A directioner que habita em mim, está feliz pela realização do sonho de adolescente! 14.12.2022 simplesmente o dia mais feliz da minha vida inteira! E eu nunca vou esquecer isso. Obrigada Harry, por me proporcionar tanta felicidade, em meio ao caos que tem sido minha vida, eu amo tanto você 😭🥹🧡
The Directioner who lives in me is happy for the realization of the teenager's dream! 2022.12.14 simply the happiest day of my entire life! And I'll never forget that. Thank you Harry, for giving me so much happiness, in the midst of the chaos that has been my life. I love you so much 😭🥹🧡
You Will Be My Draught (Daemon Targaryen x wife!reader)
“Some poor thing would have to sort my ashes from yours, to ever separate us.”
Wordcount: 1.7k
Summary: The horrors of the war do not give you a moment to rest. Every hour, waking or asleep, you are reminded that no one is safe in these times. Your husband seeks to let you realize that you are not on your own.
Genre: Smut, angst
Warnings: Smut (MDNI), angst, mentions of war, brief mentions of blood, mentions of death, hallucinations/trauma responses, bathtub sex, nipple play, nipple sucking, making out, creampie, soft!dom!daemon
Notes: yes im addicted to wife reader, what are you gonna do ab it! promise next one is something wayyy different haha <33
Your handmaidens swarm around you like distressed little insects.
One is intent on pouring a fresh batch of scalding water into your bath every five seconds. Another is repeatedly scrubbing on a single confined area of your back, which is bound to be red with irritation now.
You, yourself, are still. Silent. Mind racing with thoughts of war and conflict, your eyes staring blankly into the water surrounding you. The fire of the candles, placed on the tub's edge, are reflected onto the quiet ripples. A bubble floats peacefully towards you. Reaching for it with a gentle finger, it bursts under what can barely be described as a touch.
Pop!
You are startled. A loud ringing consumes your hearing. Your hands fly to your ears, water splashing, flames flaring and roaring in the waves, engulfing you, burning, skin sizzling, people suffering.
A scream.
“Your grace?”
A gasp leaves you when a hand is laid on your shoulder. The hand of one of your maidens, looking at you with a concerned expression. You are about to offer an explanation, when the doors to the bathchamber flies open.
“What is the meaning of this?”
If you thought the handmaiden seemed concerned, she is no match for the current state of your husband. Daemon stands in the doorway, an arm on each side of it, brows furrowed and eyes piercing.
“Leave us.”
The maidens scurry, like birds fleeing from the trees at the sight of a predator. They walk in grand circles around your husband, carving a clear path straight for where you are curled up in the tub. He sits on the edge of it.
“I heard a scream”, he says, after a long moment of simply observing you. You are shivering, yet gleaming with sweat, hands balled into fists, keeping your legs bent and tucked to your chest.
“I- The water. It was very hot. Startled me a little”, you manage to reply, with a voice that barely trembles. Though the aversion of your husband's gaze lets him know something is awry.
“A little?”
He shifts, now crouching down, kneeling beside you and resting his arms on the edge of the bath.
“And what of your nightmares, lately?”
For no longer can you avoid his eyes, and when you finally meet them, you know that he’s figuring you out. He has had you figured out, from the moment he stepped foot into the bathchamber.
“Now plaguing me in my waking hours as well, apparently”, you attempt to utter in the tone of a jest, but to your husband it is clearly no laughing matter.
“Have you been drinking your draught?”
“The draught has no effect.”
“I can have the maester-”
“No!”
Once again, you remain powerless over your own screams, and your hand flies to cover your mouth at the realization. Tears fill your eyes, and before you can even attempt to apologize, Daemon interrupts you with one hand on yours, the other cupping your face.
“It’s alright, love.”
You free your own lips.
“It is not, I yelled.”
“I know, it does not matter.”
“I am not angry with-”
“I know.”
“You.”
With that he shushes you, stroking your cheek as it gets covered with tears. You breathe in heaves, gasping and sniffling, choking for air that feels too thick for your throat.
“Should I join you?”
You blink in confusion, wiping your eyes. You are nearly too choked to speak, but manage to let out a meek:
“What?”
“Would it help? If I joined you.”
Not trusting your vocal chords for any more words, you simply nod.
“I need you to say it to me, darling.”
The tears seem unstoppable, dripping down your cheeks with such speed, they threaten to overflow the bath.
“I know, it’s tough, but I need to hear-”
“Yes. Please.”
With your unquestionable consent, Daemon stands and begins to undress. It never tires you, seeing him peel away each layer, strong hands pulling away his shirt, then the strap of his belt, bare shoulders relaxing, like the weight of the day is woven into the fabric and only enables him to fully rest once removed.
Now completely exposed before you, he slowly settles into the water. It is indeed scalding, although that, of course, is of little relevance to the Targaryen Prince. He rests behind you, though not yet meeting your touch, instead seeking to be as careful with you as possible. However, you are not in need of caution, but care. You let your husband know by looking for him over your shoulder, and brushing the damp locks cascading down your back, to the front of your body.
Daemon’s hands, though large and muscly, the hands of a true dragon, land on your shoulders like feathers.
“Can I tell you something?”, he questions, as he begins kneading the knots out of your upper back and neck.
“Always”, you reply.
“I get them too. The nightmares. I hear explosions, when I accidentally drop my goblet to the stone floor. I see the blood of innocents, in the spilled wine. I see phantom faces in its reflection. I see my brother, my father, my nephews. But also one’s I cannot name.”
Once again, you turn to face him.
“How do you bear it?”
His hands come to a halt, instead moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while looking you in the eye.
“I try to remain minded on the things that are here. The things that bring me solace.
As if to prove his point, he grabs your wrist. Your hand, still in a fist, loosens as he shifts it to rest on the left side of his chest. Pumping beneath your palm, ever so lightly, you feel his heart. It’s such a tranquil sensation, you almost don’t notice it at first.
“I am glad to be one of those things.”
“As I wish to be for you.”
He amplifies his words by placing a hand of his own over your heart, to find it beating hastily. Attempting to do as your husband has advised you, you remain focused on the things that are here. The slight ripple of the water against your limbs. The cold metal of the tub beneath you. Your husband, eyes hooded, lips slightly parted. His palm, calloused from many a years yielding a sword and holding on tightly to the saddle of Caraxes. You take a deep breath, feeling his hand rise and fall with your chest.
“You are. If only you promise no more of that dreadful draught.”
You notice the relief in your husband's eyes, when you at last crack a smile.
“Only you, from now on. You will be my draught.”
Your eyes fall shut on their own accord, resting in a calmness you thought was lost on you. Over your husband's hand, you place your own, making it your turn to shift its placement. Slowly, you trail it down. Past your collarbone, your chest, to finally rest on your left breast.
Daemon watches you with vigilance. This is not what he intended, when he set out to console you. But, well.
What his wife wants, she gets.
He brushes his thumb over your nipple, already hardened from exposure to the cold air. Your other, he occupies with his mouth, bending down to suck, gently at first, knowing you must be sensitive at the moment. Surely enough, the first couple of licks make you twitch slightly in his grasp, but after getting used to the sensation, your head falls back, whole body melting into the warm water. Daemon takes that as his sign to start biting.
“Fuck! Dae-”
He was unaware of his own eyes having fallen closed, hypnotized by the sound of your quiet mewls. They do however, shoot open as you moan for him, a groan of satisfaction at this hummed against your moist skin.
Once he deems his teasing has persisted long enough, he peels himself from your chest, already missing the warmth and your calm heartbeat against his hand.
“Should we move to-“
“No.” Your pronunciation is barely coherent, tongue twisting around the word, slurred and slow. “Take me here. It’s so nice here”, you continue, eyes still shut and hands blindly grabbing in search of Daemon's body. You need not seek it for long, before your husband's limbs cover yours once again like thick fog over delicate treetops. Except, him you actually feel. You are surrounded by everything warming and lulling, the water in the tub and your husband’s body becoming one, heating you up, tucking you in. His muscles, his hair tickling your neck, his cock resting between your legs.
With a whispered warning he enters you, and you are delighted to no longer be merely surrounded by comfort but also filled with it. It is outside as well as inside, and you feel as if every worry evaporates from your body with an exhale, joining the steam that leaves the tub.
“You must never leave.”
You mean what you’ve said, though you realize it is an impossibility.
“Never leave this castle. Never leave this room, this bath. Never leave me.”
Daemon looks at you with misty eyes. Whether caused by the humidity or your words, you cannot be certain.
“I.”
A pause, a thrust.
“Wouldn’t.”
Again.
“Ever.”
He accentuates his words with a kiss, deep and slow, though not very long-lived, his lips instead finding purchase against the shell of your ears.
“Some poor thing would have to sort my ashes from yours, to ever separate us.”
You know not what to reply to the most carnal expression of love ever uttered, and even if you did, you couldn’t. Too tranced by your husband’s effect on your body, you stay silent and thank him by kissing every spot you know will bring him to his finish. Collarbone, behind his ear, nose. It works, and with a string of strangled curses and a few darling’s, he spills his seed inside of you.
That sensation alone is what brings you to your own high, nails scratching at Daemon’s back, wishing it could last forever.
It cannot. But here, the surrounding environment outside this very bathtub, is pure nothingness. Dark, cold, empty space.
Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon
Summary: It starts as something almost laughable: a dragon who prefers his rider’s wife to his rider. But when a dragon decides something is his to guard, the world learns to step carefully around what he has chosen.
Warnings: 16+ morning after, brief nudity, possessive/protective Jace, pregnancy, control/protection, scary dragon and his rider who are both secretly softies, innuendo, non-graphic childbirth, huge time jumps
A/N: This got a lil out of hand, I admit. It was meant to be a short blurb, and yet here we are. Ik people wanted smut, so I added some morning after here, and I plan to write another smut-heavy fic next so dw.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.7k
The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.
Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.
You wake slowly.
Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.
Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.
You smile to yourself.
"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.
A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.
"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.
You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.
Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.
You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.
"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.
One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"
"Your point being?"
"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."
"Oh?"
"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."
Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.
Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."
He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."
You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.
By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.
You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.
When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.
The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.
You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.
Jace had noticed.
Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.
"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.
"Why can't you believe it?"
"You drew me a map."
"It was an excellent map."
"It had little dragons."
"So you wouldn't get bored."
You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."
"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.
In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.
A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.
The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."
You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.
Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.
Not even for a moment.
"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."
"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."
Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.
Jace exhales through his nose.
"There he is."
You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.
The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.
Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.
Toward this very window.
You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."
Jace joins you at the window. "No."
He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."
As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.
You blink. "Surely not."
Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.
It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.
"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."
You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"
"He is stealing my wife."
As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.
Jace stares. "You see?"
"He wants attention."
"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.
You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.
The dragon has stood and started following.
"Vermax."
He stops, tilting his head.
"You can't come into the castle."
It doesn't stop there.
If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.
If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.
The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.
You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.
One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.
Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.
You don't even look up.
"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.
He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.
And there he remains.
When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.
"You've got to be joking."
"What?"
He points.
Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.
You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.
Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.
He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.
A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.
You escape the hall as politely as you can.
"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.
His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."
"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."
The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.
You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.
A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.
"You again?" you laugh.
His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.
You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."
You continue scratching him anyway.
The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."
You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.
"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."
"You are very kind, my lord."
He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."
You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."
The lord laughs and takes a step closer.
Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.
His smile falters.
Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.
The rumble deepens.
"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.
The sound stops.
You blink.
"…That was odd."
The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."
You think little of it.
Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.
If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.
If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.
A fortnight passes.
The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.
If anything, he grows bolder.
By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.
"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.
You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.
You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."
That afternoon, the weather is fair.
Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.
Or appears to.
His eyes are closed.
One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.
Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.
Vermax's eyes snap open.
The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.
Jace freezes.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.
The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.
"...Vermax."
The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.
You blink. "What on earth was that?"
Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.
"I've never..." he murmurs.
"What?"
"He has never stood between us."
By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.
The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.
He bows deeply.
"My prince."
"You've noticed." It is not a question.
The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."
"Then tell me."
Another pause.
"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."
Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."
"What things?"
"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."
Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"
"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."
"Protective?"
"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.
Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.
"No."
"It is only a possibility."
"No."
"Has the princess been unwell?"
"...No."
"Has she been unusually tired?"
Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.
"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"
Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.
He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."
Three months, almost exactly.
The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."
Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.
"Jace?"
His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.
"What is it?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"
You blink. "...No."
"Not at all?"
"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."
His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"
"I've slept later than usual."
"You've always liked sleeping late."
You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."
Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."
His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."
"They've seen it before."
"Surely they haven't."
"They swear they have."
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."
"And because he stood between us."
"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"
"Yes."
You both fall quiet.
"Oh."
It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.
"I've sent for the maester."
"You've... already?"
"He'll be here shortly."
The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.
When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.
"My prince."
Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.
"So?"
The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."
The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.
The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."
He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.
The door clicks shut.
Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.
"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."
He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."
Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.
"No more riding."
You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.
The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.
Then come the stairs.
"If no one is with you."
"Jace."
"They're uneven."
"They have been uneven for a hundred years."
He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.
By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.
Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.
"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"
"I am aware, yes."
"They don't all require an escort to the library."
"I don't care, because you will have one.
Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.
Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.
The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.
At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.
You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.
"There you are."
"I've been looking everywhere."
"I was comfortable."
"I can see that."
By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.
"I cannot reach my boots."
Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."
"I was smaller yesterday."
He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.
"This child is already causing problems."
"Our child," Jace corrects.
"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."
A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.
"Oh, don't you dare."
"You said you couldn't reach."
"I did not ask you to-"
"You were about to."
He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.
"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."
"I know."
"So why do you?"
He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."
A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.
Not roaring; pacing.
The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.
You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."
Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"
Another rumble.
Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.
Jace sits up. "...That's odd."
For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.
The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.
Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."
You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The courtyard is in chaos.
Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.
One keeper catches sight of Jace.
"My prince."
"What happened?"
"We don't know."
Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.
Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.
You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."
The feeling passes as quickly as it came.
Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.
You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"
He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.
Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.
Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"
"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."
Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."
For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.
Then his eyes widen.
"No."
"I think so."
As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.
"The maester."
His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.
"Someone fetch the maester!"
Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.
He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.
His head remains lifted toward the tower.
After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.
Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.
Jace is here.
He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.
“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.
You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.
“He's beautiful,” he says finally.
You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“You thought it would feel like what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Louder,” he admits.
You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”
He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”
“Alright, I need to hold him.”
You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.
He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”
“That’s probably just you projecting.”
Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.
“Oh.”
Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.
“I should-” he starts.
You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”
He’s already standing. “I should show him.”
You blink at him. “Jace.”
But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.
“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”
“I’ll be quick.”
So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.
By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.
The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.
Then Jace steps into the open.
Vermax’s head lowers immediately.
Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.
“This is my son.”
Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.
For a long moment, he does nothing.
Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.
The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.
Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”
The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.
Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.
“Say hello,” he whispers.
Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.
this was too cute, idk where the idea came from but i needed some vermax jace fluff
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. in a dance of dragons and throes of fire and blood, where will each of you stand when your sisters are pitted against each other for the iron throne?
genre: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, romance and fluff, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), pregnancy, childbirth, spoilers! from house of the dragon and fire & blood
:: MASTERLIST ::
001 — to court a princess
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?
002 — light the hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
003 — bundle of joy
pious, devout and charming, your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
004 — the princess and the knight
(synopsis coming soon...)
:: DRAMATIS PERSONAE ::
you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister of princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the black and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures
gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house
Summary: Back home you are surrounded by the people who never left your side, while Natasha struggles to find her place in yours.
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader
Tags/Warnings: 18+ heavy emotional themes, pregnancy loss/miscarriage, grief, post-surgery recovery, we love the Maximoff's, Aliah just being...her :( Natasha "Anything for you" Romanoff
Author's Note: I already posted a new fic: The Assessment ft. Wanda on my Patreon account^^
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The discharge process took forever. You sat carefully in a chair, one hand resting absentmindedly over your abdomen while waiting for the doctor to call your name. The soreness was still there, dull and heavy, but manageable enough that you stopped visibly reacting every few minutes.
Natasha sat beside you with Aliah asleep against her chest, one arm wrapped securely around your daughter while the other rested on her own knee. Every now and then her eyes drifted toward you automatically, checking if you were uncomfortable.
Across the waiting room, a mother—probably around your age—walked past carrying a newborn bundled carefully against her chest.
Your eyes followed them without meaning to.
Then another mother passed by pushing a stroller, talking quietly to someone beside her while her baby reached tiny hands toward the hanging toys overhead.
Your chest tightened painfully. You looked away quickly, but it didn't help.
Everywhere you looked there were babies.
Tiny socks. Baby carriers. Soft crying. Mothers bouncing infants gently in their arms while waiting for appointments.
Natasha noticed the shift in your expression immediately. "Hey," she said softly. "You okay?"
You nodded too quickly. "Yeah."
The lie sounded weak even to your own ears.
Your throat tightened as you stared down at your hands instead, blinking hard while memories pushed themselves forward anyway.
What it could've looked like.
What it would've felt like.
The weight of your baby in your arms. Aliah meeting her sibling. Natasha finding out in a way that wasn't grief and blood or hospital monitors.
Beside you, Natasha went very still. She knew—of course she knew. She shifted Aliah carefully against her chest before leaning slightly closer to you.
"Do you want to wait outside?" she asked quietly.
"No, I'm fine." But your voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
Another woman walked by carrying twins this time, one baby asleep against her shoulder while the other fussed softly in her partner's arms.
You looked down immediately.
Natasha swallowed hard beside you.
Then very carefully, slowly enough that you had time to pull away if you wanted to, she reached for your hand resting on the chair between you. Her fingers curled around yours gently.
And you let her hold it. Your eyes burned suddenly and you pressed your lips together hard, trying to hold yourself together in a waiting room full of strangers.
Her thumb moved slowly against your knuckles. "Hey," she whispered softly.
You shook your head once, staring at the floor. Natasha's grip tightened around your hand. When you finally looked at her, her eyes were already glassy. And somehow that made it worse. Because there was grief all over her face now too.
Wanda finally came back, already talking to the nurse, her eyes immediately landed on your tangled hands. And before your bestfriend could even say anything, you pulled your hand away from Natasha. But surprisingly, Wanda didn't say anything. Instead, she immediately shifted focus to you.
"Come on," she said softly, already moving closer to support you.
The second you stood up completely, both women moved at the same time.
"Careful."
"Slow down."
You blinked tiredly between them. "I'm literally just standing."
Neither of them looked convinced.
Wanda immediately slid an arm around your waist while Natasha adjusted Aliah higher against her chest so she could walk closer beside you. The walk toward the elevator felt longer than it should have, mostly because everyone stayed painfully alert around you. Every time your expression tightened even slightly from the discomfort, Wanda looked ready to drag you back upstairs while Natasha visibly tensed beside you.
Outside, the morning sun felt warm against your skin.
The walk through the parking lot was slow. Wanda kept most of your weight leaning against her despite your repeated attempts to insist you could walk on your own.
Meanwhile, the tension between your bestfriend and Natasha, though, was impossible to ignore. Wanda barely acknowledged Natasha unless necessary, while Natasha stayed hyperaware of the distance she should put whenever your bestfriend is around.
When you finally reached Wanda's car, she immediately opened the passenger door for you.
"I've got her," Wanda said flatly as she now walked towards Natasha to get Aliah.
Natasha's arms tightened around her daughter instinctively before relaxing again. Her jaw flexed slightly, but she didn't argue. Instead, she looked at you.
You were too exhausted for the tension pressing from both sides.
"She can come," you said quietly before things could escalate.
Wanda looked at you immediately.
You sighed softly and leaned heavier against the car for a second. "She can come," you clarified carefully. "I just…" Your throat tightened slightly. "I don't want Aliah upset right now."
Wanda exhaled slowly through her nose, clearly irritated, but stopped herself from arguing. "Fine."
You looked at Natasha, "Aliah can ride with you only if you have a car seat for her."
"Yeah, I always have it in my car." Then Natasha stayed quiet, but the relief on her face was immediate enough to hurt. She looked down quickly afterward, trying to compose herself.
Carefully, she walked over to her car parked nearby and opened the backseat. Aliah stirred sleepily the second Natasha started buckling her in.
"No…" your daughter mumbled weakly, grabbing onto Natasha's sleeve.
Natasha's expression softened instantly. "I know, malyshka," she whispered gently. "I'm right here."
She waited until Aliah relaxed again before pulling a blanket around her. Then her hand lingered briefly against the car door after she closed it. Her eyes lifted toward you through Wanda's open passenger window.
Wanda climbed into the driver's seat without another word while you slowly settled yourself into the passenger seat carefully, trying not to aggravate the pain in your abdomen. The second the engine started, Natasha stepped back toward her own car.
The drive was painfully quiet.
You rested your head against the window while Wanda drove carefully through the traffic. Every bump on the road still hurt a little and exhaustion sat so heavily in your body you could barely keep your eyes open.
Wanda glanced at you once in the sidemirror before looking away.
"So…" she started carefully, keeping her tone light with you. "You and…her."
You immediately looked at your bestfriend. She literally hates Natasha that she can't even say her name.
"There's something going on there?" she added after a beat.
You sighed quietly and rubbed your forehead. "It's not like that."
Wanda hummed a little like she didn't fully believe you.
"I'm not judging," she said, finally glancing at you for a second. "I just need to understand what I'm walking into."
"It's complicated."
Wanda let out a short breath through her nose. "Yeah, I figured that part," she muttered.
Another silence.
"Does she hurt you?"
That question landed heavier than the first.
"I'm not trying to start something," she added quickly. "I just…I watched her in there. I watched you."
Your throat bobbed. "It's not simple, Wanda," you said again.
"I know," she said. "But I also know what I saw."
In the rearview mirror, you see Natasha's car moving behind you.
"She looks like she's trying," Wanda said after a moment, quieter now. "But trying doesn't always mean safe."
You didn't respond because you didn't know what answer would be right.
"I know you're getting irritated with me too."
You turned your head slightly toward her. Curiosity written on your face, you chuckled genuinely. "Why would you say that?"
Wanda exhaled, tightening her grip on the steering wheel just a little. "About how I act around her," she continued, meaning Natasha without saying her name. "I know it probably feels like I'm watching everything, judging everything she does."
The car passed under a streetlight, and her face briefly lit up—tired, conflicted.
"But at the same time," she added after a pause, "I know you can't blame me."
That made you shift on your seat. Wanda glanced at you for a second, then back to the road.
"I'm not your enemy here," she said. "I am your best friend," she added, more firmly now, like she needed to ground herself in it. "That's exactly why I'm like this. I'm not trying to control you, I'm just trying to make sure you don't get hurt again."
Her voice softened a little after that.
"And I know you might get irritated with me for it."
A beat.
"But I'd rather you be irritated at me than watch you go through that again and stay quiet."
Wanda went quiet for a bit after she spoke, just keeping her eyes on the road. The car felt calmer now, but still heavy in that quiet way neither of you really knew how to fix.
Then slowly, you reached over and held her right hand. Wanda tensed for a second out of instinct, fingers tightening on the wheel, but she didn't pull away. She let you take her hand.
You gave it a small squeeze.
"I'm not irritated one bit, Wanda," you said softly.
She finally glanced at you for a second.
A small, sad smile tugged at your lips. "I am grateful for you."
Wanda didn't say anything for a few seconds after that. She just kept driving, your hand still in hers, like she didn't fully trust her voice yet.
Then she let out a small breath, almost a laugh.
"Grateful for me?" she repeated, shaking her head a little. "That sounds so dramatic."
That made you snort quietly.
"Shut up," you muttered, but there was no bite in it.
Your bestfriend finally smiled too.
"See? You're a little irritated.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not," you said again, more firmly, and this time you actually laughed.
Holding Wanda's hand, you couldn't help thinking about everything she'd done for you over the last years. Not just the big things, but all the little things too. The random groceries that would magically appear in your kitchen when you were too exhausted to shop. The countless times she picked up Aliah from school because you couldn't get yourself out of bed. The nights she stayed over because she knew being alone would make everything worse. The way she somehow always knew when you were pretending to be okay and never let you get away with it.
You honestly didn't know what you would've done without her.
Even during the time you hid the marriage from her and when that same marriage fell apart, Wanda was there. She didn't question anything. When you lost the baby. When everything felt too heavy to carry on your own.
Wanda was there.
She never made you feel guilty for needing her. Never acted like you were too much. Never got tired of showing up, even when you gave her plenty of reasons to. And maybe that was why hearing her worry about you didn't annoy you at all like she was expecting you to.
How could it? She had earned that worry. She had earned the right to be protective after spending so long helping you put yourself back together.
You were never going to stop being grateful for Wanda.
Finally you're now back to your apartment and you were welcomed by Pietro. The moment he saw you, his expression softened. He crossed the distance quickly and pressed a kiss to the side of your forehead before gently taking hold of your arm.
"Easy," he murmured.
Great, now there are three people who're acting like your personal bodyguard.
The apartment behind him was spotless. The dishes were done, the counters were clean, and everything was exactly where it should be. It wasn't surprising. Pietro had probably been stopping by every day while you were in the hospital, making sure things were taken care of before you got home.
