the night before, "I doubt I shall have the energy for the training yards today at all. My lady wife keeps a very demanding schedule."
"I... I see," she stammered, stepping back into the shadows of the archway, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace, Ser Gwayne. I did not mean to intrude upon... your morning."
"No intrusion at all," you replied, offering her a sweet, razor-sharp smile that promised absolute ruin if she ever dared to look his way again. "But if you'll excuse us, the Small Council awaits. And after that, my husband requires a great deal of my personal attention to heal from his... recent exertions."
Lady Tarly offered a hasty, deeply embarrassed curtsy, murmuring a fractured excuse before turning on her heel and practically fleeing down the corridor, her silks rustling loudly in the quiet hall.
You watched her go, a small, triumphant smirk curving your lips as you tasted the sweet thrill of total victory. But before you could fully savour it, Gwayne stopped walking. With a sudden, fluid movement, he turned his body, using his broad shoulders to trap you against the cold stone wall of the gallery, effectively shielding you both from the main thoroughfare behind a heavy, ancient Targaryen tapestry.
"Satisfied?" he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek as his eyes tracked the rapid, telltale rise and fall of your chest. The smugness was back, but it was laced with a deep, breathless hunger.
"For now," you countered, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his tunic, resting right over the steady, frantic beating of his heart. "Feral, am I? Is that what you're telling the court, Ser Gwayne?"
"Utterly," Gwayne breathed, his thumb tracing the elegant curve of your jaw before resting right over the racing pulse at your throat. "And I have absolutely no intention of ever letting you be tamed."
The mornings in Oldtown carried a peculiar calm. There was movement everywhere, yet nothing ever felt hurried. The gardens were watered before the heat of the day could grow too strong, the clinking of the guards’ armor mixed with the songs of birds, and the windows stood open to let in the clear light that filled the halls of the Hightower residence.
You found yourself seated on a delicate bench in the fortress gardens, surrounded by fragrant flowers carefully tended by the gardeners and, in part, by yourself as well, for you had always held a deep fondness for them. Before you, your firstborn, Loras Hightower, a boy of five, played joyfully with a finely carved wooden sword, imitating the movements and posture of his father.
In your lap rested the youngest member of your family, little Emmeline Hightower. Only four moons old, she babbled happily as she looked at the doll you showed her — a gift her father had given her with great affection.
So absorbed were you in watching your children that you did not notice the approaching steps. Only when you felt a gentle kiss pressed to your hair, arranged in a delicate style by your ladies that morning, did you turn your attention to the one beside you.
“Papa!” Loras called from the grass, running toward you with his small wooden sword held tightly in his hands.
You lifted your face to him, and at once met the deep green eyes of your husband. Gwayne watched you with the same steady warmth and intensity he had carried since the day your paths first crossed.
A subtle smile formed on Gwayne’s lips as he saw little Loras running toward him with such excitement.
“I see you are already training without your master.”
Loras stopped before him, slightly out of breath from his short run, yet with pride shining in his eyes.
“I am becoming strong like you, papa.”
“Is that so?”
Gwayne arched a brow slightly before lowering himself to the boy’s height.
“Then let me see your guard.”
Loras immediately raised his small wooden sword with all the seriousness a five-year-old could muster. Gwayne held back a smile and gently adjusted the boy’s hands upon the hilt.
“Like this. Hold it firm, but not too tight. A sword should obey the hand that holds it, not the other way around.”
The boy nodded as though receiving the most important lesson of his life and tried again, this time with more confidence.
“Much better.”
Gwayne smiled with quiet pride and ruffled his hair before giving him a light pat on the shoulder.
“In a few years, you may even manage to defeat me.”
“I will defeat you!” Loras answered through laughter.
“Oh? Then I shall have to train even harder.”
The two engaged in a brief wooden-sword duel, Loras laughing each time his father pretended to yield, while you watched in silence. There was no battle more important to Gwayne in that moment than the joy shining on his son’s face.
At the sound of a soft babble, he turned his attention to Emmeline. He stepped closer to you and leaned over the child resting in your arms. The moment his eyes met hers, the little girl broke into a wide, toothless smile.
“And my sweet lady…” he murmured softly, gently brushing her tiny hand. “Have you been keeping your mother company while I was away?”
Emmeline answered only with another babble, drawing a quiet chuckle from him.
“I take that as a yes.”
Gwayne turned his gaze to you, finding you already watching him with a look full of warmth.
“And my beloved…”
His voice was low, almost a whisper meant for you alone. Without haste, he cupped your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours in a chaste but deeply affectionate kiss.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for a brief moment before sitting beside you on the bench with a quiet sigh.
“I hope I am not interrupting an important meeting between lady wife and my little ones.”
“Not at all. I believe we were merely waiting for your return.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
As Gwayne settled Loras onto one of his knees and absentmindedly ruffled the boy’s hair, you spoke again:
“Did you receive any letters from King’s Landing this morning?”
He looked up at you and nodded.
“I did.”
“From your sister?”
“Yes. Alicent wrote some days ago.”
A brief silence followed before he continued, calm as ever.
“She says the days at the Red Keep remain as troubled as ever. She asked after you, after Loras… and insisted on knowing how little Emmeline is faring. She requested that, when the child is a little older, we send a portrait of the family.”
A gentle smile warmed your face at his words.
“It is good to know she still finds time to write, despite all her duties.”
“I thought the same.”
Gwayne lowered his gaze to the half-asleep child in your arms and softly brushed her tiny hand.
“I believe she would take great joy in meeting her. Emmeline reminds me of Alicent when she was a child. She had the same curious eyes… though I hope our daughter inherits your calm.”
You let out a soft laugh.
“And Loras?”
Gwayne cast a fond glance toward the boy, who had now wandered off to declare war upon a shrub as though it were a fearsome dragon.
“Ah… that one, without a doubt, has inherited his father’s spirit.”
You laughed, watching your son run across the grass with his wooden sword raised, while Gwayne immediately followed his game, dodging his clumsy strikes as though facing a true opponent. Loras’s laughter rang through the gardens each time his father pretended to lose.
You adjusted Emmeline in your arms, holding her gently as she settled again, content.
You simply watched them.
And you could not help but smile.
At times, it still felt strange to believe that this was your life. That this man, whom you had once fallen in love with years ago, was now your husband. And that these two children were yours.
Your heart filled with a quiet warmth that words could hardly hold.
