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here's my paper heart, won't you hold it?

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!

#ormund hightower

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#ormund hightower