Without making a fuss about it, he guided you toward the couch. The second you sat down, Wanda was already moving toward the kitchen.
"Do you want to eat?" she asked immediately.
Natasha finally stepped inside carrying Aliah, who was now fully awake against her shoulder. She blinked sleepily a few times before lifting her head from Natasha's shoulder. Her hair was sticking out in every direction, and she looked thoroughly confused for a few seconds before recognizing where she was. Then she wriggled out of Natasha's arms and bolted upstairs before anyone could stop her.
"Careful," you called automatically. Your daughter didn't even slow down. She was already heading toward the hallway. "Aliah." But still nothing from your little rascal.
Your attention shifted back to Natasha, who was still standing awkwardly near the living room. She looked uncertain about where she was supposed to be, as though she was waiting for someone to tell her what to do. You swallowed before gesturing toward the couch across from yours.
"You can sit."
She crossed the room and sat down on the couch opposite yours. The space between you wasn't very large, but it still felt significant somehow.
Neither of you spoke immediately. The apartment settled into a strange quiet while Wanda moved around the kitchen and Pietro followed her.
Everyone was occupying the same space, but nobody quite knew how they were supposed to fit together.
"We should all eat together."
Nobody was particularly hungry and nobody seemed interested in forcing cheerful conversation after everything that had happened—to you.
The conversation around the table had quieted by the time Aliah finally came running back from her room. At first, you only heard the quick patter of her feet against the floor. Nobody paid much attention. She'd disappeared often enough since getting home, bouncing between excitement and curiosity the way kids always did.
Then she stepped into the dining area. And everything inside you stopped.
In her hands was a baby toy, a little twist rattle.
Your eyes locked onto it immediately—you knew that toy.
You remembered standing in the store holding it months ago, turning it over in your hands while trying to decide whether buying baby things too early was a bad idea. You remembered eventually buying it anyway because you couldn't help yourself. It had been one of the first things you'd bought since knowing you're pregnant.
The sight of it hit you so bad that your chest physically hurts.
Aliah, completely unaware of what she'd just brought into the room, climbed onto her chair and hugged the toy against her chest.
"Mommy? When you're not sick anymore," she said, her voice small and hopeful, "can I sleep with you and the new baby in the room?"
Every sound in the apartment seemed to disappear. Your heart felt like it stopped and so do the people around you.
"Fuck." Pietro slipped out before he could stop it.
"Can I help find the baby?" Aliah looked from face to face before finally adding, completely innocent, completely sincere, "Uncle Pietro said you kinda lost it."
Across from you, Natasha froze.
The moment the words left her mouth, Pietro's face crumpled like he wanted to get swallowed by the floor. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and looked away for a second. His sister glares at him.
The truth was, nobody had warned him. Nobody had told him not to say anything. He actually never thought that Aliah might start asking questions when he picked her up in her school.
But of course she had. She was a smart girl—observant. She noticed when people were upset. She noticed when routines changed. And the second she'd realized you were in a clinic and nobody was giving her a proper explanation, she'd started demanding answers.
At first, Pietro had tried avoiding it. He'd told her you weren't feeling well. That mama will be home soon and the doctors were helping you. But Aliah was not convinced so her questions had just kept coming. And eventually Pietro had sat down with her because he thought she deserved something close to the truth. He'd explained that there had been a baby. The baby was very, very small and something had happened—that mommy was sad because the baby wasn't here anymore.
He didn't use words like death or miscarriage. Aliah's only three, he doesn't want to overwhelm her with something she couldn't understand. So he'd tried to simplify it. And somewhere in that explanation, he'd said the baby was gone. Then, when Aliah kept asking where gone meant, he'd made the mistake of saying it was a little like losing something.
So naturally, Aliah spent the last 24-hours believing that if everyone looked hard enough, they could find the baby too.
And another mistake he made was to place all the baby stuff you bought in Aliah's room where she might've taken the toy in her hand.
Pietro looked absolutely sick with guilt. His eyes found yours across the table, and for a second he looked like he genuinely didn't know what to do with himself.
"Y/N..." he whispered. "I'm sorry. I—I didn't..." He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean..."
The words kept getting stuck.
But you already knew that he hadn't done anything wrong. He's been trying to help and he's been a great help. Slowly, you shook your head and gave him a small look of reassurance.
"It's fine," you said softly.
Pietro immediately opened his mouth to argue because it clearly wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine. But you cut him off before he could.
"I got this."
Across the table, Aliah was still clutching the toy in her lap, waiting patiently for answers. Your chest tightened. Slowly, you pushed your unfinished food away. The appetite you'd forced yourself to find a few minutes ago had completely disappeared. You stood carefully from your chair.
Immediately, the three around you reacted.
Wanda looked up. Pietro started to stand. Natasha shifted in her seat.
You ignored all of them. Instead, you reached for Aliah's hand. "Come here, baby."
Aliah climbed down from her chair without hesitation. Her small hand slipped into yours and the toy remained tucked under her other arm. Together, the two of you disappeared from the dining area and the kitchen felt noticeably emptier the second you were gone. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do next.
Natasha remained frozen in her chair. Her eyes stayed fixed on the doorway you'd disappeared through. Every instinct she had was telling her to follow—to be there, to help. Because this wasn't just your conversation with Aliah, it was hers too. The baby had been hers too and Aliah was her daughter too. But at the same time, a part of her worried that following you would be overstepping. Because maybe this was something you wanted to do alone. Maybe she hadn't earned the right to be part of that conversation. But another part of her couldn't stand the thought of staying behind while you carried that burden by yourself.
You led Aliah into the living room and sat down carefully on the couch. Aliah climbed up beside you immediately, the baby toy still tucked securely under her arm.
You were trying to figure out where to begin.
Because the truth was, Aliah wasn't supposed to know about any of this yet. You hadn't told her about the pregnancy—there had never been a chance. You had spent weeks trying to figure out how and when to tell people. Some days you weren't even sure you wanted to tell anyone at all.
And then everything happened so fast. Now here you were.
"Was there really a baby, mommy?" Now, your daughter started it for you. The question nearly broke you.
You swallowed hard. "Yeah, sweetheart."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Really?"
"There was." You nodded.
Aliah looked at your stomach, then back at your face. The gears in her head were turning, trying to make sense of it.
"Was it in your tummy?"
You nodded again.
And suddenly the reality seemed to settle a little more for her. She hugged the toy closer. Then her next question came quietly.
"Where is the baby now?"
You stared at her. At your little girl. At the child who had only learned about her sibling after they were already gone. The unfairness of it nearly knocked the breath out of you.
You reached over and took her small hand in yours. "Sometimes, when a baby is growing, something happens that nobody expects."
Aliah listened quietly.
"The doctors tried to help mommy feel better. Everybody wanted the baby to keep growing." Your voice wavered slightly. "But sometimes babies are very small and their little bodies can't keep growing the way they're supposed to."
"So the baby stopped growing?" Aliah frowned—trying her best to understand.
You felt tears sting your eyes. "Yeah."
She looked down at the toy again. A long silence followed. Then came the question you knew was coming.
"Can the doctors help again?"
Your heart broke all over again. You gently brushed your thumb over her hand.
"No, sweetheart."
"Why?"
Because life wasn't fair. Sometimes terrible things happen for no reason. Because you didn't know either. But none of those were answers for your four-year-old. So instead, you pulled her a little closer.
"Sometimes there are things even doctors can't fix."
Aliah thought about that before her face slowly started to fall.
"So..." she started quietly. "The baby isn't coming to our house?"
You closed your eyes briefly before looking back at her. "No, baby. The baby isn't coming home."
The toy slipped a little in her lap as she hugged it tighter. Her lower lip trembled. You could practically see the disappointment settling over her. Not the same grief the adults were carrying. A child's version of it—it was simple, innocent and honest.
After a moment, she leaned against your side. You wrapped an arm around her immediately.
"The baby knew we loved them though, right?" she asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. A tear slipped down your cheek but smiled through it.
"Yeah." Your voice cracked. "Very, very much."
That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded quietly before curling closer against you.
You looked up and found Natasha standing in the doorway of the living room. She must have followed after all.
For a moment, she simply stood there, taking in the sight of you and Aliah curled together on the couch. Her eyes lingered on your face, on the exhaustion you were no longer doing a very good job of hiding. Then her attention shifted to Aliah. Your daughter looked exhausted. The earlier questions were gone. The curiosity was gone. The toy she'd been holding was now resting loosely against her lap as she leaned heavily against your side. Without saying anything, she walked over. When she reached the couch, she crouched down slightly in front of Aliah and brushed a hand through her hair.
"Hey, malysh."
Aliah looked up. The second she saw Natasha, she immediately leaned toward her. Natasha's expression softened. She slid her arms underneath her daughter and lifted her effortlessly into her arms. Once Aliah was settled comfortably against her shoulder, Natasha adjusted her hold and pressed a kiss against the side of her head.
"Let mommy rest, alright?" she said quietly. Her hand rubbed slow circles against Aliah's back. "She's tired."
The words were directed at Aliah, but Natasha's eyes briefly found yours. There was something gentle about it. Something that felt less like an instruction and more like permission.
Like she was telling you that for a little while, she could handle this. That you didn't have to carry everything alone.
Aliah nodded weakly against her shoulder. For a second, it looked like she was about to settle there completely before she suddenly lifted her head.
Natasha blinked in surprise as Aliah immediately stretched one arm toward you.
"Mommy." You looked up. "Come on."
Before you could react, your daughter wriggled enough for Natasha to carefully lower her back to the floor. The second her feet touched the ground, she walked over to you and reached for both of your hands.
"Let's get you to bed, mommy."
Your chest tightened instantly. The seriousness in her voice nearly broke you.
"So you can rest." Your baby looked genuinely concerned.
A shaky laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
God. You loved this child. You loved her so much it hurt.
"Yeah?" you asked softly.
Aliah nodded immediately. "Yeah."
Then she gave your hands a tiny tug. An attempt to pull you to your feet. One that would have been adorable if it wasn't so heartbreakingly sincere.
Behind her, Natasha watched the entire exchange. And for the first time that day, a small smile appeared on her face. Not because anything was fixed or because the grief was gone. But because even after one of the hardest days your family had ever faced, Aliah's first instinct was still love.
To comfort.
To protect.
To take care of the people she loved.
And somehow, standing there between you and Natasha, holding onto both your hands as if she could keep everything together by herself.
"I'll check upstairs first, okay?" You kissed her before carefully releasing her hands and pushed yourself to your feet.
Wanda and Pietro are still in the kitchen, finishing everything that needs to be done so you don't have to do and worry about them yourself.
Natasha remained where she was, holding Aliah against her shoulder.
Your daughter was practically limp with exhaustion now. One small arm hung around Natasha's neck while the other loosely held onto the baby toy she'd found. Every now and then her eyes would close completely before forcing themselves open again. Natasha continued rubbing slow circles against her back. Then she felt Aliah shift slightly against her shoulder.
"Mama?" The word came out soft—half-asleep.
Natasha immediately looked down. "Yeah, malysh?"
"Can we have another baby, mama?"
Everything inside Natasha stopped. The hand moving against Aliah's back froze and her breathing caught. She lowered her eyes. Her gaze immediately landed on the toy still tucked against her daughter's chest. The toy that should have belonged to someone else.
A sharp pain settled in her chest.
Aliah waited patiently. The way children always did when they asked something they believed had a simple answer.
Natasha swallowed. Her throat suddenly felt too tight. "I don't know, detka." She pressed a gentle kiss against the top of her daughter's head. "Mommy needs to get better first, detka."
"Oh." Her cheek settled deeper against Natasha's shoulder. "Because she's still sick?"
Natasha's chest tightened. "Yes."
That was the simplest answer. The one a four-year-old could understand.
Aliah nodded sleepily. Then, after a few seconds, she asked, "So after she gets better?"
Natasha smiled sadly. Children always wanted definite answers. The world was either yes or no. Tomorrow or today. Nothing in between.
But you and Natasha weren't like that—especially not now.
"Maybe," Natasha said softly.
"But do you want a baby too, mama?"
Natasha froze. The question wasn't loud, but it hit harder than anything else that moment because it wasn't about explanation or permission anymore. It was about wanting. About imagining a future that didn't exist yet but there's a possibility
Aliah's eyes were half closed, heavy with sleep, but still focused on Natasha's face with that quiet seriousness children had when they were trying to understand things that were too big for them.
"I want a sibling," she added slowly, her words slurring a little as exhaustion pulled at her again. "I want a baby sister…or a brother."
Natasha opened her mouth immediately, instinctively, because the answer should have been simple—yes. Of course yes. She had imagined it before without even meaning to, in small moments she never admitted to anyone. A second child in the house. A chance to experience things differently this time, to do it right.
To do all of it with you.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight, her eyes dropping briefly to Aliah's sleeping face again as she gently adjusted her in her arms. When she spoke, her voice came out quieter, steadier, but threaded with something she was trying very hard to keep from spilling over.
"I know, detka," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. "I know you want that." There was a pause as she carefully chose her words, because she refused to give her daughter something that might break later. "I want you to be happy," she continued gently, her hand moving in slow circles across Aliah's back, "and I want you to have a sibling one day."
Aliah made a small sound, barely awake, like she was accepting the answer without fully processing it anymore.
Natasha held her a little closer.
"But not everything is simple right now," she added softly, the honesty slipping out more than she intended, though still softened for a child who wouldn't fully understand it yet.
And that was the truth she couldn't avoid—she wanted it. She wanted it more than she was ready to admit out loud.
But wanting wasn't enough. Not when you were still grieving. Not when you might probably still be healing from everything she did. Not when she wasn't even sure where she stood in your life anymore, let alone whether there was room for a future that included something as big as another child.
So Natasha stayed quiet after that, simply holding her daughter against her chest. Her gaze drifted once more toward the staircase where you had gone earlier and for a moment she just stood there between two impossible things—a child dreaming of a future and an adult who didn't yet know if she was allowed to be part of yours.
When you finally came back down the stairs, the apartment felt quieter than before. The kind of quiet that wasn't empty, just softened by exhaustion and everything that had already been said. Natasha was still where you left her, now sitting on the couch with Aliah completely asleep in her arms. The toy had slipped to her side, barely held in place by her fingers now.
You finally spoke quietly, your voice low so you wouldn't disturb Aliah. "You can take her upstairs now, the one with an open door is my room."
Natasha looked up immediately at your voice, "Okay."
You watched her go for a moment, your gaze lingering on your daughter's sleeping face, before turning away toward the kitchen.
Pietro was by the counter when you walked over, still looking like he hadn't fully recovered from earlier. The shame was still there, quiet but obvious, like he was replaying every word he had said to Aliah and trying to figure out how he could have said it better. He looked up immediately, and the guilt in his face only deepened.
"Y/N, I—about earlier, I didn't mean for her to understand it like that. I thought I was being careful, I swear I did, I just—"
You cut him off before he could spiral further.
"I know," you said softly. You reached out and placed a hand on his arm to ground him. "It's okay, really. You were trying to help."
Pietro looked at you for a long moment, like he wanted to believe you but didn't quite know how to let himself off the hook. Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod. Not fully convinced, but accepting your reassurance anyway because it was you giving it.
"Also, thank you for what you did upstairs, Piet. Everything here in the house." You gave him a small, tired smile before moving past him.
Wanda was near the kitchen doorway now, arms crossed, watching both of you quietly. She had that look again. The one that meant she had already made up her mind about something and was just waiting for the right moment to say it out loud.
It came the second you faced her.
"I can't trust her to be here," Wanda said flatly, nodding slightly toward the upstairs without even needing to say Natasha's name.
You exhaled through your nose and gave her a look. "You know she has a name, right?"
Wanda rolled her eyes playfully but there is a seriousness in it. "I feel like it's a curse."
You let out a soft and tired laugh at her reaction.
"I heard her conversation with Aliah."
That alone made something in your chest tighten, but you were too tired to fully chase it. Too drained to dig deeper into whatever Wanda was implying.
"Aliah wants a sibling."
Your daughter wants a sibling? It shouldn't have surprised you.
Because earlier—back in the living room, in that conversation you'd barely survived emotionally—you had already seen it. The way she held onto that toy. The way she asked where the baby was like it was just somewhere out of reach. That in the simplest possible way, something lost could still be found if someone tried hard enough.
"Your daughter wants a sibling now. And God, Y/N…" she trailed off, shaking her head like she was trying to hold back too many thoughts at once. "You can't yet," she said more quietly, but firmly. "You're fresh out of surgery."
You let out a breath and leaned back slightly against the counter, tiredness catching up to you all over again. A small, helpless laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
You let out a quiet sigh and rubbed at your forehead. "I'm serious," you said again. "I..."
Your hand lifted instinctively, like you were about to make a point, but the thought never fully formed. Too many things crowded your mind at once and suddenly you couldn't find the energy to sort through any of them.
You lowered your hand again with a tired breath. "I just..." You shook your head. "Wands, I don't even know what tomorrow looks like right now."
Wanda studied you for a moment longer, trying to decide whether to believe you or just wait for reality to prove her right later. Finally, she sighed, but her posture didn't fully relax.
"Just…don't have sex with her," she said, less sharp now but still firm. "Is all I'm saying."
"Oh God, Wanda," You let out a small, tired laugh under your breath, more out of disbelief than humor. Rolling your eyes at your bestfriend.
After a few more minutes, the Maximoff sibs finally left. Pietro gave you a careful hug and another apology that you quickly brushed aside, reassuring him with a tired smile that everything was okay. Wanda, on the other hand, looked like she still wanted to argue. She hugged you tightly, reminded you to rest at least three times, and made you promise to text her tomorrow. Before leaving, she shot one last suspicious glance upstairs, clearly directed at Natasha, before disappearing out the door with her brother.
Once they were gone, the apartment became noticeably quieter. You took a slow walk through the kitchen and living room, more out of habit than necessity. Pietro had already taken care of most things while you were away. The counters were clean, dishes put away, and everything looked exactly as it should.
Then reality settled in. Wanda and Pietro were gone. Aliah was asleep upstairs. The distractions had disappeared. Which left only one person left in the apartment besides you—Natasha. You let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand over your face. Somehow, after everything that had happened today, facing her felt like the hardest part.
Before you come upstairs, the redhead is already coming down. She spotted you immediately, standing alone in the living room and slowed slightly as she approached. The house felt strangely quiet now that—just the two of you.
"Hey," she said softly.
You looked up and gave a small nod. "Hey."
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Natasha shifted her weight from one foot to the other before finally gathering the courage to ask, "Do you want to talk?" The question was careful, almost tentative. Like she was afraid of pushing too hard after everything that had happened.
"Sorry, Natasha," you said quietly. "I can't right now, I'm tired."
The answer wasn't a rejection, but Natasha's face still fell slightly before she quickly masked it.
"Yeah. Of course, I am sorry." She nodded immediately, stepping closer without thinking. "Do you want me to help you upstairs?" she asked. "Are you comfortable? Do you need—"
"I'm fine." You shook your head gently before she could continue.
A silence settled between you again. This one wasn't awkward so much as heavy. You found yourself staring at a spot on the floor before speaking again.
"I'm sorry."
Natasha looked at you again.
"I'm sorry I can't answer your question yet. You know, the other night..."
The words landed exactly as heavily as you expected them to. Natasha didn't look away.
"I know what you asked me. I know what you're asking for." Your voice softened. "And I know you need an answer." A tired smile appeared for only a second before fading again. "I just don't have one right now."
You looked at her for a long moment before speaking again.
"But if you want to stay..." your voice trailed off briefly. "You can."
A faint smile touched your lips. You looked away for a second before gesturing vaguely toward the living room.
"I mean, we don't have a guest room. But the couch is big enough for you, I guess. Well, I hope it's fine with you."
A small laugh escaped you afterward, quiet and weary, but genuine. It was the first time all day something had felt remotely normal.
The sound made Natasha smile. A real one this time. Small, soft, and almost disbelieving. She lowered her gaze for a moment before looking back at you.
"Of course," she said softly. "Anything, for you."
For a moment, neither of you said anything after that. The conversation was supposed to be about something simple. About her staying. About the couch. About not making her drive home when she was already here. On the surface, that was all you were talking about.
But maybe only you knew it meant more than that.
Or maybe, judging by the way Natasha answered and looked at you, she knew too.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ ANGST, miscarriage and divorce mention, grief and loss, relationship insecurity, hard on GROVELING, Carol wants you bad and Natasha is scared really bad
Author's Note: Scheduled post
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⧗
Two months had already passed since everything.
Somehow, you and Natasha had fallen into a routine. Everything revolves around Aliah. School, homework, playdates, what she wanted for lunch, whether she was sleeping enough, whether she will sleep in mommy's or mama's. Natasha came by the apartment whenever she wanted and you did the same at the manor. There was no discussion about it anymore. No awkward asking for permission. If it had something to do with Aliah, the door was open. It was simple and easy.
At the same time, Natasha never let things become only about Aliah. Every single time she came over, she brought white tulips.
Every. Single. Time.
One bouquet for you and a smaller bunch for Aliah because your daughter had become obsessed with getting flowers too. At first, you thought was just a phase. But two months later, the flowers were still showing up. Natasha never made a big deal out of it. She'd just walk in, set them on the vase, and continue with whatever she came there to do.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then there were sundays. It became a habit to go to church. To light a candle and pray for the baby you lost—for your little angel. Time had passed, but not enough to make you forget. Maybe it never would. The grief wasn't as sharp anymore, but it was still there. A permanent part of you now.
Natasha wasn't religious. Everyone knew that. She'd probably be the first person to admit it. But every sunday, she was there beside you anyway. Sometimes she followed along. Sometimes she just sat quietly while you prayed and she held Aliah. She never complained or acted uncomfortable. She simply came because you did.
But somewhere along the way, Natasha had even started praying too—she wasn't really praying in the traditional sense. Most sundays, when she sat beside you and watched you bow your head, her own prayers felt more like conversations. Quiet thoughts directed toward someone she hoped could hear her—your little angel.
I hope you help mommy heal. Help her smile more. Help her carry this.
The requests were never really for herself at first. They were always for you. But eventually, Natasha started asking for something else too. Something selfish—something she never had the courage to ask you directly.
If you're listening, angel, help me make this right. Help me take care of her the way I should have. Help me show her that I'm trying. And if there's still room in her heart for me...help her give me a chance.
Natasha always felt ridiculous afterward. She wasn't sure if heaven worked that way. She wasn't even sure she believed enough to deserve an answer. But she kept doing it anyway. Week after week. Sitting beside you in church, talking to a child she loved and lost before she ever got to know them, hoping that somewhere your little angel could see how hard she was trying—not just to heal herself, but to find her way back to you.
She never asked if you had an answer for her yet. There were days she wanted nothing more than to sit you down and ask where she stood, whether you still loved her, whether there was still an "us" somewhere in the future. But every time the urge came, she swallowed it. She'd already hurt you enough. The last thing she wanted was to pressure you into giving an answer you weren't ready to give.
So she waited. And she will keep on waiting.
As long as you never brought up divorce—she's safe, she's fine. For Natasha, it meant everything.
It might not be comfortable or secure. Not stupid enough to think everything was fixed. She knew better than that. She knew there were wounds that she caused that still hadn't healed. She knew you still hadn't answered her. But if you weren't telling her to leave, if you weren't ending things, if you were still letting her sit beside you at church and walk through your apartment and help with Aliah, then Natasha could keep going.
She could be patient.
She could wait as long as it took.
Because after coming so close to losing you completely, uncertainty felt a lot less terrifying than goodbye.
The knock came at the same time it always did. When you opened the door, Natasha was standing there with white tulips in one hand and Aliah's favorite fruit snacks in the other.
Natasha held them out to you with a small smile. "Morning."
You took the flowers from her and stepped aside to let her in. "Morning," you replied quietly.
Two months had passed. Two whole months of Natasha showing up yet somehow, you still couldn't look at her properly. Not for long. Every time your eyes met, you found yourself looking away first.
"Where's Aliah?" she asks, though both of you already knew that. You nodded, clutching the tulips a little tighter.
"She's in the kitchen finishing her breakfast."
A small silence settled between you afterward. Comfortable enough not to hurt, awkward enough to notice. Two months later, neither of you knew exactly what you were anymore. But Natasha was still here, and you were still opening the door for her.
"Hey, maybe Aliah can stay with you later? If you can pick her up after school." You asked casually as you set the flowers on a vase.
It's monday today, you know her schedule and she's mostly free for the day. You knew which afternoons she disappeared for a few hours for therapy and which days usually left her quieter afterward. And without ever talking about it, you'd made it a habit not to bother her on those days.
Natasha looked up immediately. "Yeah, of course." Anything for you.
You nodded. "Thanks. I need to have the sink and bathroom fixed. Something's wrong with the water line, I think. The pressure keeps dropping and the bathroom faucet has been making weird noises for a week now."
Before you could say anything else, Natasha spoke.
"I can fix it."
The words left Natasha's mouth before her brain had a chance to catch up. You two meet eye to eye. Then the redhead mentally cursed herself.
Because no, she absolutely could not fix it.
"Are you sure?" you asked slowly.
And somehow, instead of admitting she had no business touching a water line, Natasha nodded. "Yeah."