There were no urgent letters, no duties pulling Gwayne away that morning. For once, you were simply together, without haste.
The rest of the morning passed in the gardens, among the scent of roses, lavender, and rosemary. Loras kept challenging his father again and again, and Gwayne never refused, as though nothing in the world mattered more than those small victories. Emmeline, in turn, received every bit of attention she could steal from you both with her soft sounds and gentle smiles.
And as you watched them beneath the soft light of that morning, you understood that nothing was missing.
This was your place.
By the side of the man you loved, surrounded by your children, and by a peace that, for a brief moment, seemed to belong only to you.
And if the Gods were listening, you hoped they would allow you to keep it just a little longer — even as the world beyond the walls continued on its course.
ormund is awaiting important news and with each raven sent to tumbleton, he finally thinks this is it. however, it's just you. always you, sending your husband even the most simplest of things about your day and how often you think of him. ormund has given up, he knows you won't stop but luckily, daeron decides to hatch a secret plan. he claims that you are ailed with a great sickness to reunite you and gwayne together back in oldtown. inspired by the most goated vamps song ever!
husband! gwayne x wife! reader, pure fluff! slight angst, reunion, sunrises at the oldtown beacon, classic "where is my wife?" moment, gwayne goes a little beserky werky in panic, mentions of ormund (eeyuck!) and baby boy daeron (aww!), that weird ormund-daeron scary dynamic. loml gwayne and you being a sap <3
the first time a raven was sent to tumbleton, ormund hightower had clenched the paper between his fist. he almost crumples it in anticipation and his heart lurches. this could be it. this could be their salvation; aemond targaryen is coming home.
his fingers fuss with it as he rips open the scroll, eyes zooming across the words and then he stops. its silent, eerily silent, like the calm before the storm and the worst is yet to come. daeron can see the cogs spinning in his mind, somersaulting in troubleshoot and then he screams out. his hand rests on his sword and for a moment, daeron is afraid he'll rip it from its holster and attack the wooden table all over. the existing indents already serve as a reminder of his uncle's madness. then he scoffs, outrageously and infuriated and it settles into pure disbelief.
he doesn't crumple the paper, the contents of it he knows will be valuable to his cousin no matter how hot the blood boils in his veins at the alternative potential outcomes. instead he thrusts it in daerons direction and looks away abruptly, taking his seat at the table and continuing with his tea. "see to it that this is put somewhere safe," he rolls his eyes with a groan and daeron, like the maids before him had moments ago, scurries away in confusion.
he knows he shouldn't be prying, but he can't help it to see what news had come that has irked his uncle in such little time.
he recognises the sway of your handwriting as it firmly prints on the paper. the ink is smudged slightly, likely sent in haste before it had dried and he sees the name and smiles. you know what you're doing and you're clever about it to make the address vague. only you and gwayne are rhe exception to riling ormund up and getting away with it and daeron chalks it up to the three of you having grown up so closely with each other. he's thankful for it, often hiding behind the two of you when he bares the brunt of ormund's intensity for so long.
his eyes skim over your words and he melts, he knows it'll be of great importance to gwayne. possibly the greatest gift gwayne will ever receive and now the raven is no longer the messenger but daeron is, and he will guard this with his life.
he summons a small wicker basket, weaved from the market stalls in tumbleton and knows that despite ormund's irritation there will be more to come and daerons decides that it will be his upmost priority to see these messages to your husband. he giggles at the contents, knowing that he won't be reading the following to come out of respect and makes a note to write you back. to let you know it has been received and it will be treasured. he just needs to find a way to do it without ormund's knowledge for the elder is bound to be angered by the future monarch's correspondence.
he folds the parchment as carefully as you had and lets it rest before walking away and returning with his day. he doesn't blame you in the slightest, you're miles away back home, governing oldtown whilst the rest of the hightowers are bidding for kingslanding and daeron miss you endlessly, he cannot begin to fathom how his uncle must feel with you missing.
lord hightower,
i love you
(this is a test, please confirm if this has been received!)
your darling wife
three days have not yet passed before the next raven arrives at the gates. there's still hope building in ormund, he's yet to hear from his cousin about news of aemond and vhagar to join their conquest. he knows his nephew to be ambitious and eager, but as the days pass ormund can't help but feel like adjustments will need to be made in his absence.
he snaps at the servants too often, schemes too late in the night and the fatigue is catching up to him slowly. so when the dark raven squeaks and a letter is landed in his palms, he whispers a small prayer with closed eyes and a restless heart.
he shoots an encouraging smile at daeron, who sits at the table waiting for the news but it never comes. ormund stares at the scroll with disgust, the recipients name in lopsided cursive and faint hearts drawn around the letters. it is you, again. his loyal cousin-in law and the bane of his existence. he should be glad that you're holding down the fort in oldtown, that his cousin has such a loving and incredible wife that some part of him is bitten in jealousy. he doesn't want to open the contents, to have the colours of his house green as day across his face. he throws it to the table with a snarl, and motions for daeron to pass him a free parchment and holds the quill with a steel grip of death.
"women," he mutters under his breath, "so emotional. it has been what? i can't even count the distance," his handwriting is tenacious, annoyance etched in each syllable and he hardly wastes any time on the response.
"perhaps it has truly been that long that the true amount no longer matters, distance is distance," daeron tries to argue politely in your defence, "a matter or minutes or moons, what is a number to the distance when the love is stretched nonetheless?"
ormund drops the feathered quill and inhales slowly, his frame stalks over to his nephew and lands a hand to his shoulder. it presses down firmly, a small danger as his gaze darkens. daeron knows not to move a muscle, not to give in to the taunt, to not appear weak but also disobedient and he meets ormund's eyes, "you are becoming tender-hearted," ormund warns, "and where will this softness take you when you cannot protect the ones you "love"?" he whispers lethally and daeron swallows his breath. "do you understand?"
"yes, sire," he fights the stutter and surrenders. he knows it not to be true deep down, gwayne hightower is proof that you could be gentle and brave, nurturing and noble. to fight with honour and live with love, it's all he's ever taught daeron. but he knows against ormund his words are futile so he bites them down miserably.
ormund nods in response, safisfied with the submission and turns to a servant, "perhaps she has run out of embroidery, send a stock of coloured threads and see to it that her mind is kept elsewhere, enough of this nonsense. it ends now."
they scurry away immediately and ormund takes a seat opposite daeron, setting up for a new game where daeron knows in the end, ormund will always win.
my noble, strong-hearted gwayne,
it has been just short of a month and i am to live in this loneliness for many more to come?? i shall die. i miss you more than life please return to me.
cousin,
do not send word unless you are in danger. do not put yourself in danger, unless you would rather your husband kill me also and then we both shall roam the seven hells in punishment together.
ormund.
the nonsense does not end then.
you truly do have horrific and cursed timing. it continues with a furrow in his brow at the letter addressed to him. it taunts him as its tied so prettily in a green bow and the house sigil messily embroidered in the top left corner, the colour green bleeding in its snagged threads. its poorly executed but the point remains, you did not care enough to put true effort in for its recipient. he rips it open with brute force and eyes scan it immediately. when he finishes, the paper is crumpled, ripped into a million shreds and then he changes his mind and burns the damn thing instead.
smoke and flames engulf him but nothing can erase it from his mind. how dare you? he would have your head if he could, if only his cousin hadn't stolen your heart and wore it upon his sleeve. in this moment, you've enraged him more than the possibility of aemond abandoning him that he forgets about the large dragon his men are out hunting for a single second.
the memory returns however when he reads the second letter addressed to him, your husband's handwriting sprawled. its shorter than yours and more direct, a stark contrast between the two but he feels the shift in the air. gwayne has provided an update to his and criston cole's journey from harrenhall to the riverlands next.
ormund knew aemond would be a longshot but your taunt along the confirmed print of betrayal stings. this time, his sword is ripped open from its sheath and straight into the oak of the table, batted against the solidness does his fury try to set it alight. "cunt," he screams out, four strikes to the table each with a new curse that could be heard across the seven kingdoms.
he breaks his stream of violence for a second as his eyes find the stack of needles accompanied by your note, each one threaded with a different string of colour he had sent for you. it infuriates him like a sick joke and he throws the metal to the fire also with a snarl, "seven fucking hells," he roars. "this fucking household of ours, two are chained in kingslanding, one burnt alive, our only hope is nowhere to be seen and then these two idiots," he spits but there's an odd fondness lingering at the edges where you and gwayne are mentioned, "are lovesick," it rolls off his tongue horrified, "i need to be alone. i am clearly the last hightower with wits and sanity, i need to be preserved and alone or we shall all just burn like alicent's foolish firstborn."
it echoes and bounces off the walls of the house and with each thud, ormund envisions your words and your husband's and sighs in resignation.
evil cousin or rather the devil himself,
i can feel your jealousy poured into the ink that dries and your idiocy that my soul would be sent to hell, you possess far more evil than i and you are cruel enough to not think that the greatest danger a wife could hold is missing her husband. it is you who has subjected us to this separation and torture. put an end to this and send my love back to me. also, tell him i love him. tell the same to daeron. that is an order. also, the next time you send me needles you will find them threaded through your eyeballs in the thick of the night, i suggest start sleeping with them open. that may help combat the surprise. or better yet, do not assume i am bored and dawdling with feminine pursuits.
lady hightower.
ormund,
aemond is not coming. we have searched in harrenhal and cannot find even his ghost. vhagar is yet to be spotted and under the leadership of ser cole we will march forwards towards the tully camp and the riverlands to try and gain the advantage. it seems ridiculous but it is our last hope. i pray to the seven that daeron is well and you are intelligent enough to bring forth a new plan as we fight on the battlefield. please send word to my lady wife, let her know of my safety and my desire to come home. and most importantly, of my unwavering love. i shall keep you updated.
the next letter arrives for daeron two days later. he had been training in the yard all morning, sweat beading down his neck and sticking to his skin that when the scroll is passed to him, he feels a swirl of pride brew in his blood.
my loving boy,
my sweet summer child, i hope the air of tumbleton and lonesome company of your uncle ormund is not dampening your spirits. i hope you are well, i hope you are happy. i know nothing of what ormund may have in store for you but just now my darling love, you are always welcome back here no matter the circumstance. i am waiting for you, i miss seeing your smile and heavens forbid, your sulking. come home soon, my little prince. and give that dragon of yours a loving snuggle from me too.
he tries to send a letter of his own, but is stopped at the very second by ormund. the corner of his lips curl in frustration and he snatches the paper from the poor boy's hand, ripping it to shreds.
"how do you think this looks, daeron?" his eyes darken, "correspondence from the future king? any information you give could get into the wrong hands and endanger all we are building for, do not be so stupid." ormund catches sight at the letter daeron holds close to his heart and laughs cruelly.
"i only wanted to update her, send her my regards," he tries justify, his voice timid. living with ormund has him reverting ten years younger and he hates it. a king should speak with confidence, lead and command in assurance. "i want her to know i am well."
ormund rolls his eyes, "she knows you are well because i am your ward. gwayne and her have left you to me, do you not feel well, daeron?"
"i do but-"
"but nothing," ormund decides, "i will write and she will no longer send any more ravens. this business is finished."
cousin,
gwayne is en route to the riverlands. his return date cannot be predicted. do not send another raven, i am warning you. you raise suspicion with each correspondence and if something should happen, it will be of your consequences. you have our regards. daeron sends his love. enough.
ormund.
five separate ravens arrive during that day, one every three hours and this time, ormund laughs. you are stubborn and too good at your game. it is clear that this will never be enough regardless of what he says and does. with you in charge of oldtown, his command may not be followed very well from the far distance from tumble and thus, his fight must be directed elsewhere, you will not give up any time soon and he had been foolish to think otherwise.
gwayne,
i
gwayne,
love
gwayne,
you
daeron,
i love you also.
ormund,
do not play the fool and threaten me with your useless words. i would murder you if i was allowed nearer. be careful of the foods you consume. i can always provide alternative means for an end.
dearest cousin,
if i cannot stop you, then all i ask is for you to be discreet. give the poor birds a break, send fewer ravens.
ormund.
the next ravens that arrive no longer hold a thin scroll of paper, tied in a perfect green bow. no, they also do not send one letter. they send three at a time. each one is folded into an intricate shaped heart, bows and hearts drawn prettily around your husband's name at the centre. and somehow you have managed to get your hands on different coloured papers, pink, red, oranges. on some you've drawn little figures of your family. you truly have poured your heart out into these sheets and thrown them to the wind in hopes it'll end up with your lover. its signed with love and a lipstick mark of your lips, sprayed with your perfume and any stranger in the whole of westeros would know without a doubt that these notes are meant entirely for gwayne hightower.