The worst part was that she couldn't even explain why she'd said it. She was a multi-millionaire businesswoman. If something broke in one of her properties, she called someone and had it done in an hour or so—it would be fixed before she even noticed. Natasha Romanoff had many skills and plumbing was not one of them.
So now she stood there pretending she had even the slightest clue what she was doing while you continued looking at her suspiciously. But she held your gaze with all the confidence of someone who definitely did not know the difference between a wrench and whatever other plumbing tools existed.
Because honestly? If pretending she could fix a sink meant spending a few extra hours with you, she was willing to commit to the lie for at least another minute before reality inevitably caught up with her.
After dropping Aliah off at school, Natasha drove back to your apartment and parked outside. She had every intention of walking straight inside and confidently dealing with the plumbing situation she had volunteered for. Instead, ten minutes later, she was still sitting in the driver's seat with her phone propped against the steering wheel, watching a man on YouTube explain the difference between water supply lines and drain pipes.
Natasha stared at the screen with the same focus she'd once used to whenever she's in a meeting with the executives.
"Okay," the man said cheerfully. "First, you'll want to locate the shut-off valve."
Natasha paused the video. What the hell was a shut-off valve?
She opened another video. And another.
Twenty minutes later, she knew slightly more than she had before, which was to say not much. Then she felt it. That sensation at the back of her neck—the feeling of being watched.
Slowly, Natasha lowered her phone and looked around the area. There, she saw Wanda walking towards the apartment building.
Of course it was Wanda. That witch.
She'd been making Natasha's life difficult for two months now—not enough to be openly hostile, just enough to make sure Natasha never got comfortable.
Wanda called it accountability.
The grocery store incident alone should've qualified as a crime. You'd been sick one afternoon, and Wanda had casually mentioned that you were out of soup, medicine, and half the things in your kitchen. Natasha immediately drove out and bought everything.
One trip turned into three. Wanda would say after: wrong brand. Then again: forgot the eggs. Then again: actually we needed more than that, Y/N prefers the other kind. Natasha would come back from the grocery store, hands full, jaw tight, only to turn around and leave again because Wanda would insist it wasn't "that hard to get it right."
When she finally arrived at your apartment, exhausted and irritated, she opened the fridge.
Everything was already there.
Every single item.
Natasha had slowly turned her head toward Wanda, who had been standing in the kitchen the entire time.
Wanda just simply smiled. A smile that belonged in a horror movie.
The most exhausting part wasn’t even the errands themselves. It was the feeling that she was being watched while doing them—evaluated. Wanda would lean in the doorway, arms crossed, already waiting for Natasha's comeback—checking if she was frustrated, if she was slipping, if she was going to react.
And Natasha never did. She just stayed quiet, nodded, and went back out if she had to. Because every time she considered snapping back, she’d remember you were in the same house.
And she couldn’t risk making things worse between you two just because Wanda was making her life feel a little hard on purpose.
So whatever test Wanda had prepared for her today, she was going to need at least a basic understanding of plumbing.
Natasha's already back to your apartment and she had barely opened the cabinet under the sink when Wanda appeared beside her. She simply looked down at the toolbox, then at Natasha, and let out a long, unimpressed hum.
"That's brave."
Natasha ignored her.
"Or stupid. Honestly, I'm still deciding."
Still, Natasha said nothing.
Wanda leaned against the counter and took a sip of her coffee. "You really do this to yourself, don't you? Nobody told you to fix the sink. Nobody asked you to. Yet here you are, pretending you're a plumber." She looked down at Natasha. "Actually, pretending is generous. I don't even think you know what you're looking at."
Natasha tightened her grip on the wrench but kept working.
"Try not to destroy the plumbing," Wanda called over her shoulder as she walked away. "Y/N would be really stressed."
The comment shouldn't have hit as hard as it did, but Natasha immediately felt her stomach sink. Because that was the thing—anything that involved you made her worry. She'd spent the last two months trying to do the opposite—trying to make things easier, lighter, better. The last thing she wanted was to be the reason you had one more problem to deal with.
Staring at the maze of pipes beneath the sink, Natasha suddenly wondered if this had been a terrible idea from the start. Maybe she should've just paid for the plumber herself. Maybe she should've called three plumbers. Maybe she should've called an entire plumbing company. Unfortunately, she'd already committed to this.
A little while later, you came downstairs, slipping your phone into your pocket as you entered the kitchen. Your eyes immediately found Natasha.
"You're back," you said.
The effect was immediate. Natasha practically stood up from where she'd been crouched beside the sink.
"Yeah," she said, brushing her hands on her jeans. "Hi."
A small smile appeared on her face. You smiled back automatically.
It was awkward. The kind that felt suspiciously similar to two people trying very hard not to act like they were interested in each other.
Across the room, Wanda watched the entire exchange and rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't injure herself.
"Oh my God," she muttered to herself. Then she grabs her bag before grabbing you. "Let's go."
You looked back at Natasha. "Uh, we're going to the market." Then you awkwardly added, "Do you want anything? Food or something?"
For a moment Natasha looked genuinely surprised you'd asked. Then a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Yogurt." Natasha bites her lip, "You know…the one before? The one we used to buy."
And immediately you knew exactly which one she meant. The cheap yogurt you practically lived on back in college. The one you'd shared while cramming for exams, surviving on three hours of sleep and bad decisions. You hadn't bought it in years.
"Oh." You nodded once, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. "Yeah. Okay, sure."
The moment the apartment door closed behind you and Wanda, Natasha let out a long sigh and looked around the suddenly quiet apartment. Well, this wasn't exactly how she'd pictured the day going. When she confidently said that she could fix the sink, she'd secretly imagined spending a few hours with you. Just being around you. Maybe talking while you cleaned or worked on something. Instead, you'd disappeared to the market with that witch, leaving Natasha alone with a toolbox and a plumbing problem she wasn't remotely qualified to solve. Still, she couldn't complain. At least she had the apartment to herself now. No one would judge her watching YouTube tutorials.
By the time you got back from the market, the first thing you noticed was that the sink was actually working. You stared at it for a moment before looking toward the kitchen. Natasha was standing there with a wrench in one hand, a smudge of dirt on her shirt, and what looked suspiciously like grease on her cheek. The sight alone was enough to surprise you. You'd known Natasha for since college and not once had you ever pictured her fixing anything around the house.
"Wow," you said honestly. "You actually fixed it."
Natasha immediately straightened up. The praise seemed to hit her harder than it should have. A faint blush appeared across her face, and suddenly the woman who had faced world-ending threats looked oddly nervous.
"Yeah..." she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "It's nothing." The blush only deepened.
"Here."
Natasha looked down. The yogurt. The exact one she'd asked for.
"Thanks." Natasha took it carefully. Then, after a brief hesitation, she looked up at you. "Do you...want to share?" The question came out quieter than she'd intended. Almost hopeful.
You shook your head. "No, I'm good."
Natasha nodded immediately. "Right. Okay."
She smiled anyway—a small one—the kind she'd gotten very good at over the last two months.
Because the truth was, it hurt a little.
Not because of the yogurt itself. Natasha could buy a thousand yogurts if she wanted to. It was what it represented. Back in college, you never even had to ask. One spoon, two spoons, it didn't matter. If one of you had food, the other automatically got some. It had been one of those small, thoughtless things that happened when two people were close.
Now Natasha found herself asking permission for things that used to be natural. And you had every right to say no.
She just couldn't help feeling the distance. The reminder that some things hadn't found their way back yet.
The yogurt wasn't the first time. There had been countless little moments over the past two months. Natasha would come over and you'd offer her food out of politeness.
"Have you eaten? I made pasta." But when you came back she only saw one plate in your hand—only for her—when she actually thought that you would sit down and eat with her.
Sometimes she'd arrive just as you were carrying groceries inside. She didn't need permission to ask, she just reached down to the plastic bags but you softly pulled it away from her.
"It's fine," you'd say before she could even get them. "I can carry them."
And then there were the days Natasha came over and never saw you at all. Aliah would throw the door open with excitement before dragging Natasha inside. Meanwhile, you'd stay upstairs.
Sometimes she'd ask, "Is your mom resting?" and Aliah would nod. "Mommy's in her room."
Natasha never pushed. She'd spend the afternoon helping with homework, playing, and listening to stories about school. Then she'd leave. There is an unspoken agreement between you both—Aliah came first. Natasha would show up for your daughter every single time and you'd never stop her.
But when it came to you, things were different. You were kind. You were never cruel. Yet there was still a careful distance that Natasha felt in every declined offer, every closed bedroom door, every quiet "I'm okay" that meant the conversation was over.
⧗
You texted Natasha asking if she could pick Aliah up from the apartment in the morning and take her to school. When she arrived, she noticed you were already dressed and ready to leave.
"You heading somewhere?" she asked casually while Aliah finished getting ready.
You hesitated for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. Just an appointment."
The answer wasn't rude, but it was brief enough that Natasha immediately understood it wasn't an invitation for more questions.
She almost asked what kind of appointment. If everything was okay or if you wanted company. But she didn't. So Natasha simply nodded and said, "Okay." Nothing more.
The appointment is actually a follow-up after your miscarriage. And the entire drive there, one thought kept circling in your head—you should have told Natasha. She had every reason to know. She would've come even if you didn't ask. She would've cleared her schedule without a second thought and sat beside you through the entire appointment. You knew that. That's what made it harder to explain why you hadn't told her. And now, sitting alone in the waiting room, you couldn't decide if keeping it to yourself had been easier or just lonelier.
After dropping Aliah off at school, Natasha stopped by a coffee shop before heading home. She wasn't expecting to see Pietro there. The encounter was completely random.
"Natasha?" he said, looking surprised. Natasha greeted him, and for a few minutes they made small talk.
Among the twins, Pietro had always been the kinder one toward Natasha. He still talked to her normally.
"How'd the appointment go?"
Natasha frowned. "What appointment?"
Immediately, Pietro's expression changed. Shit, he thought. He felt like he just said something he wasn't supposed to.
"She didn't tell you." Then Pietro sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his lips.
Natasha felt something sink in her chest. Slowly, she shook her head. "No...what is it?"
Pietro looked away before answering quietly, "It's just a follow-up check-up in the clinic."
Just a follow-up check-up. That was the thing Natasha couldn't stop thinking about all day. Not the appointment itself or the fact that you'd gone alone. It was that you hadn't told her. She'd asked where you were going that morning and you'd given her an answer that was technically true but carefully incomplete.
By the time she picked Aliah up from school and headed to your apartment, a small part of Natasha wondered if maybe you'd bring it up yourself. She wasn't expecting some deep conversation. Just a simple, Hey, I came for a check-up today. It was okay. Something, anything. But when she arrived, you greeted her normally. Asked how the drive was, how Aliah's day had been, and the appointment never came up.
And Natasha didn't ask—she could have. The words sat right there on the tip of her tongue every time she looked at you. But she didn't push. She'd spent the last two months learning where the lines were, and she recognized this one immediately. If you wanted her to know, you would've told her. So Natasha swallowed the questions and kept the conversation on safer things instead even though it hurt her.
⧗
A couple of days later, Natasha called asking if the three of you can go out. But you let her know that you and Aliah were going to a friend's house for a birthday party that weekend.
"Do you need a ride?" There was a small pause before she added, trying to sound casual, "I can pick you up if you want."
Her plan of going out may not push through but she will still make a way to spend time with you.
You hesitated. But the memory of that appointment still lingered in the back of your mind. You've already hidden things from her. And maybe because of that, you found yourself saying something unexpected. "Yeah. Okay."
The silence on the other end lasted a second too long before Natasha answered, a little too quickly, "Yeah? Okay. I'll pick you up."
Monica's birthday party was louder than you'd expected. The backyard was filled with balloons, games, screaming children, and enough sugar to keep every kid awake for the next week. Aliah had disappeared almost immediately after arriving, running off with Monica and the other children without so much as a glance back.
Most of the afternoon, you stayed near the edge of everything. Sitting in a chair beneath a shaded patio umbrella, quietly watching the chaos unfold in front of you. Every now and then Aliah would run past, laughing so hard she could barely breathe before disappearing again.
A familiar figure dropped into the seat beside you, Carol. She followed your gaze toward the kids before nudging your shoulder lightly.
"I told you to follow me inside the house. You've been sitting here for an hour now."
You laughed softly. "Someone has to supervise."
"Half the neighborhood is supervising." Then she stood up and pointed her thumb toward the house. "Come on."
You looked at her suspiciously. Carol rolled her eyes.
"The adults are hiding in the kitchen."
"Hiding?"
"Drinking."
That earned a laugh from you.
"Come have one drink. I promise nobody's discussing politics."
With a reluctant shake of your head and a smile, you finally stood and followed her inside, she led you toward the kitchen and a chorus of greetings followed from her friends. You immediately got shy but smiled politely, and exchanged a few introductions. After that you immediately felt yourself gravitating toward the quieter side of the room. Carol noticed. With an amused shake of her head, she grabbed two glasses from the counter and guided you toward the farthest corner of the kitchen, away from the louder conversations.
"There," she said. "Now you can socialize from a safe distance."
A few moments later, she handed you a glass of wine. You stared at it for a second before hesitating. Carol immediately caught the look.
"Relax," she said, nudging the glass into your hand. "It's light. You're not going to wake up on someone's lawn tomorrow."
You laughed despite yourself. "Very reassuring."
"I'm serious. It's barely stronger than juice." Carol grinned.
You glanced down at the glass once more before finally accepting it. The first sip was cautious, but she was right. It wasn't heavy. Just enough to warm your throat without making you regret it.
What started as casual conversation somehow turned into the two of you being tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, talking about random things.
She watched you more than she meant to. When you took a sip of your drink. When you looked away like you were embarrassed by your own laugh. When you nodded along to her stories like you were actually interested instead of just being polite. And each time you laughed again Carol felt her cheeks warm a little, like her body was reacting before her brain could stop it. It annoyed her, honestly, how obvious it was becoming.
So she did what she always did when something felt too noticeable. She joked and teased you. She leaned into the role of the easygoing friend who just happened to enjoy your company a little too much.
But even as she spoke, she kept glancing at you when you weren't looking. It wasn't just that she liked being around you. It was that watching you be happy, even for a moment, made her want to keep you there.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
Carol held your gaze for a second too long, the words she couldn't say pressing at the back of her tongue. Then she exhaled softly through her nose and forced it all back into place. Whatever was happening in her head didn't belong in the room with so many people.
I like you.
I want to kiss you.
Fuck, I want to have you.
The blonde had already stepped in closer without fully realizing it. The space between you had narrowed to something that didn't feel accidental anymore. Her gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up again, slower this time, like she was weighing a decision she already knew she shouldn't make.
And then your phone rang.
The moment shattered instantly. Carol pulled back just a fraction too late. Your attention snapped away from her completely as you checked the screen, and the soft, immediate smile that appeared on your face made something tighten in her jaw.
"It's Natasha," you said. You answered without hesitation, stepping away not even realizing what Carol was about to do to you seconds ago.
When you came back, Carol was already back in place—composed, casual, drink in hand like nothing had happened at all. You told her Natasha would be picking you up soon. Carol nodded, forcing an easy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Sure," she said simply. But her jaw ticked once, subtle but sharp, as she took another sip of her drink.
The blonde walked you out of the house, the noise from the party fading behind you. She kept things light, like she always did, talking about small things as you walked side by side. You nodded along, still a little warm from the wine. When you reached the curb, Natasha's car was already there.
Natasha observed the way you and Carol were still talking for a moment longer than necessary, like there was no rush. You finally turned toward Natasha's car and smiled politely at Carol.
"Thanks for earlier," you said. "And—Aliah, okay? I will try to call later if I still can."
Carol nodded. "Got it. We'll take care of her."
Natasha didn't say anything. She just watched from where she stood, eyes following the ease between you and your friend. It wasn't loud or obvious, nothing anyone else would've questioned. But Natasha noticed everything. The way Carol stood closer to you and the way she touched you. The way it all looked…easy. Maybe it's just her mind again, but fuck it's making her crazy again.
The moment you got into Natasha's car, you immediately felt it—that quiet shift in you. Like you had to be more careful now. More aware. The last fight between the two of you flashed in the back of your mind, the one that somehow ended up about Carol. So you quickly said your goodbye to Carol outside, a little too fast and awkward, then got in and closed the door immediately.
The drive was silent at first. Natasha didn't do her usual thing of trying to fill it with small talk or random questions. She just drove, one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road. It felt…different. Heavy that you couldn't ignore. After a while, you gave in and spoke first.
"Have you eaten?" you asked, like you always did.
Natasha glanced at you for a second before shaking her head. "I'm not hungry." Then, after a beat, she added, "Are you drunk?" Her voice didn't soften this time. Her eyes stayed on the road.
You blinked, a little thrown off by how direct it sounded. "I…a little," you admitted after a pause. "I had wine."
Natasha nodded once, like she was noting it down in her mind rather than reacting emotionally. "Wine," she repeated quietly, almost to herself.
She tightened her jaw slightly, keeping her focus ahead. Because in her mind, it wasn't really about the alcohol. It was the fact that you could sit there, a little tipsy from someone else's company, laughing somewhere else earlier in the day…but when it came to her, even sharing a meal felt like something you kept declining. And Natasha didn't say it out loud, but the thought settled anyway, quiet and sharp.
The rest of the drive felt heavier than when it started. Neither of you said much after that. By the time the car finally slowed in front of your apartment building, it almost felt like you had both been holding your breath the entire way there.
You stood there for a second after getting out of the car, keys in your hand, the conversation still sitting heavy in your chest. The air between you felt unfinished.
Without really thinking it through, you looked back at her.
"Do you…want to come in?" you asked quietly.
"Sure."
Inside the apartment, the silence didn't get any easier. If anything, it felt tighter now that the door was closed behind both of you.
"You didn't tell me the party was at their place," Natasha said, her voice calm—but firm. "You didn't tell me Aliah was staying over there."
There was no anger in it, but there wasn't softness either—just clarity.
"Sorry," you said quietly. "There were some sudden changes to the plans." You glanced down for a second before looking back at her. "The party wasn't supposed to be there originally. And the sleepover thing happened today. Carol asked if Aliah wanted to stay with the other kids and she got excited about it."
Natasha just hummed and nodded once. Not wanting to talk about it anymore.
"I'll get you some water. You're drunk."
"Thank you but I'm fine."
The response came so automatically that you barely thought about it.
Natasha froze. Then she looked at you and let out a short laugh.
"I'm fine." She repeated sharply. "Of course."
The tone in her voice made you straighten slightly.
"No, seriously," she continued, shaking her head. "It's always like that with me. I'll help you carry something? No need. I'm fine. I'll drive you somewhere? You're fine. I'll ask if you need anything? Don't bother, I'm good." Her jaw clenched. "It's always like that. Every time I ask about anything, every single time, I get the same answer." She laughed bitterly. "It's fine."
You swallowed hard. The apartment felt unbearably quiet.
"But is it really? Y/N? Is it really fine? Are we really okay?" Natasha looked away for a second before looking back at you. "Because at some point it stops sounding like you're actually fine and starts sounding like you just don't want anything from me."
Your eyes dropped to the floor, your fingers twisting together unconsciously.
"You didn't tell me about the appointment."
You blinked, your head lifting immediately. "How did—"
Before you could finish, Natasha answered. "Pietro. I bumped into him that day." She let out a breath and shook her head. "He asked me how the appointment went."
The guilt hit you instantly. You looked away, jaw tightening as the realization settled heavily in your chest.
"Why didn't you tell me?" There was no anger in it or accusation. Just hurt. "You knew I would've gone with you. You knew I would've been there." She swallowed. Her eyes stayed on yours. "Why, Y/N?" she asked again. "Why didn't you tell me?"
When you finally looked up, Natasha was still standing there, waiting. She let out a shaky breath and looked away for a moment before forcing herself to continue.
"You can't even look straight at me." Her voice cracked slightly. "But with other people, you can." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "With that blonde friend of yours, you can. You talk to her, laugh with her. You sit with her." A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. "Do you know how hard that is to watch? And I'm trying not to read into it. I'm trying not to make assumptions. But I'm scared, Y/N." She wiped at her face quickly, frustrated by her own tears.
"Am I losing you?" The question came out small—vulnerable. "To her? Or to a life that doesn't have a room for me anymore?"
The apartment fell silent. Natasha swallowed hard and looked at you, eyes glassy now.
"I just don't know where I stand with you. We're always together but why do I feel like you're out of reach?" Her voice broke. "I don't know if I'm your wife. I don't know if I'm your friend. I don't know if I'm just Aliah's other parent." Another tear slipped free. "And I can keep trying, I will keep trying...but I need to know if I'm fighting for something that's still there."
Natasha wiped at her face with the heel of her hand.
"I just need to know where I stand in your life. I need to know." She said firmly though her voice is shaky and full of fears.
Her eyes stayed on yours, unwavering despite the tears.
"Because the only thing I am sure of right now..." Her voice cracked slightly. "The only thing I know for certain is that I still love you."
The confession hung between you painfully simple.
"So tell me. Tell me where I stand. Tell me if I still have a place there in your heart."
You didn't answer right away.
The silence between her words and your reaction felt like it stretched too long, too fragile to survive anything sudden. But then you moved. You stepped closer to Natasha, tears still running down your face, your breathing uneven from everything that had already been said. The alcohol was still there—softening the edges of your thoughts—but you were fully there. Fully aware. There was no confusion in the way you looked at her.
Your hand lifted before you could second-guess it. Fingers trembling slightly as you reach for her face. She just stood there, watching you like she was afraid that if she blinked, you'd disappear.
You wiped at her tears carefully, brushing them away like you were trying to undo every second that made her cry in the first place. A broken breath escaped her. She covered your hand with hers, holding it against her face like she needed it.
That broke something in you.
Your forehead dipped slightly, your voice barely steady when you finally spoke.
"I love you," you said, and it came out raw. Immediate and unfiltered. "But I'm scared too."
Natasha's grip tightened on your hand.
"I'm sorry," you hiccuped, shaking your head slightly as more tears fell. "I just don't know how to do this without being scared. I don't know how to come back from everything that happened and not feel like I'm going to be hurt again."
Your thumb brushed against her cheek instinctively.
"I never stopped loving you," you admitted. "I just…got lost in how to survive it."
Natasha's eyes squeezed shut for a moment. The words hit her harder than anything else you said.
A broken sound escaped her before she could stop it. She shook her head immediately, tears falling faster.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't punish yourself for being scared. You don't have to know how to do this. You don't have to trust me tomorrow. You don't have to have all the answers tonight."
Natasha looked into your eyes.
"Just let me stay." Her voice broke again. "Let me love you. Let me take care of you."
Fresh tears spilled over before you could stop them, your lips trembling as you stared at her.
"Let me spend however long it takes proving that I'm not going to hurt you again."
The morning after Aegon asks you to hold him, he leaves your bed before you wake and returns with an evening in the city already arranged. He leads you through King’s Landing to a brothel, places a gold dragon in your hand, and tells you that you may choose anyone you want. Whatever he believes he is repairing, however, he has not asked whether you think it was broken.
Word Count: 11.6k
Warnings: 18+. Smut, explicit sexual content. Established relationship, arranged marriage, cunnilingus, femdom (sub!Aegon), consensual power dynamics, service submission, praise kink, blindfolds, sexual roleplay, brothel setting, emotional vulnerability, references to past promiscuity, no infidelity in the story. This is just hurt/comfort with increasingly questionable problem-solving.
Some AU/Setting stuff: They're married, for a little while now. Viserys is still alive (I will continue to avoid his death and its consequences like this fucker avoided conflict and parenting).
A/N: I have wanted to write this story for Aegon for so long. Technically in my head it's the two idiots from Pirtir but they don't have to be (I just think it's more fun in an evil way if you have the brothel story from Pirtir in mind when you read Aegon do what he does in this one). I hope you like this and I would love to hear your thoughts!
Title is from the quote "After decades of starving and yearning, when love and affection has finally been bestowed upon you, how do you bear the delightful intensity of its taste? Each bite overwhelms me to the bone. I did not even have a tablecloth laid, I was never prepared." by mun-dane.
You wake to cold sheets.
Not cold enough to suggest Aegon has been gone for hours, though; only enough that when your hand crosses the space beside you, searching without much thought for his warmth, it finds the shallow impression he left in the mattress and the covers pushed down where he must have kicked them during the night.
Disappointment arrives before concern.
More often than not, he is still there when you wake. Sometimes deeply asleep, sprawled so carelessly into your half of the bed that you must push at his shoulder to reclaim enough room to move. Sometimes awake and pretending otherwise, his breathing made conspicuously even until you open your eyes and catch him watching you through his lashes. He has settled into domesticity with surprising ease for a man of his…reputation.
His absence is not unprecedented either, but this morning, you had expected him to remain.
You know the ordinary shape of intimacy with him. You know the weight of his arm across your waist, the heat of him beside you, the careless familiarity with which he occupies your bed and your space. There is nothing new in waking tangled together or feeling him linger when neither of you has yet decided to move.
What stays with you from the previous night is his voice.
He had come to you angry and exhausted. He had spoken of the council, of his mother, of trying and discovering that effort changed nothing. Then he had looked at you as though your face might deliver the same verdict as theirs.