it is not discreet in the slightest, it is more pointed and direct and a strength of your marriage that holds you in pride. ormund can't even be mad at this, he tried warning you of the dangers of correspondence between the hightowers, what their enemies may assume could be war plans and details but this? these paper hearts, notes of love and longing are not between king and conspirer, house to house, they're nothing more than the sweetest of oaths between husband and wife.
my husband,
ormund asked for discreetness with these letters but the nine kingdoms and galaxies above will hear how much i think of you. i love you loudly in hopes that you'll hear me across the cities. i know you will. the sun hears it with every rise and set, its whispers carry in the wind. i know you will.
my life,
dinner always tastes better with you. interpret that as you will, i mean it in every way etched into existence.
gwayney love,
i think we are in desperate need of new curtains, preferably something darker. something to hide the extra space in our bed so that when i wake, i am not met with the vastness of your absence. i sleep on your side of the bed and imagine you there. rest does not come as easy as loving you does.
my love,
i have discovered that nectarine tea is marvelous, now i only wonder how it will taste from your lips.
my everything,
how is the road? your comrades? i know i will not get a response but i will imagine one nonetheless. i know there's no clementines or roses or a featherbed but i hope there is laughter and kindness in the wilderness. i hope you are in good spirits, healthy, but not whole. a piece of you is missing and i am right here. i pray to the seven that you return back to me and complete me.
gwayne,
i think i am gaining weight and you are to blame, husband. i never used to like lemon cake, but they're your favourite and i have the cooks prepare at least every morning in hopes of your return. every night, i eat it alone.
my knight in shining armour,
i have found one of your old helmets, its an awfully shiny thing. small, however. i wonder how anyone would get to see your beauty in this junk of metal. though maybe its a good thing, your gorgeous face gets protected from harm and only i am allowed to see it. what a blessing. i shall hang this as a trophy and print your face on the house banners. i am proud to be yours. always.
wayney,
the servant girl with the hair as black as the night is with child. the stable boy's child! :O i hope the raven echoes the importance of this note and shares in its scandal, i wish i could see your face right now.
my dearest gwayne,
i think of you every day. tell me you are thinking of me too. or at the very least, tell me you are safe. that is all i ask for.
lord husband,
i am angry. i hate your cousin ormund. i miss my nephew and i miss my husband. this is tormentoud and disastrous and i have reached my ends. a lady does have her limits and the idiotic men of the realm would be wise to remember this.
"dear god, i can feel the heat of her anger from this parchment, move quick daeron lest you'd like to be burned," ormund thrusts the paper heart at his nephew with a snided chuckle and daeron's heart aches for you. he longs to send you a note of his own, but he's so afraid of ormund's wrath that he misses you in the silence. in the beating moments when ormund's voice raises, bounces off his ears and echoes like a migraine in his mind. or when the rage radiates from him and he's trapped in a deathly grip, and worst of all in the moments when he's just daeron the child, daeron who's knows to little and is expected to be far too much. daeron who craves his mother's touch in a fierce hug, the one he knows would never leave him willingly. (you). he keeps the letters you've sent him previously tucked under the silks of his pillow as they whisper to him goodnight, a sweet lullaby as he tries to picture you there. he longs for oldtown, for supper with you and gwayne, midnight rides with tessarion and the absence of a crown he has no wish to care for.
"you are lurking," ormund mutters with disapproval at the shadowing figure blocking his game. "out with what you have to say now, boy."
boy.
it settles like acid. it's different to "my boy" that falls from your lips and carresses his heart tenderly. the endearment given with a gracious smile and warmth that could light a thousand fires.
"is there anything for me, uncle?" he asks, praying that his voice doesn't break with the desperation that tugs at his heart.
"not today," ormund says absent-mindedly, hardly sparing him a glance. the desperation tugs a little harder till he's unravelled and he holds in the disappointed sigh like he's about to combust. with a clear of his throat and a tight nod, he holds his head high as he walks away. the paper heart is fragile in his hands as he adds it to the growing pile, a small mountain of love that daeron hopes he'll find himself one day.
it's only when he places it so delicately in the basket he realises that there's another heart of pink parchment tucked in so tightly in fear it may have fallen in flight.
he sees the endearment and softens immediately. he knows its not for gwayne, there's something lighter about this note and he almost hallucinates, imagining your voice calling out to him. a sweet song that hums in the halls of his heart and welcomes him home.
my beautiful boy,
i hear they call you daeron the daring, and to that i say how dare they? the perfect title if you ask me, what you'll always be to me is daeron the dearest. how do you like that, little dove? my heart aches to think of you alone with your uncle. i know its foolishly early to hope that gwayne is with you, baring the weight of ormund hightower's devillish plans but it makes me feel better to think of you safe, to know that you are cared for over there.
i have your chambers made and cleaned every morning in case you are ready to return here, though i must admit i have missed you on one too many days that i've taken a nap in that rocking chair near your bed and goodness is it stiff on the spine. though no ache is greater than your absence and i feel it every day, my son.
i wait eagerly for you to respond, i hope the last letters received you well? i could not care less about whatever tutoring ormund has you hooked to, little dragon. i care what you have eaten, when you have slept and how you have been feeling. how are you, truly? please, spare no details, i want to know everything. i hope you striving in good health and despite the difficult circumstances that distance us, i hope you are happy, my boy.
i hope you are always happy and that you feel the warmth of my love in a hug and hold i wish i could give you now.
be brave and be strong, daeron the dearest. you are my boy and i am back home waiting for you with open arms and a stretched heart and more than anything, i love you.
i am proud of you. and i will remind you enough that you'll never have the slightest possibility of remembering it.
he feels the tears well long before he can even stop them and presses the letter to his heart, recording the last sentences into a perfect recitation of his memory. he misses you, even more so now and wants nothing more than gwayne to come to tumbleton to save the both of you.
its silent as he shuffles his feet to his chamber, this letter won't join the other two under his pillow, no this one he folds back into the paper heart and tucks it under his sleeve. its an invisble trophy but his greatest pride and weapon, and it will always stay close to him at all times. he'll wear your love into battle and make you proud.
he thinks, and thinks and decides that action needs to be taken. he hatches a plan and with a slow smile that graces his face, he knows just what it is he has to do. he just needs gwayne to come to tumbleton first.