And he had asked you to hold him.
The memory returns with the same quiet force it carried when the words first left him. A question, weak but audible, stripped of the easy confidence he usually wears when he reaches for you.
You had answered by moving closer, and for a time, he had let himself rest against you. Then you shifted your footing, and his arms had tightened with such sudden instinct that you felt the panic in it before he seemed to understand it himself. He released you almost immediately and went still beneath your hands, leaving enough space for you to move away if that was what you had intended.
You moved closer again, and eventually, his arms rose around you once more.
You had hoped some part of that trust might survive until morning.
Instead, you find his side of the bed empty.
Embarrassment seems the likeliest explanation. Aegon can endure being insolent, vulgar, drunken, contrary, and occasionally unbearable with far greater ease than he can tolerate being seen in earnest need. Daylight has likely made the previous night feel less like comfort and more like exposure.
The thought disappoints you. It irritates you too, though not enough to become anger.
You do not expect him to return and begin a difficult conversation. Difficult conversations have never formed the foundation of your marriage. You have found other ways of knowing one another, some more direct than others, and Aegon has always preferred touch, provocation, distraction, or silence to any prolonged examination of what lies beneath them.
So you rise.
The day begins because days do, regardless of whether a husband has fled before his wife can wake beside him.
By late morning, you are seated in a private study with Helaena, embroidery resting across your lap while she works with quiet intensity. The conversation between you comes and goes without either of you appearing troubled by its irregularity.
Each time the door opens in the adjoining passage, some small part of your attention lifts. You tell yourself that you are not waiting for him. You are merely accustomed to his interruptions.
When he finally arrives, he enters with enough momentum to make the distinction irrelevant. The doors to the study open without ceremony and Aegon steps through.
“My wife.”
There is the smallest skip in his step as he crosses the threshold. So slight that, had you not spent months learning the peculiarities of his movement, you might mistake it for ordinary energy. Aegon has always occupied a narrow space between animation and restlessness, and on most days he moves along it without effort.
Today, though, he has crossed too far to one side.
Still, the greeting warms you before suspicion has the chance to intervene.
Before your marriage, you might have imagined that hearing yourself addressed so frequently through your relation to a man would become belittling. Instead, you have become helplessly endeared to the title as it exists in his mouth.
Aegon says my wife with a satisfaction he never bothers to conceal. The possessiveness itself pleases you less than what follows it: the way his expression waits for you to answer, as though the claim only becomes real when you return it.
“Husband.”
His reaction is immediate and familiar.
His face softens, his smile widens, and his eyes betray the same pleased hunger they always do when you call him yours. He receives the simplest acknowledgment of your marriage as though the word contains far more praise than you placed inside it.
You know how readily praise reaches him. You know what becomes of him when you make it clear that he has pleased you or belongs to you. The title is only one of the gentler forms that language takes between you.
For a moment, he looks entirely himself.
Then the brightness returns too quickly.
He gives Helaena a brief acknowledgment that his sister waves away before coming directly to you, entering your space with no permission sought and no expectation that it might be denied.
His hand cups your cheek.
The touch is warm and familiar. His thumb passes once beneath your eye while he looks down at you with a brightness that would be convincing if his other hand were not opening and closing at his side.
“You were gone early,” You say.
“I was-…” He glances away, then back. “Preoccupied with other matters.”
The answer is deliberately useless. Before you can ask anything further, he continues.
“I have arranged for us to go into town tonight.”
You look up at him.
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
He says it with his usual certainty, as though the arrangements themselves have settled the matter.
“And when were you going to ask me?”
“I expected you would come.”
There is your husband: presumptuous enough to arrange an evening without consulting you and genuinely surprised by the suggestion that your agreement ought to have preceded it.
Ordinarily, you might make him work harder for it simply because he has assumed too much. Today, the restless movement of his fingers makes you hesitate.
“Where are we going?”
“You will see.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I intend to give you.”
His mouth curves, but the expression does not settle naturally across his face. He watches you too closely, waiting for something he is pretending not to require.
You let the silence stretch.
“If you would rather not,” Aegon starts, “we need not go.”
The words come too quickly.
You had not refused, you had barely questioned him; and that small retreat is stranger than the presumption that came before it.
You place your hand over the one still resting against your cheek.
“I would like to go.”
His fingers still beneath yours.
“Good.”
Relief passes across his face before the smile returns, brighter than it needs to be.
He bends and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for the length of one released breath before straightening again.
“We will leave after supper,” He tells you, already taking a step back. “Wear something warm.”
The confidence has returned, but now you know how easily it slipped.
___
The city suits him.
You notice it before you have travelled far from the Keep. The farther its walls recede behind you, the less Aegon appears to account for every pair of eyes upon him. People still watch, of course. They recognize the silver hair, move out of his path, bow when they remember they ought to and stare when they believe he will not notice. It does not seem to trouble him here as it does at court.
At court, observation is always an evaluation. Someone is measuring whether he has spoken too loudly, laughed at the wrong moment, understood too little or shown too plainly that he does not care to understand more. In the city, people look because he is a prince, because they know his face, or because they have a story about him they intend to repeat later. Their expectations are simpler.
He speaks more easily. He points out people and places you do not know, offers unsolicited histories of taverns whose names have changed three times since he first began visiting them, and occasionally calls out a greeting to someone who answers with a familiarity that would cause scandal inside the Keep. His hand remains around yours through most of it. When the streets narrow, he draws you closer without interrupting whatever he is saying; when they widen again, he does not release you.
You enjoy him like this.
For a time, the pleasure of the evening nearly obscures everything else.
Then he looks at you again.
He has been doing it since you left the Keep. At first, you mistook it for ordinary attention. Aegon watches you often enough, especially when he is waiting to see whether something has amused or offended you.
But this is different, his gaze returns whenever you have been quiet for more than a few moments. If you laugh, something in him eases; if your attention wanders, he begins speaking again before the silence has properly settled.
He never asks whether you are pleased. He only looks again whenever your expression changes.
“You keep looking at me.” You say.
Aegon glances at you once more, as though compelled to demonstrate the accusation. “I am walking beside you. It would be strange if I refused to look at you.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
He continues before you can answer, his voice light enough that someone passing would hear nothing unusual in it.
“You are enjoying yourself. I can tell that you are. You have laughed several times, and only once because I nearly stepped into something unspeakable. The air is better out here, the company is better, and no one has attempted to discuss succession with either of us for nearly an hour. It is already an improvement.”
The speech comes with his usual confidence, but it does not feel casual. He has assembled evidence and is laying it before you as though the question has already been raised.
“I am enjoying myself.” You tell him, and if there is hesitation in your words it is only there because you still do not understand what prompted this…strangeness.
His thumb moves across the back of your hand.
“Good.”
He says it too quickly.
You look at him more closely. “You seem relieved.”
“I arranged an evening for my wife. I would prefer that she did not hate it.”
“I have given you no reason to think I do.”
“No. You have not.”
He smiles at you, and the matter appears finished. A moment later he begins telling you something about the street ahead, but the brightness has become more deliberate now that you have recognized it. There is real pleasure beneath it; you do not doubt that. He likes the city, likes being away from the Keep, likes your hand in his and the fact that you have agreed to follow him without knowing where he intends to lead you.
Whatever he has planned, your pleasure in it matters to him with an urgency the evening itself does not justify.
The thought remains indistinct at first. You have already known that the outing concerns the previous night. His empty place in the bed that morning, the haste with which he returned once the day had begun, the arrangements made before he had even asked whether you wished to go; each returns now as he watches your face and waits for you to smile.
Until now, you have assumed the evening is meant to restore his pride. He allowed you to see him frightened and uncertain, and now he is determined to remind you that he can also be entertaining, attentive and easy to want.
It remains the likeliest explanation.
Yet there is a difference between wanting to appear unchanged and behaving as though every pleasant moment allows him to move on to the next part of something already arranged.
Aegon keeps you moving through the streets with the confidence of someone who knows precisely where he is going. He does not pretend the route is accidental. When you ask whether he has a destination, he tells you that he does, although he refuses to name it.
“I have arranged everything,” He promises, “You need only come with me.”
“You have already made that decision on my behalf?”
“I expected you to come.”
The admission is immediate, without embarrassment.
“And if I had not?”
Aegon looks at you. For a moment, some answer appears ready on his tongue, but he thinks better of it.
“You did.”
There is the husband you recognize: arrogant enough to arrange your evening without consultation and entirely convinced that the fact you agreed has retroactively justified the assumption.
He continues after a moment, speaking more rapidly than the conversation requires.
“If you dislike where we are going, we can leave. I am not forcing you to remain anywhere, but I think you should see it before you decide. You may have whatever you want from the evening, that is the point.”
You turn your head toward him.
“The point of what?”
“The outing.”
“That…does not explain anything.”
He gives you another smile and looks ahead before you can study him further.
The words stay with you.
You may have whatever you want.
He has said them as though they are generous, but there is something oddly fixed in the offer, as though it were not merely a possibility but a condition he settled before coming to find you.
Still, the evening itself remains pleasant. He keeps close to you, his conversation moving between gossip, complaint and observations he would never bother voicing before his family. When you answer, he listens. When you laugh, the satisfaction on his face is obvious enough to make you laugh again. To anyone watching, he is merely a prince enjoying the city with his wife.
Only you can feel the tension beneath his hand.
It grows as the route becomes familiar.
You do not frequent these streets, but you know enough of them. Before your marriage, stories concerning Prince Aegon reached you regardless of whether you wished to hear them. He had been seen entering one establishment, leaving another, drinking somewhere else until morning. The details changed depending upon the teller; the conclusion rarely did.
You had expected his reputation to become one of the practical humiliations of marriage.
You had imagined absences, badly constructed excuses and nights in which servants knew more about your husband’s whereabouts than you did. You had prepared yourself to discover how much of the man described to you survived beneath the ceremony and promises.
Instead, Aegon had settled into marriage with almost disconcerting ease.
You had not been given separate chambers, and he had never behaved as though he wanted them. He slept beside you, heavily and without restraint, occupying your share of the bed as often as his own. During the day he appeared wherever you had chosen to sit and stayed until someone called him away. If you spent too long attending to something that did not involve him, he eventually placed himself within reach and made his presence difficult to ignore.
Whatever discipline fidelity required from him at first, it no longer resembles deprivation. He does not spend his nights beside you like a man mourning his freedom. More often, he behaves as though marriage has given him permission to follow you from room to room without having to invent an excuse.
The reputation remains, but the conduct that created it has not, and that is why, when the street ahead confirms where he has been leading you, your first reaction is disbelief rather than recognition.
Warm light spills from the windows; music and laughter reach the street whenever the door opens; the people entering do so with the particular purposefulness of those who do not wish to pause outside long enough to be observed.
You stop.
Aegon takes another step before your joined hands pull him back.
He turns to you.
For a moment, you assume you have been wrong about the changes in him. Perhaps this entire evening has been designed to return him to something he misses. Perhaps he has decided that marriage need not prevent him from enjoying his former habits if he can convince you to enter them willingly.
The suspicion does not survive his face.
He is not looking toward the door.
There is no anticipation in him, no private amusement and no appetite he has failed to conceal. The liveliness that carried him through the city has disappeared. His attention is fixed entirely upon you, and his hand has gone rigid around yours.
He looks as though he has arrived at the part of the evening he has been dreading.
Not enough to turn away from it, because whatever he has decided he means to complete it seems. But the confidence with which he led you here has narrowed into something strained and expectant. He waits for your response without offering any clue as to what response he hopes for.
You look from him to the doorway and back again.
He has not brought you here because he wanted to return. He has brought you here for you.
Why he imagines you would want this, and why offering it appears to cost him so much, remains unclear.
Aegon does not immediately attempt to fill the silence, which unsettles you more than the building itself. He has spent the evening speaking whenever quiet threatened to settle between you, carrying you forward through the city on the force of his conversation and whatever purpose he had assigned to the night. Now that you have reached it, he seems to have exhausted everything he prepared to say.
The light from the windows catches in his hair. His hand remains closed around yours, but the ease has gone from his grip.
“What are we doing here?”
“I have made arrangements,” He says, again. At your look, he explains further, “There is a room upstairs, everything has been paid for, and no one will repeat tomorrow who came through the door tonight. You may go inside, look around, and decide whether any of it interests you.”
You stare at him, eyes wide.
“Any of what?”
His jaw shifts, looks away once and then back at you. “Come inside first. I am not explaining this in the street while every drunk in the Street of Silk walks past us.”
The door opens behind him, releasing music, laughter and a man fastening his clothing as he descends the steps. A woman calls something after him that makes him laugh, but Aegon does not turn to look.
He turns toward the entrance and then waits. He does not pull upon your hand or assume that because he has brought you this far you must follow him the rest of the way. Whatever else he has decided on your behalf, he means the choice to cross the threshold to be yours it seems.
You follow him.
A woman standing near the entrance recognizes him immediately. Surprise interrupts her expression for no more than a moment before professional warmth replaces it.
“My prince.”
“Is the room ready?”
“It is.”
“Good. No wine yet. My wife will look first.”
The woman’s gaze moves to you, becoming more careful without growing visibly curious. “Of course.”
There is no uncertainty in Aegon’s exchange with her. He knows whom to address, where the private rooms are kept and how the evening is supposed to proceed. He knows which attendants carry wine and which arrange the companions, how to purchase privacy without making a performance of it and how much money ensures that no one later remembers anything inconvenient.
You had known what his reputation meant. You had heard enough before your marriage to understand that he had not merely visited places like this but moved through them regularly. Still, knowledge acquired through gossip is different from watching him cross the threshold and become immediately fluent in the workings of the room.
The familiarity does not appear to comfort him. With every step farther inside, he looks less like a man returning somewhere he once enjoyed and more like one continuing toward a punishment he has already decided to accept.
The house is warmer than the street. Perfume, smoke and the heavy sweetness of wine occupy the air, while music rises from somewhere beyond the first room and disappears beneath overlapping conversation. People move constantly through the space: attendants carrying cups, patrons shifting seats, women and men drawing closer to anyone whose attention rests upon them for longer than a moment.
There is too much of everything. Too much noise for any single thought to hold its shape, too much warmth and movement for stillness to last, too many hands and mouths and bodies offering something immediate.
You understand something about Aegon then, though not enough to explain him.
No one here requires an account of why a person wants to be touched. No one asks what the wanting means, whether it will last or what must be offered after it ends. Money has answered the practical questions before desire is ever spoken aloud. If one pleasure fails, another cup, another song or another body waits nearby.
You can imagine Aegon younger, angrier and drunk enough that wanting pleasure and wanting relief from himself became indistinguishable. You can imagine him entering a room like this and allowing the noise and warmth to close over him until nothing existed beyond the next sensation.
You understand why he might have returned.
That, however, does not explain why he has brought you.
Aegon remains beside you while your attention moves through the room. He does not examine the available companions with any interest of his own. He watches where you look instead. There are men among them as well as women, and he must have considered that while arranging the evening.
“I know what you are thinking,” he says. “This is not for me.”
“You expect me not to wonder?”
“Wonder if you like, but there is no one here I came to see, and I did not bring you so that I might persuade you to let me fuck someone else.”
The answer is low and blunt. Something almost offended has entered his expression.
“You used to come here.”
“Yes.”
“And now you have brought me.”
“For you.”
He says it with enough force that a woman seated nearby glances toward you before politely returning her attention to her companion.
Aegon notices and lowers his voice,
“You know where I spend my nights. I am in your bed, or in your rooms making myself objectionable until you let me into it. I am not…concealing some second life from you. There is nothing here I want.”
He says it defensively rather than tenderly, but there is no hesitation in him. His eyes remain upon you, and the people surrounding him might as well be part of the furniture.
“This is yours,” He continues. “You may choose whoever pleases you. If you want a man, take one. If you want a woman, take one. If you want both, I have paid enough that no one here will object. There is a room ready, no one enters it without your permission, and no one touches you unless you ask. You may stay for an hour or until morning, you may only look, you may decide you hate the entire idea and leave now. I will not interfere.”
He speaks too quickly for you to interrupt without speaking over him. Each qualification seems intended to establish the completeness of the offer. If there is any limit to the freedom he has arranged, he means to find it and remove it before you can object.
“At no point have I told you that I wanted this.”
“No,” He concedes, looking away for a moment, a twitch in his expression, a barely there furrow of his nose. “No one asked what you wanted before they put you in my bed. That is rather the fucking point.”
The vulgarity draws another glance from nearby, but Aegon appears not to notice or care this time.
“You knew what I was, everyone did. I had been through half the whores in the city, and you had never been with anyone. Then they gave you to me, called the matter settled.”
He gestures at the room, impatient with the difficulty of putting the thought into words.
“So now you may.”
“May what?”
“Choose,” The word comes out more harshly than the offer requires. I had already fucked whoever I wanted. You…had me.”
His gaze moves briefly across the room before returning to yours, “You might have chosen differently.”
The words are delivered with deliberate carelessness, but the attempt does not conceal what it costs him to say them.
“Aegon…”
“Do not tell me otherwise because you think I require comforting. I am not asking you to lie.”
“You have already decided what my answer must be without asking me.” You answer in a hiss, leaning closer. It crosses your mind that you might be the only married couple in the Seven Kingdoms that chooses a brothel as the place to argue.
“I have decided only that you should have been permitted to answer.”
“And you believe this provides the answer.”
“It provides a choice.”
The simplicity with which he says it troubles you more than a longer defence might have. He had others before you; you had no one. To him, that appears to be enough.
“And if I want no one here?”
His confidence falters, although only briefly.
“Then we leave.”
“That is all?”
His brow furrows.
“What else would there be?”
“You have spent the entire evening paying careful attention to my enjoyment of it, and now you expect me to believe you do not care what I choose.”
“I did not say I would enjoy watching you choose someone else,” The admission comes sharply. Aegon looks away again, jaw set, as though irritated that the truth has been dragged into the open. “I said you may. Those are different things.”
The contradiction sits more honestly between you than anything he has said since bringing you here. he has not arranged the evening because the possibility pleases him, but despite the fact that it does not.
You look around the room again. His attention follows yours despite himself. He has not selected someone he believes you ought to prefer or narrowed the offer according to his own taste. He has made it as broad as the house allows, even though the possibility of your using it has drawn every trace of ease from him.
The evening begins to take on a shape you had not understood before. He has placed his old reputation, the marriage arranged for you and the previous night beside one another as though they belong to the same problem and might be answered by the same gesture.
“Is this because of last night?”
Aegon goes still.
“I had thought of it before.”
Your eyes narrow, “That was not my question.”
His gaze moves past you for a moment. There’s a brief flash of irritation in his eyes, less at the question than at being prevented from answering the easier version of it.
“Last night made me think it was no longer a foolish idea.”
“Why?”
“Because it did.”
“Aegon.”
There is more steel in your voice now. You have used that tone with him before, when he has resisted simply because resistance allows him to delay giving you what you asked for. He recognizes it, and his mouth tightens, for a moment looking ready to offer another insolent answer before he chooses against it.
“You asked me what I wanted,” He admits, “I told you.”
“And I held you.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
He says it quickly, almost irritably, and you realize he does believe you. He is not accusing you of pity or of pretending you were forced; and yet your willingness has not resolved whatever troubled him upon waking.
“Then what is the problem?”
“There is no problem.”
Slowly, you point out, “You brought me to a brothel, Aegon.”
“Yes, I am aware.”
Certainly not aware enough of the absurdity of this, so you continue,
“Because I held you.”
“Not because you held me,” His voice sharpens. He looks at you, frustrated now, as though the distinction is obvious but impossible to put into words. “Because I-I came to you like that. Because I asked. Because you…you…”
“What should I have done?”
“I do not know,” The admission is immediate and angry. He drags a hand through his hair. “This was simpler before you made me explain it.”
“I gather.”
“I had an idea. It was a good one, until you began staring at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He sighs, turning fully toward you. He opens his eyes absurdly wide and thrusts his head forward without moving the rest of his body, holding the expression with his head tilted slightly to the side.
For a moment you only stare back.
Then, despite yourself, you almost laugh.
His face relaxes at once, faintly pleased with himself, though the irritation has not entirely left him.
Taking a breath, he explains, “You wanted to. Fine. I believe you. I am not accusing you of anything,” His gaze moves briefly around the room and returns to you. “I thought of this afterward. That is all.”
It plainly is not all, it is apparently only as much as he can say without either abandoning the idea or admitting he does not understand it himself.
Aegon reaches into his coat and opens one hand between you. A gold dragon rests in his palm.
“Take it,” He says. “Choose anyone you like.”
His hand remains steady, but the tension in his wrist is visible. When your gaze moves from the coin toward the room, his eyes follow despite his effort to keep them fixed upon you.
There are enough people present that the offer cannot be dismissed as symbolic. A man near the stairs smiles when you look in his direction, a woman beside the fire meets your gaze without coyness. Beyond them are others, each available because Aegon has paid for the possibility that you may prefer them.
He does not withdraw his hand.
Whatever answer he believes may be found here, he means to allow you to give it.
You reach for the gold dragon and lift it from his palm. You turn the piece of gold over once between your fingers.
He has given you the room. Men and women wait beneath the warm light, some occupied already, others watching the passage of patrons with patient interest. A man near the stairs meets your gaze again, the woman beside the fire has not looked away.
Aegon says nothing.
He has spent the evening insisting upon your freedom to choose, and now that you appear to be considering it, he holds himself unnaturally still. His eyes follow yours despite every effort not to. He does not step closer, draw your attention elsewhere or offer any judgment upon the people before you. Whatever pain exists in the exercise, he means to endure it without interfering.
You could choose anyone here. You look at the wide expanse of possibility.
The man near the stairs is handsome, the woman beside the fire is beautiful. You can even imagine wanting either of them in some other life, under other circumstances, but the sight of them produces no sudden curiosity and no belated sense of deprivation.
Nothing in the room alters what you want.
You look back at your husband.
He stands beside you in a house that knows him too well. The woman at the entrance recognized him before he spoke. Others may know him more intimately than that. The thought catches, and prods at a prideful, territorial part of you. Some here may have touched him, heard him laugh, watched him abandon himself to whatever immediate pleasure allowed him to forget the rest of his life for a few hours.
You knew those people existed before tonight, but seeing the ease with which the house receives him makes the knowledge sharper.
Aegon had walked through half the city before he was given to you. He has arrived here now convinced that this history left you with something missing, and has responded by placing more strangers between you and waiting to see whether one of them might become preferable.
Irritation returns, quieter and more possessive than before.
He has brought you here convinced that you might discover another person preferable if only the opportunity were placed before you. He has asked you to choose.
The answer is obvious.
You could return the coin and ask to leave, but he might call that propriety, loyalty or concern for him. He has already instructed you not to comfort him. Refusal would leave him free to decide that you had spared him rather than chosen him.
So you turn your hand and open your palm.
The gold dragon rests upon it.
Aegon looks down. For a moment, he does not move.
Then his expression tightens with an understanding that is entirely wrong.
“You need not give it back.”
“I am not.”
His gaze lifts to yours. “Then what are you doing?”
“I have chosen.”
Something changes in his face before he understands. Hope appears too quickly to be concealed, only to falter beneath his confusion.
He looks past you toward the room, searching for the person you mean.
“Who?”
“You.”
Aegon goes still.
Pleasure reaches him first. The strain around his mouth eases, and he takes half a step toward you before the movement stops as abruptly as it began.
“You already have me.”
He says it with genuine bewilderment. He has brought you here to obtain something your marriage did not already contain and cannot understand why you would spend his gold upon what has been yours from the beginning.
“You told me to choose anyone I wanted.”
“Yes, b-…”
“I have.”
You take his hand before he can turn the objection into another argument.
His fingers are warm and slightly unsteady when you place the coin against his palm. You fold them over it one at a time, slowly enough that he cannot mistake the gesture for returning something you do not want.
His eyes remain fixed upon your face.
The room continues around you. Music and conversation overlap; attendants move between tables; someone laughs nearby. The woman who greeted you watches the gold disappear into Aegon’s fist and then looks away, her expression professionally blank.
You find that you do not mind being observed.
Whatever anyone in this house once knew of him, he is standing before you now, and he is the one you have chosen.
“Keep it.” You order.
His fist closes more tightly around the coin, and a smile curves at your lips at the sight.
For another moment, he only stares at you. He seems to expect the meaning to shift if he waits long enough, as though you may yet laugh, admit that you are sparing him or point past his shoulder toward someone else.
You do none of those things.
Aegon moves into your space so suddenly that it nearly startles you. His free hand finds your waist and draws you against him, closing the careful distance he has maintained since you entered the house. He does not quite kiss you. His face comes close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek, and then he stops to look at you again.
“You are certain.”
He tries to give the words the shape of one of his usual presumptions, but there is too much pleasure beneath them.
You touch his jaw.
“I chose.”
The remaining strain falls away so quickly that he appears almost startled by his own relief.
His smile is brighter than the one he wore through the city and far less controlled. There is something disbelieving in it, an animation that makes him look younger and faintly ridiculous. He arranged an entire brothel to offer you anyone you might want and is now barely able to contain his delight that you selected the man who brought you.
He presses closer. His hand shifts around your waist, firm and familiar, and he gives you one brief kiss at the corner of your mouth, as though unable to resist touching you but unwilling to begin anything here that cannot be finished.
Then he is moving again.
The forced momentum that carried him toward the brothel has disappeared. He asks for the room with an eagerness he makes no effort to conceal and guides you toward the stairs before the woman has finished answering him.
You let him lead. He knows the house, and the hand at your waist no longer feels like part of an arrangement he must complete. He keeps you close as you climb, glancing at you often enough that you begin to suspect he still expects you to change your mind.
The gold dragon remains enclosed in his other hand.
At the upper landing, an attendant opens the door and steps aside. Aegon follows you inside, dismisses her with a nod and closes the door himself.
The noise of the house dulls at once. Music becomes a low pulse beneath the floor, and the voices below soften until their words can no longer be distinguished.
The room is warm. Wine waits upon a table, and the curtains around the bed have been tied back. Aegon remains beside the door after closing it, one hand still resting upon the latch.
The energy that brought him up the stairs has not left him. Without the next action immediately before him, however, it begins to turn restless again.
His gaze lowers to his closed fist.
He opens it. The coin lies in his palm.
For a moment, he studies it. Downstairs, it had represented whoever else you might choose. Now it belongs to him, and he appears uncertain what should follow from that.
He turns the gold dragon between his fingers.
“You already had me,” He says again, quieter now. “But you insisted upon paying anyway.”
His eyes lift to yours.
The corner of his mouth begins to curve.
“So,” He holds the coin between two fingers. “What is it you have bought?”
You recognize the invitation in his voice. The seriousness of the moment has not vanished, but he has found a game to place around it, and you have no desire to refuse him.
You look at him where he stands beside the door, still holding the coin between his fingers.
“Come closer.” You order.
Aegon pushes away from the door.
He does not hurry, although the restless energy that brought him upstairs remains visible in the movement. The gold dragon disappears into his closed hand as he crosses the room, his attention fixed upon you with an intensity that makes the few steps between you feel longer than they are.
He stops within reach.
The corner of his mouth remains faintly curved, as though he is still privately amused by the fact that you have purchased what was already yours. The strain that followed him into the brothel has not entirely left him, but it has loosened enough for something familiar to show beneath it.
“My Lady.” He answers, a bow of his head in greeting or deference. He has never called you that. The unfamiliar title is enough for you to understand the game and play along.
You look at him as though you have not spent months learning every line of his face. His hair has fallen untidily across his forehead from the walk through the city, and his cheeks remain faintly flushed from the cold outside. There is nothing of the careful elegance a house such as this might teach a companion to offer. He stands before you in princely clothes, visibly pleased with himself and waiting to discover what use you intend to make of him.
“Do you belong to this...establishment?”
Aegon glances around the room for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders with a downward curve of his mouth.
“Once, perhaps. I came often enough that no one needed to ask my name. That was close enough.”
“And not anymore?”
“I am married.”
The answer is immediate and faintly self-satisfied. Of all the men from whom you might have expected to hear marriage offered as an explanation for abandoning a brothel, Aegon had once been the least likely.
“That does not usually stop men.”
“No,” He agrees with ease, “I did not expect it to stop me either.”
He looks at you while he says it, then away, considering the matter as if it had happened without his participation.
“I thought I would come back. I certainly meant to, once or twice. Then I would leave her rooms and find myself halfway back before I had reached the stairs. Or I would remember that she would know, and abandon the notion entirely.”
“She might not.”
“She would.”
The certainty pleases you. Aegon steps closer, though he does not appear to notice that he has done so.
“She would not need to accuse me,” He continues, “That would have been easier. She would look at me, and I would know that she knew, and then I would have to wait and discover what it had cost me.”
There is no pride in the admission, there is no mention of vows, duty or a husband’s honour. He speaks only of appetite and consequence, of finding that the risk of losing your attention outweighed whatever pleasure had once brought him here.
“And now?”
“Now there is nothing downstairs I want,” The answer seems to leave him without preparation. He looks briefly annoyed by its ease and tries to bury it beneath something lighter. “Unless the wine has improved. It was dreadful before.”
You do not indulge the diversion.
“Does your wife know?”
“Know what?”
“That you would rather be with her.”
Aegon shifts closer without appearing to notice he has done so.
“She knows that I sleep in her bed. She knows that I interrupt her while she reads and appear in whichever room she has gone to when she wishes to be left alone. She complains that I take up too much space and steal the covers.”
“She sounds like a difficult woman.”
“She is.”
The warmth in his expression contradicts him.
He continues speaking, his voice easier now that the fiction has given him enough distance from the subject.
“I have explained that if she did not want me underfoot, she should not have married me. She claims that I was underfoot before the wedding as well, which is irrelevant. At least now I have a right to be there.”
You nearly tell him that such right has never existed, but decide against it. The argument would only please him, and there is something unexpectedly endearing in hearing him describe the ordinary intrusions of your marriage as though they prove his case.
You tilt your head to the side, studying him for another heartbeat before you quietly prod,
“You must love her very much.”
Something in Aegon’s expression falters before becoming still. He looks down at the coin enclosed in his hand, and when he speaks again, the playfulness has thinned from his voice.
He turns the gold dragon once against his palm.
“I would do anything for her.”
The answer comes quietly, without the insolence he might have used to make it less earnest.
Something hungry and entirely unbecoming of a woman of your station coils at your chest, settles somewhere under your ribs, and your voice is rough when you ask,
“Anything?”
“Anything she asks. It need not be wise,” His mouth moves faintly, a barely-there smile, “It often is not.”
A smile of your own curves at your lips, and you muse,
“She is a very fortunate woman.”
Aegon laughs.
It is a small, bitter sound, emptied of amusement almost before it leaves him. He turns toward the bed as though you have made a joke and he is sparing you the embarrassment of acknowledging it.
“You need not mock me.”
The response irritates you more than the laugh.
You close the remaining distance and place your hand against his jaw.
His skin is warm beneath your palm. The muscles there tighten immediately, and when you guide his face back toward yours, he resists for a moment, not enough to pull away, only enough to show that he would prefer not to watch you continue what he has mistaken for cruelty.
“Look at me,” Aegon obeys. “I am not mocking you.”
His throat moves beneath your thumb.
“She is very fortunate,” You tell him. “And she loves you.”
He remains tense against your hand, eyes fixed upon yours. The music below reaches the room as a muted pulse, joined briefly by footsteps in the corridor before they pass.
Then his breath leaves him and warms the inside of your wrist.
His jaw loosens. His lashes lower, and his face settles more fully into your palm before he seems to realize he has allowed it. He does not retreat. He only watches you from beneath his lashes, waiting.
One hand rises toward your waist and stops just short of touching you.
“May I kiss you, my Lady?”
The formality remains, but the playfulness has gone from his voice.
“You may.”
He bends before the permission has fully settled.
His mouth touches yours carefully and pauses. When you do not turn away, he kisses you again with more certainty, his waiting hand closing around your waist.
The grip is firmer than he appears to intend. His fingers gather the fabric of your dress before spreading against your side, drawing you nearer until his body meets yours.
There is nothing measured in the kiss after that. Relief has made him impatient. You feel it in the uneven breath against your mouth and in the way he follows each small movement of your head, unwilling to surrender even the little distance required to breathe.
You let him have the kiss until the answering want in you begins to pull you after him, until it would be easier to let his urgency determine what follows than to remember that you brought him upstairs to be used at your pleasure.
Then you press your palm against his chest.
His mouth follows yours for a fraction of a moment before he understands. His body stills beneath your hand, though you can feel his breathing continue rapidly through the layers between you.
He draws back only far enough to look at you. His lips remain parted, his forehead almost touching yours. When he begins to lean closer again, you keep him where he is.
“I paid for your time,” You remind him, a smile curving at your lips. “I intend to use it.”
His attention sharpens, a breath stutters halfway into his chest. The hand at your waist shifts, and the corner of his mouth begins to rise.
You lift your arms slightly.
Aegon looks at your cloak and understands.
He releases you with visible reluctance and places the gold dragon upon the table beside the wine. The coin strikes the wood with a quiet, distinct sound.
Then he steps behind you.
Before his hands reach the clasp, you feel the warmth of him at your back. His breath moves over the skin near your ear as he lowers his head to see what he is doing.
His fingers settle beneath your throat.
He knows the fastening, though it requires enough care that one knuckle brushes repeatedly beneath your jaw before it comes loose. The cloak slackens around your shoulders, and Aegon draws it away slowly, its weight dragging along your upper arms before he catches it and places it aside.
“The gloves.”
He returns to stand before you and takes your left hand between both of his.
His thumb slips beneath the fabric at your wrist before he begins to draw it down. The glove catches lightly against your knuckles, and he frees each finger with a patience that makes the modest undressing feel more intimate than it ought to.
He removes the second in the same way.
When both hands are bare, he keeps them in his. His thumb follows the faint mark the fabric has left around one wrist, then crosses the center of your palm.
Aegon lowers his head.
You feel his breath before his mouth touches you. The kiss lingers against the center of your palm, warmer and less ceremonial than the gesture pretends to be.
The touch travels farther than it should. Your fingers curl once, an involuntary movement that draws his eyes upward before he lifts his mouth from your skin.
“My lady,” he murmurs against your palm.
The words and his breath move together across it. You take your hand back before he can tempt you further and turn away from him, issuing another order,
“The dress.”
For a moment, he stands close without touching you. Then his fingers find the uppermost fastening.
The first opens easily. The next resists him.
A ring catches softly against the clasp. He mutters something beneath his breath and tries again, more carefully. His fingertips press through the fabric against your back and occasionally slip beneath its edge, grazing the warmer skin below.
His breath warms the nape of your neck.
Aegon is usually impatient with dresses. He has torn ribbons, bent hooks and complained at length about the number of obstacles placed between him and your body. Tonight, he works in silence.
The quiet draws your attention to every smaller sound: metal against metal, cloth shifting beneath his fingers, the muted music below and the breath he releases when the final fastening yields.
The repeated brush of his fingertips beneath the edge of the dress turns each stubborn fastening into its own delay. By the time the final clasp yields, your breathing has shortened enough that you are grateful he stands behind you and cannot see your face.
The dress loosens across your back.
He slides his palms beneath the fabric at your shoulders and eases it down. The material drags slowly over your skin, baring first one shoulder and then the other.
Cool air reaches you.
His mouth follows before the chill can settle.
The first kiss sends a shiver across the skin he has bared. At the second, your head inclines before you decide to allow it, exposing more of your neck. Aegon’s hand tightens at your waist, and the breath he draws against your shoulder tells you he noticed.
He no longer seems restless. All that movement has narrowed into the patient work of his hands and mouth, each touch followed by a pause in which he waits to feel what you permit next.
You turn beneath his palms.
Aegon steps back only far enough to let you face him. His gaze drops immediately to the loosened dress, lingering before he pulls it back to your face.
The look pleases you.
You touch his cheek.
Aegon leans into your palm before he can decide whether to allow it. The weight of his face settles there, his eyes closing for a moment as his shoulders ease beneath his coat.
His mouth is still reddened from the kiss, and seeing him rest against your hand like this, softened, waiting and already so willing to be directed, sends another slow pull of desire through you.
His eyes open.
He lifts his head slightly, but not enough to break the contact. The look he gives you is uncertain, as though he is waiting to discover whether you noticed what he has done.
You do not withdraw.
You pass your thumb once over his cheekbone.
“What else does my lady desire?” He asks. His voice is softer now, the question made less playful by the fact that he remains nearly resting in your hand.
You let your palm slide from his cheek to the center of his chest. His breath pauses beneath it.
You apply the slightest pressure.
“Kneel.”
Aegon’s eyes lift to yours.
His pupils widen, and his mouth parts upon a breath. Then the corner of his mouth moves.
He lowers himself without looking away.
Your hand remains against his chest as he begins to descend, feeling the shift of his body beneath it. It passes to his shoulder as he sinks and leaves him only when he moves beyond your reach.
Aegon settles onto his knees before you, his face upturned and the remnants of your touch still visible in the softness of his expression.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The position is familiar, but the setting is not. Music continues beneath the floor, joined by laughter too muffled to distinguish from any other sound, and the gold dragon remains upon the table where he placed it. Downstairs, strangers drink and touch and choose one another according to simpler arrangements.
Here, Aegon waits.
His hands rest upon his thighs. His gaze passes once over the loosened fabric at your shoulders before returning to your face, and the want in it is so direct that your body responds before he has touched you again.
You pass your fingers through his hair.
His eyes lower. He leans into the contact, following your hand for the brief distance it moves, but does nothing more than you have permitted. The stillness is not ease. You can see the anticipation held through his shoulders and in the way his fingers press into his own thighs.
You step back until the carved post at the corner of the bed meets your shoulder. Its wood is solid beneath your hand when you reach behind yourself to steady your weight.
Aegon follows on his knees, closing the small distance without being told. He stops before you and places one hand at the hem of your loosened dress.
His eyes lift.
You nod.
His fingers gather the fabric slowly, drawing it upward past your ankles and calves. Cool air moves over the skin he exposes. His mouth follows the path of his hands, first at the inside of one knee and then higher, every kiss separated from the next by the warmth of his breath.
He knows there is no need to hurry.
You can feel how much he wants to.
His grip tightens whenever your fingers move in his hair. His breathing grows heavier as the dress rises farther. When you adjust your footing and the movement brings you nearer to his mouth, a small sound catches low in his throat.
Desire pulls sharply through you at the evidence of his.
Aegon lifts one of your legs and guides it over his shoulder. One hand settles firmly behind your knee, bearing your weight, while the other keeps the gathered dress away from his face. You brace yourself against the bedpost and look down at him.
He looks back.
The sight of him there, the silver hair already disordered beneath your hand, his mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, his body held beneath yours because you placed it there; sends heat through you with enough force that your fingers tighten around the carved wood.
Aegon notices.
His mouth curves against your skin.
You pull his hair.
The smile disappears, but the brief flash of pleasure in his eyes does not.
He kisses higher.
The first deliberate touch of his mouth draws a breath from you before you can contain it. His hand tightens behind your knee, holding you steady when your body reacts.
He knows you too well to require a sequence of instructions. He knows the difference between the breath that asks him to continue and the one that warns he has moved too quickly. He knows when the tightening of your hand means more pressure, when it means patience, and when the smallest change in angle will make your leg tremble against his shoulder.
The knowledge appears in each adjustment.
His head turns when your hips shift. His tongue slows beneath the tightening of your fingers and returns with greater certainty when you do not draw him away. His free hand moves around your thigh and pulls you nearer, not enough to disturb your balance, only enough to remove the distance your body keeps instinctively creating.
The room contracts around his mouth.
The music below loses its rhythm. The bedpost beneath your palm, the weight of your leg across his shoulder and the heat of his hand behind your knee become the only fixed things left.
Aegon looks up whenever the angle permits it.
The glances are brief, but each one finds your face. When he sees pleasure there, his own becomes visible. His eyes darken. His fingers dig more firmly into your thigh. Once, when your head falls back and his name leaves you without intention, the sound he makes against you sends a vibration through your body.
Your other hand joins the first in his hair.
His response is immediate. His hips shift where he kneels, too abrupt and unguarded to be part of the game, and the evidence of his arousal strains against his clothes. He draws a rough breath through his nose but makes no attempt to touch himself.
His hands remain upon you.
There is no restraint left in his eagerness, but there is still care. Even as his own pleasure becomes impossible to hide, he does not lose the particular rhythm your body has taught him.
Another person might possess skill, patience or beauty. Another person might have learned the responses of countless bodies in this house.
Aegon knows yours.
He recognizes what you need from a change in breath too slight to become language and pursues it with a satisfaction that belongs as much to him as the pleasure belongs to you.
The tension gathers until remaining still becomes impossible.
Your heel presses into his back. Your grip tightens hard enough in his hair to pull a broken sound from him, but his mouth does not leave you. The pressure remains constant while the rest of your body strains toward release.
Aegon’s eyes lift again.
He sees it approaching.
His hand spreads across your thigh, securing you against him as pleasure breaks through you. Your head falls back against the post. For several breaths there is nothing beyond the force of it, his mouth and the hard support of his shoulder beneath your leg.
He continues until your fingers loosen in his hair.
Even then, he does not move away immediately.
His mouth softens against you. He presses one final kiss to the trembling skin of your inner thigh and lingers there, breathing heavily, before lowering your leg from his shoulder.
His hand follows its descent. He steadies your knee, your calf, then your ankle, keeping hold of you until both feet are planted beneath you again.
You remain against the bedpost while your breathing settles.
Aegon stays on his knees.
His face is flushed. His lips are wet and reddened, his hair thoroughly ruined beneath your hands. His chest rises rapidly beneath his clothes, and his arousal remains unmistakable.
He looks pleased by all of it.
Not only by what he has done to you, but by what doing it has done to him. Satisfaction sits openly in his face, softened by the expectation with which he waits beneath you.
“Was I good?”
The question is quiet, familiar and almost indulgent. He already knows that he pleased you. He wants the knowledge given back to him in words.
You pass your thumb across his lower lip.
“You were. You’ve pleased me.”
Pleasure flashes across his face, sharp and undisguised. His hand closes more firmly around your ankle, and the corner of his mouth rises beneath your thumb.
“You knew that already.” You say softly, barely a tease.
“I had reason to hope.”
The smile that curves at his lips is sly, proud. The answer might sound insufferably smug if the delight beneath it were not so obvious.
“You wanted to hear it.”
“I prefer certainty.”
His lips move against your thumb as he speaks.
You allow the contact for another moment before withdrawing your hand.
“Stand.”
Aegon rises.
The time spent kneeling has left a temporary stiffness in his legs, but he hides it quickly beneath the eagerness with which he returns to your space. His hands begin to settle at your waist.
You stop him with one finger against his chest.
“Undress.”
His breathing catches.
There is no hesitation. He reaches for the fastening of his coat, already beginning to pull it open.
“Slowly.” You add after a heartbeat.
His hands pause. Aegon looks at you.
You have moved to sit at the edge of the bed, the dress still loose around your shoulders and your breathing not yet completely restored. From there, you can see him fully.
You offer a smile and a tilt of your head, your brows lifting slightly as you look expectantly at him.
Because good behavior might as well be rewarded with an explanation, you add, “I want to watch.”
The effect begins before he moves again.
His posture changes. His shoulders ease backward, exposing more of his chest beneath the loosened collar, and the breath he draws makes the fabric shift against him. His gaze passes over you, your bare shoulders, the disordered dress, your knees parted just enough to leave room for him if you called him nearer, before returning to his own hands.
He opens the coat, but this time he does not hurry.
He draws it from one shoulder and then the other, allowing the fabric to slide gradually along his arms before catching it in one hand. Beneath it, his shirt has come loose at the throat. The skin visible there is flushed, and the rise of his chest remains too rapid for composure.
He places the coat beside your cloak. His eyes return to you immediately.
You let your gaze travel over him without hiding it.
Aegon sees.
The knowledge moves visibly through his body. His chin lifts. His shoulders draw back a little farther. Not with princely dignity, but with the pleasure of realizing that your silence contains appetite rather than judgment.
His fingers move to the belt at his waist.
He draws the leather through the buckle slowly, eyes fixed upon yours. When your gaze lowers to follow his hands, his mouth curves.
The movement of the belt becomes more deliberate after that.
He is not presenting some polished routine learned in rooms like this, there is too much genuine excitement in him for polish. But he begins allowing each action to last: the pull of leather through metal, the brief pause before setting it aside, the way he lets his shirt fall open farther before reaching for the next fastening. Your attention has made him conscious of his own body.
When he reaches for the hem of his shirt, you stop him with a small movement of your hand.
“Come here.”
Aegon obeys immediately.
He steps between your knees, the open shirt shifting around him. You place both hands at his waist and slide them beneath the fabric.
His stomach tightens beneath your palms.
The heat of his skin contrasts with the cooler air of the room. You move upward slowly, feeling his body react ahead of your hands: the tightening of muscle, the widening of his breath, the harder beat beneath his ribs.
Your fingers pass over his chest.
Aegon’s mouth parts.
He watches your face rather than your hands. Every response you allow him to see affects him; the lowering of your gaze, the way your thumbs move across his skin, the breath you take when the shirt opens farther and reveals him.
You press your palms across his chest and up to his shoulders. He trembles once beneath the touch.
You push the shirt from him, and the fabric slips down his arms and gathers briefly around his elbows. He frees himself without stepping away, letting it fall behind him without looking to see where it lands.
For a moment, you only examine him.
His skin is flushed from throat to chest. His breathing moves visibly through his body. Desire has made him both restless and extraordinarily attentive, as though he might move into your hands at the slightest invitation but will remain precisely where you have placed him until it comes.
You trace one finger from the center of his chest toward his stomach.
His hand begins to rise, but you look up sharply and it stops in the air between you. A small, pleased smile moves across his mouth.
“May I?”
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
His hand lowers.
The obedience sends another pulse of want through you.
You let him step back and continue.
The remainder of his clothes comes away without haste. You do not need to direct each movement. He understands that the act of watching is itself what you asked for.
He turns when a gesture tells him to. He pauses when your attention catches. Occasionally his eyes leave yours long enough to follow your gaze across his body, and each time he discovers where you are looking, his arousal becomes more pronounced.
By the time he stands naked before you, the display no longer resembles service performed at a distance.
You have shaped it together.
He does not conceal himself or pretend indifference beneath your scrutiny. He stands where you placed him, skin warm and flushed, breath open, his body responding visibly to being watched.
Only his eyes remain restless.
They return to your face after every silence, every shift in your posture, every moment in which your gaze lingers without explanation.
You let him look.
He finds what he wants in your expression. You make no attempt to conceal the desire with which you examine him, and each time he recognizes it, something in his body tightens with renewed pleasure.
Still, his gaze returns.
One confirmation does not prevent him from seeking the next.
Your attention falls to the loosened ribbon hanging from your side, a long-since-loosened fastening of your dress.
You draw it free.
Aegon notices the movement. His eyes lower to the silk between your hands and then rise again. Recognition appears, followed immediately by a slow, anticipatory smile.
“Close your eyes.” You order. He obeys.
His lids lower without hesitation. His chin lifts slightly, offering himself to the familiar act. He knows what the ribbon means. The memory of other times you have taken his sight changes his breathing before the silk touches him.
You stand.
Aegon remains still as you approach, though his arousal shifts visibly when you enter his reach.
The ribbon passes over his eyes.
You draw it around his head, moving his hair away from the knot. He turns slightly into your hands, helping you secure it without needing to be asked.
When you finish, your fingers remain briefly at the back of his neck.
Aegon releases a slow breath.
Without his gaze moving over you, his attention appears everywhere else at once. His head tilts toward the whisper of your dress. The muscles along his stomach tighten when you step away. His fingers flex and then relax at his sides.
The blindfold hides his eyes, but nothing else.
His mouth remains parted. His breathing deepens as you move around him. A faint smile still touches his lips, not insolent now, but expectant.
You pass behind him.
His head turns slightly in the wrong direction, following the sound rather than your position, and a quiet laugh leaves him when he realizes he has lost you.
The pleasure in it warms you.
You circle him without touching, allowing the anticipation to build.
Aegon grows very still. Not rigid, but receptive, expectant.
His shoulders remain loose, his hands open at his sides, his body exposed without any attempt to anticipate where your touch will land. He listens for you in the movement of fabric and the quiet pressure of your steps against the floor.
You stop before him, and his face turns toward you with surprising accuracy.
The silk covers his eyes, but eagerness remains visible in the lift of his chin, the tension low in his body and the breath he holds when he senses you near.
You raise your hand.
Thank you for reading!
Because I find it really fun to torture Aegon apparently, I'm writing a continuation to this one shot, from his perspective, where his head works against him and leads him to safewording/whatever is the Weserosi version of safewording. It's still smutty but a lot more angsty, and it provides a better insight into his thoughts during this piece also. I'll post it soon!
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
synopsis. Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought.
contents. smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider and is so spoiled that she has never seen a baby chick before, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, grief, show elements but also canon divergence, sex pollen, oral (f recieving), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, bath sex, reader is comically oblivious at some points, gwayne needs you so bad
a/n. 13.5k words wow big day for me, spoilers for the show?, inspired by a request i got (thank you very much anon wherever you are), inspired by the film lady chatterly’s lover at some points, takes place directly after jace dies and rhaenyra takes the throne
It was a glum day, the day you were told your brother was dead, and you were alone with the usurper’s uncle. The dread—that feeling that something was just wrong—settled deep in your stomach before the words came out of his mouth.
The Hightower army had found you many months prior, nearly deceased following an attack on your dragon, Silverwing. You had told her to fly home to Dragonstone, to leave you, and you have lived off of the hope that she made it back safe.
They took you as prisoner that day, and in spite of all you thought of them, they did not treat you too horribly. You believed it was like preparing a pig for slaughter, though, so you never wavered in your loyalty to your mother. You would die as a Black. It was not going to take the threat of death to let a word of the Green agenda come from your mouth.
Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.
Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.
He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.
Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.
You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.
The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.
Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.
You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.
“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”
The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”
He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.
He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”
Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.
Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.
“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.
You knew it was not a jest.