my soul,
a spell must be cast upon me, a wicked curse even. i cannot eat, the food speaks of you. i cannot sleep, the moon spotlights your side of the bed, i cannot breathe. my lungs cannot be filled with air when they're full of thoughts of you. i cannot speak, not when my tongue only knows the call of your name.
my last letter was rash, unfair and it is deeply selfish, i know, truly. i am not angry, least not at you, no, never at you. you are out there fighting in our good name for the safety of our home and son and i sit here with my heart in my hands, ripped open waiting for you. your nights are not promised, and though i lie here in the comfort of our home it is nothing more than a house without you. i am defenseless, laid bare for you, weakened by the loneliness and a broken heart. you are out in the cold, with whatever scrounges of food and i am ridiculously sulking like a child. i am foolish, though i assume love makes us that case i'm trying to be brave, to hold strong. i tend to the council, our people, the gardens and our home and pray for your return. the flowers sing songs of praise and your bravery and i water them with love. they shall never die.
please do not die. please do not go somewhere where i cannot follow you further, you are the map to my soul, you have become a larger part of my life that i cannot see past you. i do not wish to see past you. please do not make me. it is a cruel endeavour for grief and love to be so initimately intertwined together; the cost of loving is losing but it is so dreadfully disproportionate and out of control. i lose all of myself when a part of you is lost. someday, i dread when the raven will arrive and the details of your death would be found stuck between its claws. the raven can keep it, i cannot bear of shoulder that pain, i would rather miss you for an eternity and live with your memory than your ghost. i cannot imagine you out there alone, hurting, blood spilling as easily as my tears fall.
no, i will not believe this. our love is as strong as the both of us are and we will persevere. i'd implore you to come back home, but i know if it were your choice you would've never left so i ask you, again, my love, please. please just come back to me. whether its minutes, moons or lifetimes, i'll be waiting gwayne. i won't stop waiting because i won't stop loving you.
wars could not even separate us truly, the distance is cruel but i think of a fate far crueller. though i hope even in decomposition and death, my soul would still find yours.
i miss you more than you could fathom,
forever yours.
when gwayne hightower finally returns to tumbleton, it's as if he had been knocking on death's door for so long, it would have been more merciful to have just been taken than turned away.
he stands in front of his cousin and nephew, rugged, torn and bleeding. the mud stretched across his face in battle attire, his clothes reeking of sweat, shit, the riverlands and cries of the dead. despite being almost unrecognisable, he still manages to look pretty whilst the exhaustion seeps from his skin like an open wound.
ormund's nostrils clench on instinct, his palm raised to warn his cousin to not draw nearer.
"my wife?" is the first thing gwayne asks ormund, shattering the silence between them. "is she well?" the rasp in his voice stretches in longing as he thinks of you across the lands that seperate you. "how is she? any word from her?"
"plenty," ormund rolls his eyes and motions to the basket in from of him, "if that isn't already obvious."
a smile laces on his features and his heart sings at the pile of parchment, each individually folded into a paper heart, coloured in hues of pink and reds, a bleeding oldtown sunset and your writing looped so prettily.
the surge of love is overpowering and takes control over him completely. he ignores ormund's stutters of protest and takes a step closer to the desk, fingers carressing the edges of the hearts so fondly and he almost breaks. he's weakened, melting at all the love you have poured over him that he cannot wait to read each one and treasure them for an eternity.
a laugh bubbles in his throat, its messy and hoarse and all for you. he's come damn near close to hell these last months and now to be at the gates of heaven with even just a sliver of your love, the dynamic has him swaying on his feet. he just stares at each note, there's easily tens of them and part of him doesn't even want to open them, to ruin the pretty intricate craftsmanship by your hands. to know you spent your time doing this for him whilst he's been away, trying desperately to make it back home to you.
"your dornish friend?" ormund interrupts him, "what news of ser criston?"
gwayne pauses thinking of his greatest friend, sincerity weighs over his heart like a shadow, "he is marching towards a certain death, for every one of us there are a hundred of them."
"and you what?" ormund questions, the furrow in his brow etched deeper by the second, "left your honour there with him?"
"do not speak to me of honour, ormund," he grits out, "i am exhausted, i haven't had the pleasure of a feather bed in lord knows how long yet you hide in these walls and play costume party with our nephew. do you even have a plan?" he bites back in a hiss, "honour," his scoff is outrageous, "you have not lived a day with it compared to my lifetime."
"yet it is clear you have not lived with clean water and perfumed oils, daeron escort him to the chambers and see to it he takes a bath," ormund stands, its a weak insult and the only one he can manage against his cousin but the three of them know it to be true. the hightowers sans gwayne have been sheltered, polished and privileged enough to have been engaging in a war from a thin walled room, whilst their own has been fighting for his life near enough every night.
its a good thing gwayne hightower is back, ormund thinks. he will be useful at his side, he knows what allies rhaenyra is surrounding herself with and who may help turn the tide. but today he wont engage in the pleasure of complimenting his cousin, not when gwayne has stung him in front of their nephew and guards, undermined him infront of those he leads.
he watches as gwayne and daeron disappear through the hallways and out of his sight before he relaxes. today, gwayne can rest and refuel but tomorrow, tomorrow will be a new day where the house of hightower will be one step closer to victory.
tomorrow does not come the way ormund expects.
he stares at the empty chair with his fist already clenched. his lips are blood-red, bitten with the heat of his anger and the metallic smell is so protruding he can inhale it.
"where is he?" he grits out, the bark already having the room flinch. "please tell me he has fallen asleep in the tub," and he closes his eyes, trying to gather his patience.
daeron shifts uncomfortably. the thick of his collar scratching at his neck and he's suddenly aware of all the strands of hair weighing his head down. he tries to feign uninterest, to not draw attention to himself but ormund hightower's eagle eyes find him and pin him there, frozen to the chair.
"daeron."
"yes, ser?"
"you were the last to speak with gwayne. where is he?"
daeron thinks it could be wise to lie in the moment, claim he doesn't know his whereabouts, that some information is beyond him. but he knows the walls will whisper. they will echo the distraught of gwayne's face when daeron had told him you had been ailed with an illness, a sudden fever that burned like a thousand suns for days with no relief.
he felt terribly lying through his teeth, to see his uncle gwayne pull at his hair in distraught and clutch the wall in agony.
"i must ride to her, i must leave now," his declaration came in broken breaths.
"you cannot go to her in this state," daeron had advised, panic rising in his throat, fearful of his other uncle who had sat metres away.