You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.
He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”
It pains him?
You will show him something that pains him.
There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.
Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.
Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.
day one
You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.
The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.
If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.
Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.
Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.
You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.
“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.
When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.
“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.
He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”
“Tell me one,” you counter.
All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.
Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”
“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.
day two
You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.
“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.
You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.
“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.
“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.
“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.
Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”
He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”
“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”
Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”
“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”
A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”
You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.
“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.
You nod. “I could.”
The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.
It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.
If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.
day three
The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.
Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.
You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.
He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.
When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.
“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.
Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”
You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.
He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”
“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”
“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”
You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.
The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.
Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.
Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.
And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.
“Ser?” you whisper.
“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.
You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.
“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.
He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”
You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.
Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.
“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.
Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”
“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.
Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.
You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.
He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.
You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.
The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.
You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.
Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.
“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.
Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”
You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”
“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”
His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.
You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.
The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.
“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”
That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.
You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.
day four
Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.
The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.
You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.
It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.
“What are they?” you whisper.
“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”
“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.
Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”
“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.
He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.
“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.
You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.
“Can I touch one?” you mumble.
He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”
You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.
Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.
Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.
He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.
The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.
His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.
You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.
Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—
Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.
“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.
“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.
“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.
You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.
He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.
“Don’t cry,” he comforts.
You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.
day five
Gwayne did not like to see you cry.
He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.
He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.
Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.
You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.
He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.
Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.
He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.
The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.
“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”
You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”
Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”
“Then why have you asked?”
He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”
“You jest.”
“I do not.”
You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”
“That is unneeded for you to know.”
“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”
His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”
“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.
“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”
“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”
“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.
You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”
“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.
“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”
Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?
“Do you remember his name?” he asks.
“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”
He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”
You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”
“What happened to him?”
You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”
He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”
“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.
“I suppose so.”
day six
The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.
It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.
“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—
“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”
Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.
He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”
The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.
“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.
His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.
The walk to your room is silent.
Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.
“I’m sorry—” he begins.
“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.
He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.
You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.
You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.
As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.
“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.
“It is,” he agrees solemnly.
You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.
Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.
“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.
Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”
Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.
“I fear the same.”
You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”
He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.
“As you wish, my princess.”
day seven
Your horse stops before you instruct it to.
In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.
You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.
You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.
“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”
“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”
The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.
You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.
Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.
Where is Gwayne?
You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.
His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.
He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.
You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.
“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.
Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.
You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.
“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.
“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.
You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?
He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.
The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.
“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.
“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”
You want to keel over and die.
You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.
Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”
“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”
“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.
“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.
We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—
Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.
Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.
He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.
In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.
Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—
His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.
You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.
Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.
You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.
He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.
“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.
It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.
He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.
Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.
“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.
He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”
And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.
The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.
His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.
You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.
His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.
Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.
The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.
It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.
The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.
You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.
Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.
He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.
“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”
You nod, but it is not enough.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.
Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.
You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.
You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.
His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.
You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.
He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.
Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.
He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.
“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.
You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.
He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.
“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“
You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.
It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.
You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.
You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“
You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.
You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.
“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”
You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.
Still, you breathe out a chuckle.
day nine
The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.
Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.
He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.
You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.
His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.
You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.
He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.
“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.
Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”
“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.
“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.
His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.
He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.
“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”
You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”
“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”
“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”
At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.
“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.
“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.
He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”
“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.
So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.
You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.
But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.
You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.
His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.
Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.
“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.
You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.
Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.
“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.
He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.
It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.
His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.
You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.
“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.
Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.
He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.
He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.
“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”
You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.
“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.
“Why not?” you breathe.
His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”
You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.
“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”
Ah. In that case—
Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.
It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.
Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.
Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.
You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.
It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.
He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.
It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.
His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.
You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.
“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.
He nods once. “As you wish.”
And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.
He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.
He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.
You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.
Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.
You think you might faint.
day fourteen
Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.
It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.
But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.
If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.
Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.
He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.
You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”
Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.
Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I want us to wed.”
Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.
“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.
“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.
“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.
Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.
“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”
“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”
“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”
Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.
As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.
“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.
Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.
You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.
He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.
The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.
The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.
“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”
You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.
Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.
He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.
“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.
It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.
He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.
One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.
The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.
His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.
There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.
He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.
In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.
“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.
day sixteen
When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.
You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.
Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.
You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.
You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.
When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.
He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.
“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.
His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”
For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.
Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.
You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.
It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.
“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.
Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.
You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.
“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”
His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.
The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.
“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.
She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.
You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.
But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.
The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.
day thirty five
You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.
The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.
It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.
But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.
You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.
If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.
He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.
You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.
But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.
These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.
If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.
A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.
You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.
TW: Suggestive, Pregnancy, Abortion talk, Theft mention, Religious themes for Genyen, Cringy use of pet names, Aegon mention, Moon tea mention, Not proof read (we die like men)
Notes: I wanted to write about how Ewanverse characters might react when they find out that you've accidentally fallen pregnant with their child. May do a part 2 with the billys and michael. Hope you enjoy!
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Abraham
You first tell Abraham on a beautiful summer day with the still breeze and sun high in the sky.
He was working away in the stables with your dad, sun beating down on his sturdy form and sweat dripping from his brow.
You pass your dad his lunch, tomato and ham sandwiches with thick salted butter "Ah, thanks love! Don't my daughter look after me Abe"
"Aye she does" he smirks, baby blues giving you a knowing look.
You look away shyly and take his hand to around the back of the stables when your father got distracted with his lunch.
He's handsy with you, fingers squeezing at your waist and pulling you in but you pry his hands away, fiddling with you hair "What's the matter love?"
And you just blurt it out.
You're nervous, apprehensive, scared even as he looks at you with wide eyes and mouth dropped to the floor.
"Say something Abe.."
He wets his lips, eyes fluttering around to the stable where your father sat "I- I dunno what to say love", he rubs the back of his neck, strong tattooed biceps flex.
You start to cry. maybe he won't love you now, maybe he won't want your hand in marriage anymore.
But Abraham was gentle, he was never cruel - he closed the gap between you, hands finding your waist again and anchoring you to him as if you would easily drift away; "Ay, ay c'mere love.. Now I don't want you crying over something like this."
"W-what're we gonna do?" Your tear filled eyes meet his crystal clear ones "Well, I'm just gonna 'ave to marry ya."
And he does.
He holds you tight, hands always finding your belly, light kisses peppered on your temples that always turn deeper as his fingers become greedier.
The more you swell, the more passionate he becomes. Holding you tight in your shared bed and mindlessly rubbing geometric shapes and nonsensical patterns on your swollen belly.
It wasn't what you both had planned, but it felt right.
And as soon as one babe is born, he's already thinking of giving it a sibling for 'company' of course.
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Ettore
This was not meant to happen.
This is something neither of you wanted to happen.
Your little dalliances behind closed doors, or wherever Ettore fancied taking you, were not meant to go this far.
Dibs could not resist herself when she found out you were pregnant; her experiment had worked (it didn't), she finally had created life (Ettore was not great at pulling out) and she would be damned if this were to be another failure.
"I'm pregnant Ettore."
"How do you know it's mine?"
Blunt. Blunt as always.
You give him a good slap on his muscular shoulder for that "You're the only one I've been with knobhead!"
He feigned pain, rubbing his shoulder aggressively "So? Doesn't mean Dibs didn't turkey baster some other guy's spunk up there" he sniffs through his nose as if this didn't concern him at all.
And it fucking stung.
Sure maybe you and Ettore meant nothing to each other, maybe it was all just primal urges and tension built from years without human touch - but when he held you.
Those nights when he would just hold you tight to him and kiss your temple - that couldn't have been nothing.
"I'm not fucking joking Ett, this is serious!"
He craned his head upwards as if he was praying to some God for help, yeah like that is going to help us now.
His sharp features glowed beautifully against the blue hues that lit the spaceship "A'right. I'll look after ya. Pinky promise." He turned his head down the corridor to not look at you but held out his pinky finger, you clasped your own around it and nearly missed the smile that graced his lips before he tucked his hands back into his trouser pockets; "Right, see you at lunch."
Something possessive took hold when Ettore found out you were pregnant. Something dark and deep rooted itself into his consciousness.
He had never felt that way before.
He found himself jealous when the others would speak to you or when you went to Dibs' office for your check-ups.
The more your stomach swelled, the more he clung to you. Hands finding themselves at your side and pulling you closer, he sat with you at lunch to make sure you were eating, he took over your chores retorting that 'You weren't doing it right'.
He did all this in silence. No one could know.
No one could find out that he had developed a soft spot for you and the child that grew inside you.
Not even you.
But you noticed.
Noticed his subtle possessiveness when he dragged you away for a 'quickie' when the other men were talking to you or how he would lead you away from Boyse and her complaining about your pregnancy.
How he would creep into your bunk at night thinking you were asleep, holding you tight with a kiss on the temple and hands smoothing over your pregnant belly with barely audible whispers of "I think I love you."
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Genyen
You were paralysed, hands clutching at the luxurious sheets of the hotel bed. It was supposed to be a relaxing trip, a spiritual retreat, instead you found yourself embroiled in some love affair with a Buddhist monk and now pregnant.
Pregnant. Pregnant?!
How could you let this happen? You balled your hands into fists leaving what felt like permanent creases in the fabric.
The door came squeaking open as your 'lover' stepped through, sneaking as always. A cheeky smile plastered on his lips, raising his eyebrows at what tantric activities he had planned for the night.
"Oh God", you felt sick as vomit raised up your throat "Uh I think you mean 'Oh Buddha' darling." He chuckled at that. Fucking chuckled.
You swallowed down the vomit, heat rising in your belly; "We need to chat Genyen."
His laugh stopped, it was as if a switch had been flipped within him, all that playfulness and mischief wiped from his expression till all that remained was arrogance.
"What's this about?" his eyebrow piqued.
"I'm pregnant."
He erupted with laughter at that, doubling over "That it? Thought it was something serious like."
This was bad. Very bad. He treated it as if it was all some joke, a big prank. He ran over to the bed and jumped on it with no care for the expensive mattress or silk sheets.
"This is fucking serious Shawn."
A slight huff of amusement escaped his lips at that "Who's this Shawn babe? Found another monk to fuck?" He brought his finger to your nose and tapped it lightly; "Boop! My name's Genyen!"
A joke. This was all one big joke to him. Well, this time he wasn't going to have the last laugh; "I saw your passport, I know you've been nicking from the temple.. and me."
His eyes blew wild at that before feigning hurt "Well, you see- It's a habit.. That's why I joined the order, my s-stepmum she-"
"You haven't even got a stepmum! You're full of shit!"
Then that arrogance returned "So what? You gonna tell on me? I'll be gone before you even know it."
Bile rose in your throat again and you couldn't contain it, you threw up into the golden bin next to the bed. "Jesus-" he recoiled, "I think- I think you mean 'Buddha'."
A small laugh left his lips as he swivelled on the bed, lean arms wrapped around your shoulders, fingers leaving comforting strokes "Now, that was a good one". He spotted the pregnancy test on the bedside table "So, you're really up the duff?"
You nodded weakly trying not to vomit again. "Listen- Can't we just get rid of it?"
You could, but you did not know if you would.
Your body began to shiver and tears fell onto your red hot cheeks; "I don't know if I can-"
He just nodded, still rubbing soothing patterns in your arms. Life was so good with you; he could eat, sleep and fuck you all day, plus the extra pocket money was nice; but- the baby? Yeah, that was bad.
Genyen didn't know if he could love you or it but sitting here in silence with you crying on his bony shoulder was enough for now.
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Aemond
You were a simple maidservant that caught the eye of the Prince, you had not meant to but that did not matter to Aemond. He greeted you affectionately in the comfort of his own chambers but treated you harshly around others.
The Prince could be cold and cruel but when he awoke in the night screaming and grasping at his eye, you softened - He would reach for you and only you.
Only you could cure what ailed him as his hands grasped at your skirts like a petulant child and whimpers in High Valyrian that you could not understand.
He would finally settle.
Settle in his bed with his athletic arms coiled around you as if he were a serpent, hands grasping at your meaty flesh and head pushing itself between your beasts, forehead begging to be stroked.
It was no surprise to you when you fell with child, the moon tea did not agree with you and some days it could not be brewed at all, with Aegon spending countless nights in Fleabottom there was no one to blame.
You stepped into his room as if it were any other day, his hand danced along the page as he wrote expertly with his quill "Your luncheon, my Prince." He gestured with the feather to seat it at the left of his desk.
You obliged but as the plate reached the table, a swift hand no longer holding the quill found itself at your waist and pulled you into his lap with a satisfied hum.
Startled, you tried to relieve yourself but with every movement, he countered you, hands hooked to your side. "I'll be done soon, Gevie." Your blush grew redder and redder by every flourish of the quill.
You had to tell him. You had to do it now.
Once finished he exhaled deeply relaxing into your touch, providing you some leeway to wriggle from his grasp. His eyes narrowed becoming predatory as he stalked closer to you.
Or perhaps you were craven and this could wait another day?
"And where are you running off to my little lamb?"
"I- I am needed in the kitchens- Dinner preparations start soon-" you cowered, taking languid steps backwards as not to bump into anything.
But he cornered you regardless "And why would a dragon want luncheon or dinner when a perfectly good feast is set in front of him, hmm lamb?"
"Well, I-" tell him. Tell him now. And you did; "I have missed my moon blood my Prince- At- at least two moons have passed since my last."
He stopped dead in his tracks at that. Blood run cold. The tension was palpable. He turned away from you to drink from his cup.
"And this could not be a symptom of something other-"
Cold. It was if the room ran cold. No warmth coloured his voice, leaving only what you assumed was disdain.
"I am fairly certain my Prince."
"Did you not drink the moon tea I had especially brewed for you?" "Yes, but-" "But?", he took a long swig of his wine at that, throat bobbing with every gulp. "I grew sick and well-" The sound of the glass pounded against the table resonated throughout the room; "You heaved?"
His head barely turned to the side, his lips tight and brow furrowed yet all you could do is nod as tears began to fill your eyes. "Moon tea is not as effective if one heaves-" "I- I know my P-Prince- I- tried to swallow it really, I did but-" was all you could stammer as sobs wracked through your body.
"That matter is of little concern now." He turns his head to you fully now as you try to swallow your tears, feet shuffling in place as if you were rooted to the floor; "Is it not?" You could only muster a nod.
He turns the rest of his body to you, harshly almost scolding; "You have a dragon growing in your belly now little lamb," his dark leather boots creak against the wooden floor of his room "you must not let it devour you."
He places a tender hand on your cheek, his calloused thumb gently wiping away the river of tears that have flooded your face "Gevie, avy jorrāelan"
You did not know the meaning of what he spoke but the look in his singular violet eye told you all you needed to know - love, pity, sorrow yet happiness. He planted a soft chaste kiss to your lips; "I will protect you."
Since that day all of your belongings, well what little you had, were moved to a smaller chamber opposite Aemond's; he had dresses made from the finest silks placed in your wardrobe, jewellery that glittered like his shining gemstone eye, the finest foods prepared for your fussy appetite and odd cravings - he spoiled you truly.
He spent every waking hour he had with you, you were stuck to him like flies to cattle - he would take you on walks in the gardens, spend hours reading to you by the fire and even write love poetry dedicated to you.
He lingered to be in your presence at all times.
Some days he had to treat you coldly, days when his mother or grandsire would exact their orders to him - they could not find out about you.
The more your belly swelled, the more loving and fervid Aemond became, whether it was sleeping in your chamber with hands roaming across your abdomen while speaking his mother tongue to his little dragon or whether it was impassioned love making with hot needy kisses, wandering hands and exclamations of adoration.
Aemond wanted nothing more than to have a life with you; to watch your belly swell over and over again, to watch the light in your eyes brighten when you saw him, to comfort your babes when needed.
That was the future he dreamt of as he watched the whistful breaths leave your chest, rising and falling in monotony, too deep in slumber to see how he watches you lovingly with his one eye.
BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN
─── ormund hightower
summary: a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after. (10k)
characters: ormund hightower / wife!reader, daeron targaryen, alicent hightower, viserys i targaryen, mentions of rhaenyra and daemon
contents: established relationship, found family, domestic bliss, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!ormund, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of pregnancy complications and miscarriages, brief mentions of blood and gore, canon typical manipulation and psychosis from ormund towards the end lol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
115 A.C. / Oldtown
The bed is still warm from your blood on the morning the babe arrives.
It had not been quite two days since the maester had drawn the small, still shape of your daughter from you and told you, gently enough as not to break you further, that she had never drawn breath at all. You had told none of the household that you had been carrying her at all, save for the maesters and your closest of handmaidens — for you had learned, after the second loss, how courtiers feed on grief like vultures to carrion. So while you wept for days longer than your babe would ever live, the rest of Oldtown simply assumed that their lady had taken ill with a woman’s ailment, and kept to her rooms accordingly.
But today the King is coming, and your mother would surely turn in her early grave if she knew the lady she raised up planned to receive a king from a sickbed — pallid, unlaced, and undone.
“There is no harm in resting, my love,” Ormund coos from across the room, watching with attentive eyes as your handmaiden laces you into a gown of Hightower green. You keep yourself braced on the wooden back of a chair and grit your teeth with every tug, pulling carefully to conceal the subtle bump of your stomach.
The man tilts his head and crosses his arms over the chest of his emerald doublet, in a feeble attempt to extinguish the worry searing between his lungs. “Viserys is a king man. He will understand. Alicent, more than anyone, would understand—”
“And what has Alicent lost?” you argue, sharper than you intended. Your head whips hard to the side in time to find Ormund flinching beneath the bite of your words — a small flicker at the edges of his eyes; a brief lowering of his brows.
You soften with a sigh a moment later and remind yourself that Ormund lost something too, even if the loss was not pulled from his body to claim it.
“Forgive me, I… I only meant that… The Queen has four living children. And she carried each one with grace— There is no part of her that could possibly understand how I feel… And I wouldn’t wish it upon her besides.”
Ormund exhales through his nose and takes a step closer, boots scuffing the cobbles. “Then at least let me tell them that you are unwell—”
“No,” you dismiss with a shake of your stubborn head, eyes shutting briefly when the corset tightens again. “I refuse to be spoken of like some frail, ailing thing while the King sups at our table.”
Your gaze is wet with unshed tears when they open again, snapping to Ormund’s pale ones with a glimmering determination. “I am the Lady Hightower,” you tell him, brows raised and eyes firm. “So I will greet them standing. On my own feet. In my own home.”
Ormund’s chest, still heavy with grief, blooms with a distant sort of pride at your words. Perhaps because a part of him had long understood that you did not always dream of being the Lady Hightower. Your marriage was made of meetings and ledgers and alliances rather than any actual tenderness, as was true in most great marriages in Westeros. He knows, had you had it your way, you would’ve wed that gardener’s boy you grew up with — who you attempted to bring with you to Oldtown upon your betrothal, along with many of your household’s servants.
Ormund had the brawny, olive-skinned boy sent away within a fortnight — the moment he understood what kind of feelings the peasant boy had for you, and you for him. It was perhaps the first mad thing he ever did for you and, by Ormund’s later admission, the first time he realized that he might love you truly. (Though he had not thought it mad at the time, or love until many moons later, when he was struck with the sudden realization that the thought of Oldtown with you in it would be entirely unbearable.)
“Then we shall go,” Ormund nods in acquiescence as he plants himself just ahead of you. His gaze fixes into a sterner look a second later, as he tilts his chin to his chest and ducks into your eyeline. “But know I am not happy about this.”
“And yet Oldtown will remain standing anyway,” you joke in a softer coo. “I have faith that we’ll survive one of your unhappy mornings, my lord.”
The walk from your chambers to the gates of Oldtown is not long, but you feel every stone beneath your slippers as if the journey were some great pilgrimage across the whole of Westeros.
You brace Ormund’s strong arm with both your hands, fingers curling into the fine wool of his coat hard enough to blanche your knuckles. He slows his long stride to match your smaller, more careful one without a word shared between you — a wall of green and muscles at your side, shielding you from the curious eyes of courtiers wondering why their lord and lady moved so slowly. So close.
It’s the first time you’ve tasted fresh air in three days. The breeze smells of the sea from the harbor and fish from the markets — mixing with the sweet citrus of the orange and lemon trees blooming in the gardens. Their white petals scatter like snow along the pale stone with every gust off the bay. You breathe in deeply through your nose, trying hopelessly to clear away the metallic tang of your own blood stubbornly clinging to the inside of your nostrils.
“His Grace, Viserys of House Targaryen,” the herald calls as the royal party files in on fine horses and gilded carriages, black banners snapping in the wind. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”
Viserys is the first to exit when the caravan finally stills. He descends the steps a knight places down for him, portlier than you remember from your last journey to King’s Landing, some years before your marriage. His kind face has started to wither from fatigue and age alike. The crown seems heavier upon his head, though perhaps it’s only from where his silver hair has started to thin at the scalp.
Alicent follows out just behind him. She wears a black dress with drooping sleeves and a veil to cover her long auburn curls, fit for a funeral procession. A knight of white armor and long black hair helps her descend the steps as she cradles a small, dark bundle squirming in protest in her arms.
You sink into a curtsy. A white-hot pain swells from the pit of your stomach to the top of your spine — a lightning strike that burns for minutes after. You grip Ormund’s arm until your fingers tremble, though the polite smile on your face remains when you rise again.
“Ormund,” Viserys greets with an easy smile. He clasps your husband’s free arm with a genuine affection while his tired eyes drift along the white stone towers of the city. “My… Oldtown is just as fair as I remember it.”
“I agree, Your Grace, though I confess I am far more partial,” Ormund responds with a dry humor and a knightly smile. “I hear the view improves the longer one is forced to stare at it.”
Viserys laughs while, beside him, Alicent tries and fails to summon her own. Her elegant features are worn from the weeks of travel, many of which you imagine were spent balancing the fussing weight concealed against her chest just now.
“And my lady…” Viserys inclines his silver head towards you, studying your face with a pair of kind eyes. “You look well.”
You feel, in a word, like death dressed in Hightower green. You feel hollowed out and stitched together again, the farthest thing from well. But you nod once and thank the King all the same, profoundly grateful when your voice doesn’t shake.
“Truly. Marriage suits you both well,” Viserys nods. “Though, I admit, I’d hope Daeron might have had a cousin or two near enough in age to grow up beside him here. Once he’s old enough for such things, of course.”
Ormund tenses beside you.
His arm feels very suddenly like holding onto stone. His pale eyes turn glacial in a flicker; a withheld grief that he forces himself to swallow down the second it rises like bile in his throat. You say nothing at all. You just keep smiling and pray to whatever god will hear you that you do not weep in front of the King and all his men.
“But there’s still time— You’ll have one of your own before long, I’m sure of it,” the older man continues, possessing no notion of what had happened behind these walls hardly two days past. If he notices anything amiss, he does not dwell on it, and turns instead to Alicent. “Go on. Let them see the boy.”
Alicent’s arms tighten instinctively around the bundle in her grasp and inhales sharply through her nose. It had been her own decision that Daeron be sent to her family’s ancestral home. Her last child was not quite six months when she counseled her King to send him to ward, far from the chaos of King’s Landing. But she finds herself suddenly plagued by the harsh realization that this will be the last time she will hold this baby as he is now. The next time she’s like to lay eyes on him again, he’ll be an unrecognizable young boy, and not nearly the small thing fussing against her collarbone now.
“He hasn't slept," Alicent warns as she steps closer. Her green eyes are warm and weary when they flit to you. “He didn’t take well to the carriage. Or the ship. He’s cried the whole way from Blackwater, I think. Poor thing…”
“I’m sure we can manage a crying babe, my Queen,” Ormund says gently, though there’s a distant aching in his voice disguised as good humor that only you could recognize. “I grew up with Gwayne, if you remember. I’m more than acquainted with wailing boys by now.”
Alicent musters a small smile and closes the distance between you to settle her son in your arms.
He’s warm — that’s the first thing you notice — he’s a small furnace swaddled in Targaryen black. He stirs briefly at the transfer from one chest to another, round face screwing tight in the prelude to a wail. Your heart clenches to brace yourself for that sound. It never comes.
The babe turns his face into the curve of your throat and settles into stillness with one small fist curled into the fabric of your gown. The tiny sound he makes isn’t a cry, but it isn’t quite a coo either. He sleeps, finally, in your arms — not even two days after you held your daughter between them, who had never awoken at all.
Ormund’s wide hand settles at the small of your back. Even in its steadiness, you feel the subtle tremor of his fingers against your spine. His throat tightens with the sudden urge to cry at the sight — of you, still frail and yet so bravely composed, cradling another woman’s child after laying your own to rest in the sept. He swallows through the hands of grief strangling his throat and feels a warmer feeling settling in its wake.
“Well…” Viserys hums, watching the baby sleep against you with a proud look in his weathered eyes. “It seems the boy’s found his corner of Oldtown already— Isn’t that lovely, Alicent?”
The woman nods, though shock still etches slightly in her pale features and behind the dark green of her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace,” she says and clears her throat, blinking back her tears with a queen’s practiced grace. “Thank you both for taking him.”
“He'll want for nothing here," Ormund swears with a firm nod. “You have my word. We'll raise him as if he were our own trueborn son.”