"how long has she been like this? when was her last letter sent?" and daeron stuttered for a moment, brain cells doing pure gymnastics to think of a believable timeline, shit, he really needs to get better at this.
"a week, a week and four days i think? maybe? but that is not the point, uncle, you must leave as soon as you are ready," he gripped his uncle in a bone crushing hug. he just got him back, but for a few days he's ready to let him go if it meant there would be someone at your side again.
"a week," he gasped, his jaw almost dislocating in shock, "alone in sickness," he pulled back and the pure desperation swirling in his eyes cracks through daeron's soul, "i will take leave at once and i will return daeron, i will let ormund know."
"no!" he shouted, clearing his throat and tried again softer, "no." his breath was steadier as he inhaled, "forget about ormund, i will pass the message, you need to ride to oldtown and when you reach there, please. please tell her i miss her, please send my love."
gwayne placed a hand on his nephew's cheek lovingly, patting it gently and then put a kiss to his hair, a mirror of how you like to do it to daeron tenderly, "she knows it," he promised the younger, "i will tell her but believe me son, she knows it and she loves you with every breath she takes."
daeron smiled, hope fizzing in his bloodstream and he's sure his little white lies will be easily forgiven in later moments. within the next hour, gwayne had set back on his horse, alone with no men to draw attention to his quest, and set in the direction of home. nothing but some food and water packed in haste in a bag with each and every love note you had written for him; that would keep him fuelled for forever really.
"daeron, you are hiding something, you know i do not like secrets," ormund narrows his gaze at him now, hoping the younger will squirm under the pressure.
daeron reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scrap piece of paper, gwayne's signature scribbled at the bottom and carefully places it in front of ormund. he motions for the servants to leave, clear the room just in case but ormund opens it tentatively, as if the very ink is infectious. he's grown tired, plain exhausted every time a letter is delivered to him that his time he closes it, folds it poorly without thought and throws it to the distant end of the table. he breathes in two breaths and exhales six, stretching the last till his lungs squeeze dry and then heaves out.
cousin,
i have set foot to oldtown to ensure my wife is nursed back to health. i will return as soon as i can.
gwayne.
"these fucking idiot cousins of mine, i will kill them both, the cunts!"
gwayne rides and rides, till he can no longer feel his legs and the hazy moon and nightfall blurrs his vision. he rests little, his mind racing at the thought of you, the uncertainty of your state and the panic of daeron as he relayed the news.
he travels easily 40 miles a day, for what feels like an eternity but if he could count its 10 days and he does not feel that he's fast enough.
he camps under the stars and in the biting cold, he imagines your arms, your warmth, your love as he draws near. he hears your voice as it hums him to whatever sleep may he be blessed with and for a second he hallucinates. you're lying in the field next to him, your eyes boring into his soul and they shine back at him, brighter than the sea of stars above him.
you reach out and he tries to also, to meet you halfway and just inches before his hand can find yours, you vanish. he stumbles, looking around rapidly in search of your ghost, your lingering frame but he's met with the empty stretch of loneliness that he's been left in exile for the last months. tries to call for your name, the lines in his forehead wrinkling with confusion and his own voice haunts him back in a devastating echo.
when his screams for you finally die down and are stolen by the chill of the midnights, he settles back on the grass, whispering your name softer now in broken hope to his lap and he closes his eyes. his fingers reach into his pocket and finds your love notes. they spread across the weeds and the flowers and he is so spoilt for choice when he blindly reaches for one. he reads it again and again, recites it from memory and whispers it like the holiest of prayers.
the moon listens and pities him as he lies down, back meeting the earth as his heartbeat vibrates into the ground. he doesn't fall asleep again, how can he when you are miles away alone and could even be dying. he finally knows how you feel, how every night you spend not knowing if it'll be your last before you are declared to be a widow. to know that if the raven came would it bear news of his death? would you be able to see his body before hes laid to rest? what would your last words have been? what if he had never been in receipt of your letters? would you have them buried with him?
the thoughts plague him like a disease and he can feel himself spiralling, the cord pulling tighter and tigher and as the circulation almost cuts him off, he sees you again standing at the centre, this time however, it is you who calls out for him. the soft tremor of "gwayne" that breaks him free and he gasps for air like its his first time breathing.
he will reach oldtown soon, he will find your solace even if he has to almost die getting there.
its a strange blend or navy to a faded sea of blue when the night decides its time to take leave. gwayne can hardly call it sunrise without the bleeding hues of orange and pinks that stain the sky but he knows its early in the morning, too early for you to have risen and started your day.
he almost lunges off his horse the way he steps down from it. one smooth swinging motion where he feels as though he could become airborne and take flight. his horse, bless her, is glad to take some rest and a steward escorts her to the stable for some much needed care.
gwayne would love the same treatment to, but he's more concerned about your health, and your whereabouts. he enters the house quiet, his footsteps tiptoeing as he ushers the guards on watch to his shared silence. he roams the hallways with an intensity in his step, a battle march to victory. he draws nearer to the dining hall, empty, save for a few servant girls starting to set the table. he pauses for a moment, his heart swelling at the way his seat at the table is still being prepared despite the girls not knowing that their lord would be in company this morning.
the smell of lemon wafts through the halls and he thinks of your words once more. your love is all around him, everywhere, consuming every ounce of him that he has to offer and like lightning he quickens his pace in anticipation to find you.
he all but runs to your shared chambers and is confused to find the door unlocked. the knob rattles under his shaking hands as he rips the door from its hinges, "m'lord," the guard tries but gwayne pays him no attention. he stalks through the room, then through the bathing chamber, he tries behind the dressing screen and turns the entire room upside down.
you should be here. sleeping. resting. recovering from whatever illness daeron said had troubled you.
he cries out in frustration, his lips curling in a snarl as he leaves the room in haste. he knows it to be unfair to be cruel before the sun has properly risen but his long legs stretch to the maestar's chambers next.
his fists pound on the door in unsettling knocks before an older man opens it weakly, "lord hightower," he gasps, "you are here?" the door is open a sliver but gwayne's large palm fights against it and opens it wider, his frame leaning into the maestar's personal space in warning.
"why was word not sent immediately of my wife's sickness?" he breathes, nostrils flaring in defence. the maestar blinks slowly, perhaps this is a dream he thinks. the haze of sleep still swallows his features that it takes him longer than a second.
"answer me," gwayne grits out, drawing closer, "answer your lord why his lady's ailments were hidden from him!"
"my lord," the man gets out, "what sickness?"
gwayne scoffs in pure outrage, the chuckle that leaves his lips is dark that the maestar doesn't recognise the knight in front of him, he is something else entirely.
"my wife?" gwayne rolls his eyes, sarcasm in his tone, "she is not your lady of house hightower, that you are sworn to protect and serve? that lady? my wife?" each word is stretched in annoyance as the maestar stands in confusion, "are no bells ringing, healer? surely the old age is not weakening your abilities?"
"ser gwayne, if you will. i haven't the slightest what you are saying. my lady is well, the last i saw her was yesterday morning in the gardens where her greatest enemy was the pollen," he speaks softly and gwayne straightens.
a strange concotion of doubt and embarrassment begin to rise in his stomach. it just doesn't make any sense. "maybe you should do well to eliminate the pollen next time, even the smallest of enemies are still enemies," he gets out before launching himself off the door and into the walkway once more. perhaps it is the lack of food, sleep, the nightmares and the stress clouding his judgement that he's finally going insane.
he tries to think. youre not in the main living hall, you're not in the lounges, the dining hall, he's scoured the hallways twice, the maestars haven't seen you, your chambers are empty and as he roams the gardens in pure exhaustion he groans out into the morning air. the poor guard standing watch by the pillars halts at the sight of their lord, tugging his copper strands by the root in despair. his eyes widen when he looks away in shame, fear of being caught before they rise again. and this time, he's inches away from said lord. so close he can feel the fuming breath of gwayne hightower landing at his neck.
"where is my wife?" he seethes, "where in the seven hells is she?"
the guard scrambles, the pinks of the roses creeping up his neck in intimidation as he squirms, "her ladyship likes to start her mornings at the beacon tower," he squeaks, "her personal guard escorts her and she gave strict instructions that no one is to follow," he breathes. "ser," he adds when gwayne finally takes a step back, nodding in acknowledgement.
"very well, boy," gwayne clears his throat, "back to your post, good work."
"yes, m'lord," he rushes back to the pillar inmediately, his sword clattering at his waist. "the house welcomes you home, lord hightower."
gwayne doesn't bother to hear the long-awaited welcome, his feet are already racing to the tower. he remembers when he and ormund were boys, eager to beat each other every morning as they would race to watch the sunrise. gwayne would always let ormund win, save for the days he knew you were to be there. and somehow, no matter how early he rose, no matter how quick he timed his steps, you always beat him to the first sight with a smile that could rival the very sun he loved to watch.
you became the sun, you became the greatest view he would spend every morning looking forwards to.
and now as his legs and heart race till he can no longer feels the air in his lungs because the sight of you, his morning sun and reason to live, has stolen it right from it. you sit peacefully in a chair, different coloured papers and inks lie at the table beside you but your hands have yet to wield sweet words into them and gwayne's heart. your focus is on the sky, the watercolour hues that blend so beautifully that youre enamoured with it. it reminds you of gwayne and you're so lost in the memory of him and the longing that you don't realise he's made it to the top and is standing a few feet from you.
your personal guard tries to make a move to alert you but gwayne shakes his head, his palm raised as an order to halt and the guard does. you blink at the sky, the feeling of numbness hitting you as you've been staring so intently at it for far too long. when you draw your tired eyes away from them, you stretch your neck, the kinks of a sleepless night holding you hostage and then you look up.
you really do look up.
your mouth opens and closes trying to find the words and you stand, so abruptly that the chair scrapes back in a deafening screech though its practically a murmur under the shattering of your heartbeat. your pulse roars in your ears and you shake your head in disbelief. he stands politely, his hands behind his back in restraint as he waits for you to call him.
"lord husband, oh-" you begin, you don't get to finish however because he's crossing the distance and he lifts you in his arms. your hands try to find his shoulders to steady yourself but he carries your weight effortlessly. he spins you and holds you close in sweet relief. and when you laugh, breathless and unguarded he swallows it with his lips till you melt back against him.
"i thought you were dead," he whispers into your kiss, he tries to lean in again and chase your lips but your hands on his chest stop him.
"you what?"
"i received news you were sick, a fever that could not be tamed and i rode here immediately, perhaps i am too late and it has passed-"
"gwayne, my light," you shake your head in confusion, "there is no fever? i have been well, i am unsure as to what news you received, who told you of this?" you hand comes to cup his jaw tenderly, the warmth of your palm radiating to his skin and he leans in into your touch, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your hand, just above where your pulse beats gently.
"you are well?" he searches your face and then your body for any injuries, any illness or fatigue or just anything for proof of the claims. but he finds nothing more than your softened heart and teasing eyes, glinting at him in amusement.
"my husband, i have been well. my greatest sickness has been homesickness," you muse, both of your hands come to cup his face now as his stay planted firmly at your waist, fingers kneading into the soft fabric of your gown as though you might disappear again. "i have been sick, missing you," and you press your lips against his. its not a kiss yet, you're patient, waiting, the heat of his breath landing on the corners of your mouth as he stands inches away.
he bites back the smile growing on his face and then decides to let it break free instead. he dips his head, leaning down closer to you and then also decides to wait. he plays into your teasing game, seeing who will break first as his lips press against yours. they dont move in tandem like they did before, they just settle like a feather weight. then he feels you whine against him and like a moth drawn to the flame, he swallows the smirk to bites down gently on your lower lip instead. its a soft nip that has your lips parting for him before he kisses you deeper. more intentionally, filled with all the words and letters he never got to send you but wishes he could. he feels the weight of yours in his pocket and pulls you closer to him, his hands wrapping around your back now as yours travel down from his face to the back of his neck, interlocking in a sacred promise to never be apart again.
"i cannot believe it," you laugh like light itself and galaxies must explode at the very sound, gwayne's own world is at a standstill, its orbit slowed as the air around you bends and creates a new axis where he will rotate outside that sweet melody for the rest of his existence. "you truly came,"
"you called?" he whispers between you, "daeron said you had sent word that you had never been so unwell and you had called for me," and as the words leave his mouth, recognition hits him like thunder, a loud smack to his breath and he closes his eyes.
you're laughing louder now, in pure delight that you knock your head against his chest and bury yourself in the nook of his neck. the giggles are ticklish but he doesn't squirm, he welcomes your happiness like the air he breathes, its part of his survival. "our smart, loving, scheming boy," you breathe and gwayne murmurs in agreement.