You pull the blanket gently back to peer at the sleeping baby swaddled within it. He’s practically all cheeks, with his mother’s mouth and nose.
You had been certain, two days past, that your life had surely ended with your daughter’s. That there would be nothing more to life than a hollow, vacant silence. But now, there is warmth — and a babe’s slow breath fanning along your collarbone.
You do not yet have a name for the foreign feeling swelling inside of you. It’s not joy, not yet, but it isn’t grief either. Or, at least, not only grief. And for now, that would have to be enough.
127 A.C. / Training Yard
The sound of clashing steel finds you before the sight of it does. The ring and scrape of blade on blade carries across the bustling courtyard, where you’ve gone to look for a young prince who was, as Maester Yorrick informed you with a palpable impatience, nearly an hour late for his lessons. You find the boy exactly where you imagined he would be — sword-training with his uncle, who has since stripped down to a pale tunic now darkened with sweat from the exercise.
Daeron, now thirteen years of age, is all knees and elbows from a sudden growth spurt that had taken him seemingly overnight. He presses a defensive attack upon his uncle with all the fierceness of a knight, but with the gracelessness of a teenage boy. Even you could tell from where you stood that his swing had no hope of landing. Ormund turns the blow aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, no more troublesome than swatting a fly from the air.
“Awful,” you hear the man scold from afar. When Daeron grits his teeth and presses forward once more, Ormund steps back and lets the boy’s momentum carry him a half stride too far. His blade misses his mark by inches. “Gods, that’s even worse—”
Daeron lunges a third time, fuelled now by a boyish rage that twists his freckled features. Ormund steps inside the overextended reach, hooks a boot around the boy’s ankle, and trips him onto the dirt with his blunted blade pressed to his ribs. Daeron hits the ground with a thud, red-faced and breathing heavy. His long auburn tendrils cling to his sweaty temple when he whips his head to glare up at his uncle.
“Dead,” Ormund proclaims from where he stands over the boy, flat but not totally unkind. He raises his brows and tilts his chin to his chest. “If this were a real sword, I’d have had your head before the thought to swing finished forming in that head of yours.”
Daeron twists himself upward and shoves the faux blade away with a boyish scowl. “You always say that,” he grumbles, refusing the hand Ormund extends to help him up. He rises to full height on his own and swipes dirt from his pale palms.
“Yes. I always say it because it's always true. You're thinking with your temper again— I can see it in your shoulders before you’ve even moved,” the older man lectures as he turns on the heel of his boot and walks off a few paces. “Again. And this time, think before you swing. Not after—”
“I think that’s enough for this morning,” you call to them as you step further into the yard, dress skirts rushing around your ankles in the summer breeze. “Maester Yorrick has been waiting all morning. And his patience, unlike yours, my lord, has its limits.”
Daeron nods once, shoulders sagging with an absent relief. “Yes, ma’am—”
“Give us a few more minutes,” Ormund dismisses simultaneously. “He’s close to getting his footwork right. I can feel it.”
You flash the man a look — one slight lift of your brow, one flicker of dullness behind the eyes. Years of marriage have honed that wordless look to a firm edge, one which finds Ormund like a blade. He nods in concession with a heavy exhale through his nose.
“You heard her, boy. Go on,” Ormund says, jerking his chin toward the tower and extending his hand out for the practice sword.
Daeron obeys without question. He passes the dull blade over and crosses the yard to you. You see the sweat and dirt streaked across his freckled face the closer he gets. “Come here to me,” you sigh and catch his round chin between your thumb and forefinger when he plants himself ahead of you. You swipe the filth from his cheeks with the hem of your sleeve like you’ve done since he was small enough to fit in one arm.
“I’m not a child anymore, you know," Daeron reminds you with a childish grimace as he suffers your motherly affections. “I’m a squire now.”
“Oh, a squire, are you?” you croon in response with an obvious air of sarcasm. You smooth wild auburn hair from his temples before pressing a chaste kiss to his hairline. “Go on now— before Maester Yorrick decides to make you study your histories until sundown.”
Daeron nods and ducks past you towards the tower stair, though you catch the corner of his pink mouth twitching upward into a grin before he’s turned away. You watch him leave with an attentive stare as Ormund discards the training swords at their posts. He approaches you in long, slow strides, allowing you to see the mark that training has left upon him — the way the sweat dampens his dark curls and the collar of his tunic, making the fabric stick to his broad shoulders and toned chest.
He smells of sweet wine, musky bathing oils, and salty sweat when he towers just before you. He tips his chin to his chest and raises his brows to his hairline, pale eyes glimmering with an expectant look.
“…Well?”
You blink up at him with a feigned innocence. “Well, what?”
“My kiss,” he answers with a shrug like it’s obvious, like he were a man coming to collect his debts. “You gave the boy his, and I’ve spent half the morning training him— I should think that I’ve earned at least that much.”
“Oh, really?” you squint. “After you told the boy he’s like to lose his head?”
“I told him the truth,” Ormund argues with an unrepentant laugh and takes a slow step closer to you. “Is the truth unkind merely because it stings a little going down?”
His hands splay along your waist, wide and warm along the edges of your corset. It takes everything in you not to cave for him right there, in the full view of the crowded courtyard. You cross your arms over your chest instead. “If you keep being so hard on him, he’ll grow to hate sword training altogether—”
“May be. But he will go on alive a good deal longer for having learned it the hard way now— instead of on a real field, with real steel, without me there to guide him.” Ormund ducks his head to catch your eye, pale gaze glimmering in time the pink smile tugging at his lips. “Surely you are not truly cross with me, my love…” he croons quietly.
You shrug with a raised chin, unwilling to concede so easily. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, then, it’s hardly my doing,” he chuckles, a sound far warmer than the silver-gold sunshine sprawling over the courtyard. The pads of his thumbs smooth over your ribs in an absentminded affection. “You've gone so soft on the boy that you can scarcely bear to watch him lose a practice bout, without petting his hair over it after."
“Well, someone in this household has to be soft with him," you argue lightly, more teasing now than truly cross. Your slipper scrapes the dirt as you take a short step closer to him. What little distance remained between you closes now in an instant; each rise and fall of his chest brushes your folded arms. “You spend your mornings convincing the poor boy the world means to kill him, and I spend my nights convincing him that he could rule the world entire if he wished... Perhaps he’ll come out well-balanced for it, in the end.”
“Assuming one of us doesn’t kill the other over the method first,” Ormund quips.
“Precisely,” you nod.
“Well, I think it’s a fine system,” the man agrees gravely, drawing you an impossible inch closer by the hands still on your waist. His breath fans warm across your jaw as he leans in closer, still smelling of the mint leaves he’d chewed after breakfast. “And one I certainly intend to go on employing indefinitely… If my wife forgives me long enough to let me kiss her.”
His low voice glitters somewhere in the center of your chest. Your eyes narrow despite the small smile curling hopelessly at your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve yet decided,” you lilt.
“Well, I have,” he croons quietly, and does not wait for your retort before leaning down to press his lips against yours.
His broad nose flattens into the side of yours under the weight of his kiss, a slow and languid thing — as natural as the white waves ebbing and flowing against the pale stone tower of Oldtown. Your hands twist in his pale tunic billowing in the sea breeze, dissolving into the man like salt in water.
There is nothing you would not forgive this man for, you think distantly to yourself. There is no madness he could not lead you toward, not if he kisses you like this the entire way there.
130 A.C. / Ormund’s Solar
The raven arrives like all the rest — unceremoniously, on a sunless grey morning, from the trembling hands of the weathered maester. You tend to your needlework by the crackling hearth, burning low to fight off the morning chill blowing in from the sea, while Daeron reads in the opposite chair with one leg slung over the arm of it — both of you still waking with the early morning.
Across the room, Ormund sits at his desk and breaks the seal with a dull crack. Your gaze drifts to the man as he unrolls the letter, parchment whispering beneath his ringed fingers. You watch his pale eyes flit across the words once, and his brows lower in confusion a moment later. He shifts in his seat and reads it again, slower this time. His spine straightens with a soldier’s subconscious instinct as he draws a deep breath in and forgets to let it go.
The quiet feels loud as it swells within the solar. The popping fire startles you briefly, as you get lost in Ormund’s wordless dread. You feel his silent panic as if it were your own. You rise from your seat and lay your needlework on the cushion behind you, careful not to trouble Daeron’s reading as you stroll to the man’s side.
“Ormund?” you call quietly to him. “Ormund— What does it say?”
He says nothing in response; he just lifts his ringed hand and passes you the parchment curled between his middle and forefinger. His eyes remained fixed on a negligible chip in the cobblestone wall across the room as you pluck the paper from his hand. His silence is not convincing; his silence, as you’ve learned in years of marriage, is far more frightening than any voice he could raise.
Your eyes dart over the scrawled ink thrice over, just as he had, because your mind refuses to process the words on the first two passes.
“By the time this reaches you, the city has already fallen. Rhaenyra Targaryen holds King’s Landing and names herself Queen upon the Iron Throne. She has taken the Queen Dowager prisoner, as well as the King’s wife and last living heir. Send word of your household’s safety. Guard the boy.”
The letters blur and steady and blur again, swimming before your eyes. Your blood runs cold while the glowing hearth simultaneously fills the room with a near-unbearable heat. As your breaths come faster and shallower to you, you hear a small voice call from behind you.
“Is something wrong?” Daeron wonders aloud as he glances up from the heavy novel in his lap. His auburn brows knit low over his green eyes, casting a faint shadow over his freckled cheeks, which are slowly starting to lose the softness of boyhood.
“Go on to your chambers, Daeron,” you tell him in a voice strangely steady compared to how shaken you feel. “It’s time to break your fast. I’ll have the servants fetch it for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” the boy insists as he rises slowly from his chair, setting his book aside and walking slowly from the hearth. His eyes dart back and forth between your profile and Ormund’s when both of you refuse to look at him. His shoulders straighten with a strangling tension. “What’s happened? What does it say—?”
“Daeron,” Ormund snaps, voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade. His eyes are similarly sharp when they snap finally to the boy’s pleading once. “Listen to your mother, boy. Go.”
Mother, he says. The word lingers and hangs in the air for a long moment. Even in his newfound worry, Ormund’s eyes still flicker with a startled awareness at how easily the slip-up had escaped him, though there is little time to dwell on it now.
Daeron's pink mouth parts with some half-formed protest at the ready. Whatever words he could conjure up on such short notice turn to dust on his tongue at the look his uncle gives him, chiseled features hardening into an unfeeling sort of look. Daeron exhales a held breath, gathers his book from his seat, and heads for the door without further argument.
Ormund’s knowing voice follows him out: “And don’t stand outside the door eavesdropping, either. Straight to your chambers. I'll know if you've stopped on the stair."
Only when the door shuts behind the boy with a soft click do your teary eyes lift from the parchment in your trembling hands. You say nothing for a long moment. The muffled sounds of the bustling castle fill the silence — the sounds of an oblivious world still living, though it feels a little like yours has stopped.
“I know," Ormund says before you’ve spoken, before you’ve needed to speak. “I know.”
“Okay,” you nod once. “So what are you going to do?”
He huffs a not-quite laugh. “I’ve only just found out about this. As have you,” he answers, a little sharper than he means to. “I’ll need a moment to think about the problem before you ask me to solve it, my love.”
“A moment is no longer a luxury we have,” you argue, voice rising despite yourself and wavering on every syllable with a palpable fear. “Rhaenyra has dragons, Ormund— she has Daemon and three new bastard riders sworn to her besides. She does not need a moment to bring any of them to our door.”
Your dress skirt spins around your ankles when you turn suddenly in place. Ormund’s pale eyes follow your form as you storm back towards the hearth, ranting the whole way there.
“She will come for him, Ormund— not if, when. She will stop at nothing to silence any claim that challenges her own,” you continue, voice cracking under the weight of your unshed tears. “Daeron is a threat to her! Simply by breathing, he is a threat to her, and she will not leave him idling here out of some… familial courtesy for some half-brother she’s never met.”
The flame crackles quietly when you toss the letter into it. The wax seal blackens and weeps; the ink turns slowly to ash. You’d hoped that destroying those words might, in turn, settle the uneasy feeling they’ve brought you; but to no avail.
“I know that,” Ormund nods with a jaw clenched tight, ringed fingers curling into fists over his thighs beneath the desk.
“Then think!” Your shout bounces off the cobbled walls as you turn to face him once more. His face blurs behind the burning tears clouding your vision. The swelling emotion thickens your voice as you yell to him, half-wild with a preemptive grief. “I have already buried children who never got to draw breath— I will not bury another who has drawn fifteen years of them under this roof! Do not let them take him, Ormund— I don't care what it costs. Do not let them our boy!”
Ormund’s chair scrapes the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height. He crosses the solar in slow, silent strides. Your glassy eyes stay locked with his as he nears. You peer stubbornly up at him from beneath your lashes, clumped with unshed tears; but you do not protest when his palms smooth over the outsides of your elbows to pull you into his arms.
You melt hopelessly against his chest, fisting the back of his doublet in both hands, and trembling slowly as you choke down a sob. Ormund’s wide hands smooth along your back and feels his chest tighten with a striking, familiar ache. He thought once there was no worse sound in the world than hearing your weeping over a lost child; but he knows, now, that there is something equally as troubling: your weeping over a child you fear you’re about to lose and feeling like there is no time yet to stop it.
“I will not let anyone take him,” Ormunds promises evenly, with a distance that suggests he’s already assembling a plan in the depths of his mind. His arms curl tighter, pressing you harder against him. “I swear it to you. By the gods, they will not have our son.”
You pull back from him, just far enough to search his steady gaze with your wearier one. “But how?” you press weakly, more of a demand than a real question.
Ormund ponders for a long moment. The shadow of his adam’s apple rises and falls in his throat as he swallows. And when he speaks again, the words fall from his tongue flat and even, as if he were testing each one the moment they left his mouth.
“No one at court has laid eyes on the boy since he was a babe in arms…” he answers lowly, brows lifting to his hairline. “Alicent hasn’t seen him in years… There is no one outside these walls who would know what he looks like… So if they come— when they come… I suppose Rhaenryra would presume any silver-haired boy as Viserys’ heir.”
Your brows furrow as confusion twists slowly across your face.
“We’d only need enough lye and patience,” Ormund continues with a shrug. “And a boy willing enough to answer to a name that isn’t his, and to go with Rhaenyra, should her dragons come calling.”
You tense within his hold as the words run through you like ice-cold water. “You mean to… to send a different child in his place?”
“Yes,” Ormund answers instantly and without apology. “It isn’t a kind plan, I know. And I won’t pretend that someone else’s son won’t have to suffer for it, if it comes to pass, but… You did not ask me for a kind plan.”
You grieve the heat of his hands when he lifts them from your back, just to smooth his gently calloused palms over your jaw a moment later. He rubs the rough pads of his thumbs along your burning cheeks. You melt into his touch of warm velvet and peer up at him with teary eyes. Ormund’s gaze softens around the edges as his mouth lifts into a sad sort of smile.
“You asked me not to let them take our boy,” he continues lowly. “And however cruel it may be… this is but the only coin I have to buy that promise with.”
You know that a part of you should be horrified. You know what he is describing is a monstrous thing — an innocent boy’s whole life offered as a shield for another’s. You search deep within yourself to find that terror, but cannot seem to locate it. Instead, you find relief, like a crack of sunlight peeking through storm clouds — the very hint of a promise that your family was not long in the dying just yet.
“Do it,” you hear yourself say, shaking your head between his hands. “Whatever it costs… Whoever it costs… Do it.”
Ormund nods with a deep inhale through his nose, leaning forward to press his mouth to your hairline — to seal his promise with a kiss.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Sept
Rhaenyra's dragonriders come for Daeron not nearly a fortnight into the army's march. Ormund sends the son of a merchant in his place — a boy of the right age and the right pale coloring, plucked quietly from Oldtown and dressed in borrowed finery before anyone thought to look twice. “Be brave, young prince," Ormund had said to the blanch-haired boy, only for show, though what he really meant was: “I will have your family hanged if you do not play your part.”
Ormund knelt before Daemon Targaryen and swore his fealty to the Queen, but marched on for Tumbleton the second the dragons took flight, all the shame.
The chaos follows them there, too.
Daeron attempts to seek a momentary refuge in the foreign castle’s candlelit sept. A cramped chamber made of brown stone and hazy smoke from the flickering candles, where Tessarion grumbles in protest of captivity. The lack of sunlight has dulled her fluorescent blue scales, and has made her ill-tempered due to the lack of exercise. Daeron alone she allows close, pressing her great head into the boy’s small neck, and momentarily forgetting about the heavy chains around her throat when he pets her stony scales.
Ormund finds him there. Ormund has a way of finding him anywhere. It is a gift and a curse, perhaps — comforting when Daeron was small and frightened of the dark; but less so now, when Daeron’s every attempt at solitude is interrupted by his uncle, constantly watching him as if he were a traitor to be surveilled and not his kin.
“I have warned you against indulging in affections for the best,” Ormund says as he approaches. The man cradles the boy's freckled cheeks in his wide, calloused palms despite Tessarion's low growl of warning.“You are a good boy,” he says, and in the very same breath, without losing the tender smile on his face: “You have a taint in your blood,” and “You must be king.”
Ormund makes less and less sense to him these days — the throes of war, Daeron supposes, though a part of him is frightened that it began long before that.
Sometimes he thinks Ormund only makes sense when you’re near enough to translate his tangled, wild emotions back into something grounded and real. You’ve always had a way of gentling the man; usually with nothing more than a steady hand along his wrist to calm whatever storm had been moving within him.
Daeron has seen you do it a hundred times over without ever quite understanding how. But he prays now for your swift return from the city, so that you might do it again — so that you might soften whatever unfamiliar thing has taken root in his uncle when he commands his soldiers to drag in the peasant man from earlier that afternoon. The one who broke Ser Garrick’s nose defending against his own wife’s assault; an act any decent lord would have called simple justice.
Ormund draws his sword from its sheath at his hip. The hiss of the steel leaving the leather fills the small stone sept, loud enough to echo off the old walls that have likely seen a great many prayers and, Daeron suspects, not so very many murders. The older man turns the blade and offers the embellished hilt to the boy, pale eyes hardening when he hesitates.
“We have risked much and more to raise you up,” Ormund says, strong features twisting into something resembling offense. “Surely, you do not wish to disappoint us now.”
Us. Daeron is pulled into his uncle’s orbit at that single syllable alone; the unbearable thought of failing the only two people in this world who have ever troubled themselves to love him — one standing before him with a blade held out like a peace offering, and the other somewhere in the depths of the dark city but still steady on his mind all the same.
Daeron lays his palms out flat before his brain has fully comprehended the motion. He prays Ormund doesn’t notice how they tremble when he rests the sword upon them — the weight of the blade cold and heavy upon his fingers.
Daeron’s hands tremble around the ornate leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him on the cold stone — bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man in Westeros would surely commit with honor — before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms behind him. Candlelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a deep black in the hollows of his eyes.
“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice cracking under the weight of the tears burning hot in the backs of his eyes.
It is his last and most desperate attempt to reach for his uncle, just as he has seen you do, and to pull him back from the dangerous ledge he stands upon. But he knows the man has already made up his mind; and he knows that there is no version of him that walks out of this sept without spilling blood.
Ormund’s face softens slightly, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”
“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, smaller now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”
Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had meant, and has always meant every time the word slipped accidentally from his mouth and was never corrected for it after. Daeron was not yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that matters. The small, warm weight of him stopped crying the moment he was placed into your arms fifteen years ago, and never truly stopped being yours since.
Still, Ormund does not soften for it. If anything, something in him hardens further as he takes a slow step closer to the boy.
“Your mother would be proud,” he answers, brows lowered as if the answer was the plainest thing in the world. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”
Daeron swallows hard. The weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat, heavier than the blade in his hands as his trembling fingers tighten around its hilt. His teary green eyes linger on the steel, flickering shades of gold in the candlelight.
“No, please, I beg you,” the battered prisoner rasps, dried blood matting at his curls from whatever rough handling had brought him here. “I have a family, my lord. Please—”
Daeron’s eyes lift to find the man’s pleading gaze and linger upon him for a long while. He sees your face in the very back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever truly known, and hears Ormund’s disappointed voice layered over it as he draws the heavy blade back.
Then he strikes.
The cut is not clean. The blade lodges at an off angle in the man’s corded neck and sticks somewhere deep between flesh and bone. The man’s pained shout comes out wet and gargled, bouncing off the cobbled walls and in the depths of Daeron’s mind.
The boy’s body flinches from what his own hand has done as bright crimson blood spouts from the gaping wound and splatters along the old stone.
His face crumples as he removes the blade. It takes a world of strength in his thin arms to wrench it out again. A quiet whimper sounds in his throat when the blade drags against bone and stumbles backward when the man’s limp body collapses at his feet with a dull smack. Dark blood spreads slowly across the stone in a widening, glistening pool that catches the candlelight like moonlight on the bay.
Daeron looks down at the crimson dripping off the steel blade. He does not notice his uncle’s approach until his broader hands are gently guiding the sword from his fingers — fingers that no longer feel like his own.
Ormund wipes the steel clean against the dead man's tunic, one side and then the other, with the methodical care of a man cleaning a hunting knife after a kill. He sheaths the blade back into its hilt and closes the remaining distance between him and the boy.
When Daeron’s mind finally returns to his body — ears still ringing, vision still hazy — his wide eyes snap to his uncle’s face and sees a quiet pride swimming in his features once more. It’s as comforting as it is horrifying. And when Ormund's strong arms wrap around the boy’s shoulders and draw him close to his chest, that feels like a dizzying concoction of the two even more so.
“I am proud of you, boy…” Ormund tells him as he leans in close, pressing his mouth to the boy’s hair in a near-kiss, though he whispers to him instead: “Do not tell your mother of this. Understood?"
Daeron does not answer, though Ormund does not ask him for one now.
130 A.C. / Tumbleton Castle
You return to the castle late in the evening, weary down to your bones from the long day.
You had gone into town with what coin and grain the army could spare, and found Lady Kat there among the frightened smallfolk, tending to the smith's wife, whose arm still sat bound in a rough splint. The woman's round face was kind, but you knew that no amount of offered bread or soft words could cure what comfort had been taken from her.
“Do you know where my husband is?” she had asked you before you left, with something desperate in her voice that made you wish you had a better answer than the only truthful one you could give.
“I’m sorry. I do not know," you told her, smiling in what sympathy you could muster, honest in your ignorance if nothing else.
The question sits strangely in your chest on the ride back to the castle, though you struggle to place exactly why.
Dinner is already laid out by the time you arrive. The long table is embellished with more food than Tumbleton's starving smallfolk have likely seen since the war began. The notion sits heavy in your stomach before you’ve even entered the dining hall, where Ormund rises from his seat to greet you.
His warmth is striking, a shade too bright for the late hour. He presses a jeweled chalice of ale into your hand with a tender grin and a pair of soft eyes, asking after the wife and the town's wounded with an attentiveness he doesn’t usually spare for such small domestic accounts.
“Sit,” he tells you with one wide hand along the small of your back to urge you the short distance to the table. “You've had a long day, my love. Eat something before it goes cold."
Confusion floods your face at the emptiness beside your usual seat. “Where's Daeron? He hasn’t missed out on lemon cakes since he was old enough to chew them.”
“He's not feeling well. Best to let him rest,” Ormund answers with a polite smile as he pours himself a goblet of wine. His soft eyes flit between you and the glugging flagon. “Sit with me, love. I’m sure you’re half-starved yourself."
He sits down in his cushioned seat at the head of the long table and gestures for you to take yours. You remain stubbornly in place, because you know him far too well for anything else. Years of marriage have taught you every register of his voice; every flicker behind his eyes; every twitch in his features. And this one, all warm and careful and slightly too eager, is one you’d learned to trust least of all.
“What have you done?” you deadpan.
Ormund scoffs a breathless laugh, bouncing his broad shoulders in a shrug. “Why do you insist I’ve done something?”
“Because I can hear it in your voice.”
Ormund huffs again, though it’s more of a sound of surprise than true laughter this time. “Well, I assure you, dear wife, I have done nothing at all.”
“Is that what will Daeron tell me?” you press. “When I go to his chambers and ask him myself?"
“He will tell you that I'm an excellent uncle and an even better husband," Ormund quips with his elbows propped on the table and his pointer fingers steepled together. “And also that you ought to sit down and eat your supper with your poor husband, before you go making a production out of a boy's upset stomach.”
You leave despite his words, led purely by the intuition swirling in your stomach that drags you directly to Daeron’s chamber door. You knock once and receive no answer — when the silence holds on the third try, you let yourself in and find the boy alone in his room, curled small on the edge of his bed in a way that strikes you deep in the chest; a reminder of that swaddled babe curled against your chest fifteen years past.
He does not look up when you enter, nor when you lower yourself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress beside him without a word. His shoulders shake in small, tight increments as he struggles to choke down his own sobs. He drags each breath in through his nose and holds it for a beat too long until it shudders out of him again.
He freezes when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, going rigid against whatever emotion he’s trying not to shake loose.
“What's happened, my love?" you coo to him, gentling your voice the way you might for a much younger child. “Tell me."