"i wonder where he gets that from," he shoots you a knowing look and you hit his chest playfully.
"i do not know what you are accusing me of, lord husband," and he rests his head on top of yours. your skull slotting beneath his chin like the missing jigsaw piece and he inhales you in.
"well, our son has returned the role of messenger back to me now and i have one for you," he sways the two of you in his hold before letting go for a moment. he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls open the note he was instructed to give to you on his return.
aunt,
please do not be mad. i know you always taught me that lying is a cunning and deceitful trait, not to be toyed with. but i could not go myself to you the way i continously wish so i have sent the next best thing that would ensure your happiness. (please do not tell gwayne i said that, he is the best to exist) i wish i could be there with you, i miss you more and i am well here, thank you for asking. when this is all over, i cannot wait to sit by your side again. i know i am here as targaryen, as the next king, but i am your son, your hightower and by your gracious name, your daeron the dearest. i shall count down the hours till i can see you again.
your boy,
your daeron.
"oh," you look up, hoping the fresh brew of tears will pour themselves back inside of you and not fall hopelessly. its futile, gwayne has his fingers hooked under your chin to bring your gaze back to him, to settle and soothe you and they fall so freely. he catches them with his thumb, brushing them off as strays and cradles your head against his chest. "i miss him," you muffle against his doublet. "i wish for him to come home."
"soon," he promises, "i shall bring him back safe to you, you have my word," he swears a new oath and you know with every cell in your body that gwayne will uphold it with his life.
"he hadn't sent word, i had been so worried, for the both of you" you wipe away the tears and sniffle. gwayne presses small fleeting kisses to the streams of the tears and the paths they have taken down your face, the salt settling on his tongue.
"most likely ormund," he scoffs, "i will send the damn ravens myself,"
"that means you have to leave once more."
"and i will return, my heart, always. your safety is paramount to me, worth more than anything anyone could put a price on and i would love for you to follow me to the ends of the world, but i cannot have you in harms way, have someone end my entire world," he nuzzles his head into yours, his forehead lightly butting against yours as the skin electrifies.
"perhaps i will send word that i am sick, and then you can return to me more often," and gwayne laughs, so loud and boyishly, the last ten years of his life lifted from his shoulders with such ease that you buzz with pride. its his laughter thats only reserved for you, that you could bottle and quench the most dying thirsts from endlessly.
"i cannot believe him," he shakes his head and you shrug.
"i for one am thankful for his sweet lies, who knows how long it would have been before i would have the privilege to see you again? to hold you like this? laugh like this?"
"i am too, but i tell you dearest, i have never stopped loving you like this, not for a single milisecond or more," he brushes his nose against yours, as his index finger trails down your jaw and the length of your neck. it taps against your pulse tenderly before resting on the edge of your collarbone. "i got your letters," he murmurs and you blush vividly, the reds of the roses could rival your embarrassment. you try and curl inwards, shy away from him but he protests immediately with a grin and holds you in place.
"did you?" you curse him for rendering you speechless at the sight of the way they practically pour out of his pockets as he holds them in his hands like theyre made from pure gold.
gwayne hightower is truly, the richest and proudest of men.
he nods, lips biting his grin as he puts the paper hearts to the side and undoes the top buttons of his doublet.
you gasp, your fingers already reaching out in awe. there, pinned across his shirt just above his heart sits your last letter.
" i wear it close to my heart. its yours, really. i wear it closest to you, and when i'm out there, in whatever uncertainty that has been bestowed upon us, i wear it like armour and it defends me with such unwavering strength that it brings me back home to you each time," he confesses, your fingers trace the edges of the paper and this time you let the tears fall easily, you don't fight it.
"gwayne," you whisper and he rolls his head back, ears perking up at his name, like a dog with a treat.
"say it again," he softly commands, his head dipping into your embrace, he buries his face in your neck till your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck and you tug lightly.
"gwayne," you repeat, his name clouds every corner of your mind, in the designated drawers he calls home and every space after. you feel each syllable pulse in your bloodstream till hes all you can live and breathe.
"yes?" he mumbles into your skin, peppering your neck with kisses. he cuts you off however, his eyes lighting with mischief as the sun bears a bright fluorescent above the two of you, the oldtown air welcoming him home back to his heart, "wait," he starts and you do, you've waited this long, what is a minute more.
"i have yet to taste this nectarine tea you speak so fondly of, let us have a cup prepared," he tells you and you smile. he interlocks the two of your hands as you begin the walk back to the house, ready to break fast and spend the day in his hold.
"i will get a pot ready," you tell him, the breeze kissing your hair and he sends you a cheeky grin, flashing the pearly whites of his teeth.
"oh no wife, do not trouble yourself. one cup will be fine enough."
"but gwayne? honey, i do not intend on sharing," you frown, a slight pause in your steps, "i have missed you surely but do not be silly now." and the look of pure seriousness on your face has him weak in the knees.
"oh darling," he exhales dramatically, he takes your joined hands and stretches them out, walking backwards a few paces to face you directly. he then stops, tugging on the interlocked with a gentle grip till you almost trip and fall into him, "i will taste it from your lips," and with that sentiment, he kisses you. this time its not slow and filled with the longing of the distance, its quick and feverish, and he's all over you, as your laughter comes in the ragged breaths in between.
"you are a nuisance, teasing me with my own words, how cruel," and the sarcasm wraps around him fondly.
"do not worry my love, what is it you also said? dinner tastes better with me? and in which way did you mean? would you like to clarify? please-" and he raises his eyebrows in a way that takes you back to when you were both ten and two, and he had stolen your heart for the very first time. you shove him in defiance and try to storm away. your stomps only make it short of a few inches before he's plucked you from the ground and in his arms once more as he carries you to the hall, your protests overcome with bright laughter that rings gloriously in his ears.
gwayne hightower may be in oldtown for only a few days, but with you by his side and your love etched on his heart, he is home forever.
alt i think gwayne would get your love notes tattooed on his skin, bonus points for being all the places you love to kiss. like just above his heart, under his ear, between his shoulder blades, the inside of his wrist. etc. etc. would be so perf and on brand for this lover guy. anyways hope you enjoy!! wish i did more with this but i think i kinda nerfed and evil eyed myself by posting a snippet bc after that i didnt touch ts for dayssss, it just collected dust. anyhoo, love you! as always, thank you! sending my love!