He shakes his auburn head against the pillow and sniffles to himself. “He told me I couldn't…"
“Who? Ormund?” you press and feel a preemptive anger kindling hot in your chest before you’ve even heard the whole of it. “Well… Your uncle tells me a great many things that I’ve long since learned to ignore. So I imagine he can spare us the indulgence of a secret or two.”
After another shaky breath, Daeron pushes himself up from the mattress. He snivels wetly and wipes his flushed cheeks with the back of one hand. You smooth down his wild flaming tendrils until he finds the words to speak.
“The blacksmith…” he wavers. “The one who struck Ser Garrick this morning…”
Your stomach swirls with a sick feeling when he trails off. Your blood runs cold with a fear of what he might say next. You think instantly of the woman with the kind face and the splinted arm, asking so gently if you knew where her husband had run off to. You have to remind yourself to breathe again as you ask, “What of him?”
“Ormund made me…” Daeron’s breath catches in his throat with a horror reignited in the pit of his chest. “He said any strike against the army was a strike against the crown. Against me. Against you.” He forces each word out through unshed tears and feels half-furious at himself when his voice shatters. “He told me it would be a king’s justice. That it— that it would make you proud.”
The boy’s eyes lift to yours then, glassy and green and rimmed red. They dart back and forth over your face, searching for an ounce of comfort within it.
“Are you?” he asks in a voice barely above a whisper. “Proud of me, I mean.”
You nod until the words have climbed through the fear swelling in your throat.
“Of course I am,” you answer breathlessly, but with no hesitation at all despite the dread searing in your chest. “I have been proud of you since the day I met you. Nothing you could do— Nothing of what your uncle made you do could change that. And you did it, I have no doubt, because some part of you believed it would keep our family safe. Protecting the people you love, even when doing so costs so much, is no easy feat, my love. I know this better than you might think…”
Your mind drifts to the pale-haired boy — the merchant’s son who was brown of hair before you found him. The boy who was borrowed and dressed up in a prince’s wardrobe and sent off to whatever fate Rhaenyra’s justice had in store for him. The boy who is very likely chained or worse for a crime that was never truly his, simply because you and Ormund decided his captivity was a fair trade for Daeron’s freedom.
Daeron watches your eyes well with tears of your own, and his freckled face crumples further at the thought of hurting you further. “I did not mean to make you sad…" he mutters with a wet gaze that flits between yours.
“You haven't," you tell him firmly, though your voice remains steady. You gather the boy into your arms and press your cheek against his hair, feeling his tear-stained cheeks wet the skin of your chest. “I’m not sad, my love. I promise. I only love you. That's all….”
You sit with him for a long while after that — until his breathing steadies and his shoulders lose their edge. Only then do you rise, with one last kiss to his forehead, and leave him to whatever uneasy slumber he can manage after what the long day had done to him.
You run into Ormund on your way down the long corridor. His broad form towers in the narrow passageway as his wide hands splay before him in confusion. “What’s taken you so long? Your dinner’s already gone cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Your shoulder scrapes along his arm as you shove by him with little affection. Ormund huffs and falls easily into step with you on his much longer legs. The two of you move through the stony corridors in a silent tension that grows with every step you take, torchlight guttering along the damp walls as you pass them. The words of an argument well in your throat the whole way to your chambers and refuse to break free until the door has shut finally behind you.
“I cannot believe you!” you shout, features twisted in anger. “How dare you tell my son to lie to me! After everything—"
Ormund shakes his head. “I only told him to spare you a grief that serves no purpose—"
“You told him to kill a man, Ormund! A smith. A husband.” The words come out through a jaw clenched tight. Your eyes glitter in the flickering candlelight with every one that spills from your mouth, hands gesticulating wildly at your sides. “I stood in that town not an hour ago and told his wife I didn't know where he was. And I didn't know, because you hadn't thought to tell me you hadn’t let him go at all! And now I have to carry that too, on top of everything else because you've decided I didn’t need to be troubled with it—”
“It’s war!” Ormund shouts, voice ringing through the cobbled walls. His handsome features harden instantly as he stares you down with emotionless pale eyes. His long fingers curl into fists before relaxing once more in a repeated cycle intended to calm him. “I will not apologize for teaching that boy what war requires of men who mean to survive it. For now, it’s only Ser Garrick’s broken nose, but we will have far worse than that done to us before this war is through. If Daeron doesn’t learn that now, he’s as good as dead—”
“He’s sixteen—”
“He’s the King's last trueborn son, with any righteous claim to the throne!” Ormund thunders over your teary retort, approaching you with long strides. “He is the rider of a dragon that is the only thing standing between this army and total ruin— What don’t you understand about that?”
Ormund towers over you at once. His firm hands close hard around your arms, keeping you close and unmoving before him. He ducks his head to your height, eyes darting wildly between yours.
“Do you think I enjoyed putting that sword in his hand?” he continues, quieter now. “Do you think I've slept easy a single night since we left Oldtown, knowing what I'm shaping him into— why I have to?”
You swallow hard through a tight throat, peering up at him through the tears clouding your vision. “I think you’ve decided his suffering is a fair price for war,” you waver. “And I think you decided that without asking me.”
“Yes,” Ormund nods without reservation. “I have decided a great many things without asking you first— I did not ask you first when I decided to blanch that stranger’s hair and send him off in Daeron’s place, did I? And yet you still thanked me for it with your words and body when it kept our boy breathing.”
His words tear right through your chest. You shake your head in protest of them even though you know that he’s right — that you are no better than Ormund even in his madness; that you would do worse and more for Daeron if the war called for it, if you were brave enough to do it.
“Did I complain, all those years, when grief after grief left this house without an heir of its own blood?” Ormund goes on, quieter now but no less harsh, as his features twist in a stifled sort of anguish. “Did I complain when courtiers wondered in whispers why a man would stay wed to a wife that could not give him an heir?”
You flinch at his words like you can feel them physically, tearing you from the inside out, though his long fingers caging you force you to stomach them.
“I never complained. Because I love you and because I understood it was no fault of your own,” Ormund continues. “So I have earned, I think, the right to make one hard choice without you looking at me as though I’ve become some monster for it.”
Anger pricks your skin beneath your heavy gown like needles.
It is not the unfairness of the blow of his words that sends you reeling, but rather the sheer astonishment at how low he has stooped in his fury — in his grief. It is, perhaps, the cruelest thing he’s ever said to you; made crueler still for how plainly he does not seem to recognize his own cruelty at all.
“Say that again,” you tell him in an emotionless monotone. “Say it plainly, exactly how you mean it— that you think I am some monster—”
“I didn’t mean…” Ormund huffs and hangs his head, tense shoulders dropping as the lingering anger slips from his skin like rain. “I am not saying this to be cruel— Gods know, I’d sooner cut out my own tongue before I meant any cruelty to you.”
His pale eyes are wet and soft again when they lift to meet yours. His hands loosen their grip on your arms as they lift to cradle your cheeks, softly calloused and warm like velvet along your blazing skin.
“Daeron is the only child either of us has been permitted to keep,” the man continues, softer now. “He is not merely a boy I love, though gods know I do, but he is the only proof that we were ever meant to be parents at all… After everything this life took from us in the trying… Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“So what?” you press, voice breaking. “The only way he gets to stay ours is if he survives long enough to sit a throne? Is that the only way to remove the taint from his blood— that’s what you called it, right?”
Ormund softens further in the face of your anger.
“Without Aemond, without Vhagar, this army has no dragon to answer to whatever Rhaenyra sends against us next… But Daeron has Tessarion, and Daeron has a claim that half this army would follow into the fire itself,” he coos gently to you, as if anything louder might break you entirely. His thumbs smooth gently along your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that clings stubbornly to the burning skin there. “The war is coming here, my love. It is not a thing we can shield him from any longer. He is our only hope of surviving what is coming, and every bit his birthright to lead it."
“Surely…” you trail off in disbelief, wild eyes searching his bluer ones. “Surely you do not mean to make our child fight in this war."
“It is the will of the gods,” Ormund croons as if it were that simple.
Something in you knows, as each word spills from his mouth, that this is not a man reasoning clearly. You can hear it in the smoothness of his voice and in each too-quick answer on his tongue. And yet, you want more than anything for him to be right. You want it so badly it frightens you — for the gods to will this war’s end, for Ormund’s victory, for your son’s survival.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Ormund draws you fully into his chest with one wide hand along your back and another cradling the back of your head. Tears fall from your lashes and wet the front of his emerald doublet.
“Listen to me…” he mutters into your hair. “If he sits that throne, no one in this realm could ever call him anything but ours. He is Viserys’s heir, yes, but he became a Hightower the moment you held him— and if he rules, no man will ever again whisper that he is not truly yours. He will restore ancient order to the throne. That is how we keep him.”
You shake your head in protest as you lean back from him again, just far enough to peer up at him with tear-heavy eyes. “Just bring him back to me,” you plead fiercely to him. “When this battle is done, I don't care what it costs you to manage it. Bring him back—”
“I will," Ormund nods with the same iron certainty that has carried you through every hard year of your marriage. “I swear it to you. I’ll bring him home—”
“And you,” you remind with a stern finger jabbed into the center of his chest. “You come back to me, too— I have buried enough of what I love in this life, Ormund. I will not bury another. You come back to me. Both of you.”
He nods and leans down to press his forehead against yours. Each of his heaving exhales through his nose fans warm across your chin.
“I will,” he breathes against you, thumbs sweeping again along your cheekbone. He shifts against you to brush the smallest of kisses to the bridge of your nose — so gentle that it makes you feel like crying. Your hands curl hard around his wrist to keep him close. “The gods owe us a debt. And we will see it repaid in full before this war is through, I promise you.”
You cling to the certainty in his voice the way a drowning woman clings to driftwood; the way a starving woman clings to the memory of her last full meal — you cling to him the way a grieving woman clings to the gods themselves.
summary: sent to oldtown as a ward beneath your cousin lord ormund hightower's protection, you learn there are some vows that are easier to preach than to keep.
pairing: ormund hightower x targtower!reader
content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), icky guardian/ward relationship, canon-typical incest (cousins), age gap (~20 years), grooming, religious abuse and religious guilt, emotional manipulation, coercive control, possessiveness, severe power imbalance, forced declarations of affection, physical intimidation/rough handling, parental abandonment, references to childhood neglect, implied sexualized ritual, canon-typical misogyny, canon divergent, no use of y/n
word count: 6.8k
A/N: i need psychological help for how badly i need this man fr. originally had this planned as a oneshot, but i kept writing more...and more...and more...and felt like i was going to rush through the material if i tried to fit it all in one, so now we have a three-part series that i am very excited for you all to read :) hope you guys enjoy this freak of a man AND to see how freaked out i make these two hehehe! and excited for you all to see what ormund means when he reminds reader it is the seventh day...hmm...wonder what he has in store... also, fun drinking game: take a shot every time reader says "yes, my lord"
MASTERLIST
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The other side of the bed was empty when you awoke, though the sheets remained warm and rumpled. Eyes still heavy from the lingering seeds of sleep, your hand reached across the mattress, patting until it found the warm hollow of where his body had lain. Ormund was almost always up before dawn.
“Idleness is as plain a sin as vanity or greed,” he liked to say. “It begets indulgence, indulgence begets excess, and excess begets unfaithfulness.”
Unfaithfulness, of course, was inexcusable.
The bedchamber was still dim, with only the first suggestion of morning creeping beneath the shutters. Beyond the walls of the Hightower, you could hear the bells of the Citadel begin their first tolls.
Ormund, as expected, was already kneeling before the small altar in the corner of the room. He wore only his linen sleeping shirt and breeches, and though his back was turned to you, you could see one hand slowly turning the pages of his weathered copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and hear the low murmur of passages he had committed to memory.
In all the years you had lived in Oldtown, never once had Ormund deviated from this morning ritual. You remember the first time you had seen it. You had been a small child then, prone to wandering from your own chambers in the middle of the night into this one, back when it had belonged to the late Lady Hightower as much as it did her husband. She had always been kind to you. Like a true mother, when your own was so far away.
Whenever sleep would not come, or the young Hightower boys had filled your head with tales of monsters lurking beneath the floor, you would creep from your bed and patter barefoot down the stone passage. You would ease open the heavy, creaking door and stand silently at the foot of the canopied bed until Lady Hightower stirred. She would always lift the blankets for you. From his side of the bed, Ormund would grumble some half-hearted objection about indulgence and the necessity of teaching you independence, but Lady Hightower paid him little mind. She would draw you into the warmth between them and promise that no monster in Oldtown would dare pass through their chamber door.
Even after she died, you did not cease coming.
It hurt, at first. To lie in the bed where she had once held you, the space now empty without her. Ormund never objected to your staying. Though he remained stoic and stony throughout his own grief, perhaps there was comfort for him, too, in not being left to sleep alone. When you wept silently into her old pillow, he would smooth your hair back from your face and say nothing.
The habit endured long after your tears had dried and the black mourning clothes had been packed away. Some nights, you would attempt an honest effort at remaining in your own chambers, only to find yourself once again padding down the candlelit passage towards his.
Ormund never turned you away. Now it was his hand that lifted the blankets for you to crawl beneath. Now it was his arm that pulled you in, wrapped around your waist in the night, his face that pressed into your hair, his body whose warmth you sought beneath the covers.
The servants of the Hightower knew that your own chambers were little more than a formality, so seldom occupied that dust gathered upon the bed. You slept in your cousin Ormund’s chambers, you bathed there, you dressed there. Nearly every trace of your daily life had migrated into his rooms, until there was little left in your own to suggest they had ever belonged to you.
It was only natural. After Lady Hightower’s death, the keeping of the household had fallen into your hands. It was you who approved the servants’ schedules, arranged the seating at feasts, and received the wives and daughters of visiting noble houses. Some might have found it strange that Ormund’s ward should occupy so much of his late wife’s place while remaining neither wed nor formally mistress of his household. Stranger still, perhaps, that if anyone entered Lord Ormund’s chambers before the sunrise, they would find him curled around his ward– Queen Alicent’s youngest daughter– his body arranged in the shape a husband’s would make.
If they did find it strange, no one within Oldtown had the courage to remark upon it.
“You’re awake.”
You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as Ormund closed the prayer book and rose from the altar.
“Yes,” you answered as he crossed the chamber to the washstand. He dipped his hands into the porcelain basin and brought the water to his face. “I heard you praying.”
Ormund hummed as he dried himself with the folded linen cloth laid fresh each morning beside the ewer. “It would serve you well to join me in morning prayer.”
You ducked your head. “Yes, my lord.”
“I think only of your soul. One burdened by the sins of your…Targaryen…forefathers should labor all the more harder to absolve herself of them.”
“Yes, my lord.”
You waited for him to chide you further, or launch into one of his soliloquies on how faithfulness did not sleep merely because the sun had yet to rise. Ormund did none of that.
Instead, he made his way to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge beside you, his weight dipping the mattress. Ormund lifted one hand to cup your cheek and ran his thumb gently beneath your eye. You nuzzled into his touch without a thought.
“We will have visitors from the Reach in the Hightower later today. In particular, Lord Godric Ashford will call upon me this morning in my solar,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the day’s weather.
Your brows rose. You knew that several noble houses from across the Reach were expected at the Hightower in the coming days for discussions of taxes, grain, and the season’s feasts. Hosting them was hardly unusual. Nor was it unusual for one of their unmarried sons to request a private audience with your guardian. “Lord Robert’s son?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” Ormund mused, seemingly more occupied with gently stroking his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “I assume he intends to ask for your hand in marriage.”
Your stomach twisted in a mixture of dread and excitement. Lowering your eyes, you worried at a stray thread in the coverlet. “Do you…do you think he might be suitable?”
The thumb on your cheek stopped. Ormund’s face tightened slightly, as though some rancid smell had entered the room. “That, my dear, remains to be seen.”
He stood from the bed, and you instantly missed the warmth of his touch. You watched him cross to the wardrobe and pull open the carved doors, retrieving his clothes for the day.
“But you will still hear him, yes?”
“That is what I have agreed to,” Ormund answered with obvious reluctance, stepping into his breeches. “And I suppose I must keep my word. I will hear his presentation, just as I have heard the others before him.”
He slipped his arms into the doublet, turning to you as he began buttoning it. “You will not concern yourself with the meeting. You were entrusted to me for good reason. Namely, my rectitude and discernment in such matters. You would not want to be betrothed to some ignorant oaf, would you?”
“No, my lord.”
“And you know that I have only your best interests at heart, including the question of what sort of man you should be given to. Correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Ormund smiled affectionately. “Good girl.”
Your heart squeezed at the praise. It had always been that way with Ormund, desperately seeking any type of reassurance that you were saved. That you were obedient. That you were wanted. That you were good.
The sound of light footsteps and swishing skirts echoed under the chamber’s door. Your servants, no doubt, waiting to be beckoned in by the Lord Hightower to serve upon his ward.
Ormund made his way back over to you, but this time stayed standing, looking down upon you. “You will attend the sept this morning. When Lord Ashford has finished his proposition, you will come to me in the solar. This evening, we will receive our guests for supper in the Great Hall.”
You bowed your head obediently, just as he taught you. “Yes, my lord.”
Ormund turned to the door as if he meant to call the servants in, and then paused. He slowly turned back to you, his blue eyes swimming with a feeling you had become quite familiar with. Determination, and something weightier under it. Something you had never been able to name, but knew intimately.
“It is the seventh day,” he stated, his voice low. You knew that. You knew by now not to recognize the day by name, but by its count. “You will come straight to this chamber after supper. Bathe first.”
Silently, you nodded. His face twisted in disapproval. “Your words, please.”
“Y-yes, my lord.”
He exhaled, a small measure of satisfaction returning to his face. “Good. Very good.”
Ormund laid one hand over yours where it rested atop the coverlet, looking suddenly very serious. “And do tell your women never use to that horrid citrus oil on you again like they did last week. It taints you.”
“I will.”
He squeezed your hand in appreciation, then straightened himself and turned towards the door. “You may enter.”
The door opened at once, like your women had been waiting. They filed into the chamber with lowered eyes, none appearing surprised to find you sitting in Lord Ormund’s bed. He did not bother to look at them, his gaze fixed on you as he spoke.
“See that she is properly dressed to receive visitors.”
The girls spoke in unison, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Yes, Lord Hightower.”
Ormund nodded at you once. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between the two of you. The seventh day. What the night would hold. Then he departed, leaving the chamber door open behind him.
Your women moved quickly and efficiently, drawing back the blankets and settling a robe over your shoulders as they began the familiar work of preparing you for the day. There was no time to dally. Before long, your hair had been pinned, your gown laced tightly in Hightower green, and your throat and wrists adorned with jewels Ormund had gifted you on namedays and holy days.
One of the girls uncorked the vial of citrus oil and reached for your neck. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.
“Lord Ormund,” was all you had to say.
She bowed her head in immediate understanding and exchanged it for another perfumed oil he had shipped from Lys for you.
Soon, you looked as a proper Hightower woman ought to look. And by the next tolling of the bells, you had entered the sept of the Citadel.
The seven-walled chamber appeared much as it had when you first arrived in Oldtown– or, at least, as it had in your earliest memories once you had gone from a crawling babe to a waddling child. Damp clung to the stone floors. At the center stood an altar crowded with pools of hardened wax and burning candles, while bejeweled likenesses of the Seven watched from alcoves set into each wall. Your attendants lingered behind you like silent shadows as you moved through the sept, a veil drawn over your hair.
You walked as Ormund had always instructed you to walk: head bowed, hands clasped, each step quiet. The very picture of piety in a woman.
Stopping at the Maiden, you thought once more of the late Lady Hightower. You often served as her little companion to the sept on mornings like this, following closely behind as she knelt and prayed before each altar. You could feel the memory clearly: the whisper of her skirts against the stone, the warmth of her hand around your smaller one, the patient way she corrected your prayers when your childish tongue stumbled over the words.
The truth was that you had no memories before ones such as these, ones of Oldtown.
You were just a babe when your father, King Viserys, sent you south to be fostered among your Hightower kin. Ormund had always said that, for all the sins of your parents, they had at least possessed the wisdom to recognize Oldtown was where you belonged.
The explanation for your immediate exile from King’s Landing had always been a convoluted one.
On some days, you had been sent away because court was dangerous. On others, because King’s Landing was steeped in pride and your father wished for you to be raised in the piety of your mother’s kin. Lady Hightower had longed for a daughter. Your health was fragile as a babe, Oldtown’s air was better for a delicate infant. Alicent had a difficult birth and needed time to rest. The reasons always shifted depending upon who offered them.
The clearest explanation, though it was the one that had always gone unspoken, was that you had simply not been wanted.
At first glance, there was nothing about you that suggested descent from Old Valyria. You possessed neither silver hair nor amethyst eyes. Beautiful, certainly, but not plainly Targaryen. You bore none of the unmistakable marks of your father’s house.
More importantly, you had no dragon.
Ormund refused to speak of that last matter. You did not know whether an egg had been placed in your cradle according to custom, whether it had failed to hatch, whether the hatchling had died, or whether no egg had ever been given to you at all. Whatever the circumstances, it seemed the Seven had determined that you were not to be a Targaryen, but a Hightower.
“A blessing,” Ormund often called it, standing behind you, watching intently as you brushed your hair in the evenings. “That your appearance was not marred by the stain of inbreeding. You should be grateful the gods favored you enough to preserve your beauty from such impurity.”
What he really meant was, “You should be grateful the gods gave you to me”.
And you were. Your childhood in Oldtown had been a happy one. Ormund and Lady Hightower’s sons took to you as a true sister, including you in their games no matter how often you ran weeping to their mother after they shoved you into the mud. You received the finest education the Citadel’s maesters could provide and were thoroughly instructed in histories, languages, scripture, and the workings of court. Ormund instilled in you the virtues expected of a holy and pious woman. Lady Hightower taught you kindness. You wanted for nothing. You were cared for completely.
Being cared for, however, was not the same as being wanted.
One by one, the boys grew into men. They departed to serve in other courts, took wives, and established households of their own. You remained behind. After Lady Hightower’s death, the question of where you belonged began to trouble you even more.
You searched everywhere for some reflection of yourself. In histories and poems. In portraits, tapestries, and family trees. You studied every face and name, hoping one might reveal why you had been born in the first place.
Though Ormund preferred that you remain ignorant to the fact, you knew you were a Targaryen.
He contradicted himself often in that regard. He insisted that you were a Hightower whenever you longed for King’s Landing, yet invoked the sins of your Valyrian predecessors whenever you displeased him. As a child, the inconsistency had deeply confused you. Now, though, you knew better to question it.
The histories did not speak of Targaryens as aliens deserving only shame. On the contrary, they praised them. Aegon the Conqueror had crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros, his lineage sitting upon the Iron Throne from then until the end of time. They had bound themselves to mighty beasts that would bow to no other riders. Why should you not wish to be one of them? Why should you be ashamed?
Perhaps that was why, during one of your rare visits to King’s Landing, you became determined to find some way of securing your place within your own bloodline. Ormund had permitted you, after much begging on your part and great reluctance on his, to attend the wedding of your brother Aegon to your sister Helaena. You had still been young enough to think yourself a girl, though womanhood waited only just around the corner, and through that haze of youth the wedding had seemed beautiful.
Now, of course, memory revealed what you had been too young to recognize then: the discomfort across Helaena’s face, the uninterested ambivalence with which Aegon accepted the ceremony, the celebration disguising a union neither seemed to really desire. But that morning, surrounded by jewels and music and flowers, by feasts and speeches proclaiming the strength of their union, you had understood only one thing.
If your appearance could not prove you a Targaryen, perhaps marriage could.
When you returned to Oldtown, full of courtly notions and girlish fancy, you announced to Ormund that you would marry your brother Aemond– who had scarcely looked your way throughout the entire visit. Ormund had been seated behind the desk in his solar, writing upon a sheet of parchment. At your declaration, the quill froze between his fingers.
With deliberate care, he set the quill aside and lifted his eyes to you with a dreadful stillness. “You will do no such thing.”
Your smile slowly faded. “But…Aegon married Helaena. That is what Targaryens do.”
Ormund rose suddenly from behind the desk, his chair scraping harshly across the stone floor. You remembered how the sound had frightened you.
“The Targaryens– your father’s family– are incestuous barbarians,” he had declared. “Their minds are so corrupted by generations of inbreeding that they no longer possess the sense to recognize depravity. Your mother whored herself to a Targaryen. I will not give you to your own brother. I will not allow you to repeat her sins and bring further shame upon the Hightower name.”
By then, he had crossed the solar and taken your chin firmly in his hand, his fingers dimpling the skin of your cheeks. You had begun to cry, though you could not tell whether it was from fear, shame, or the sudden loneliness of knowing you might never truly belong anywhere.
“But then I could live with Father and Mother,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I could go home.”
Ormund bent until his face was close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. His grip tightened beneath your chin. “This is your home.”
The memory faded as you reached for a candle from the basket beneath the Maiden’s altar. You held its wick to one of the burning flames and watched a bead of wax gather at the tip before slipping towards your fingers.
Aemond had been the first man Ormund refused you. He had not been the last.
Among Ormund’s duties as your guardian was the arrangement of your eventual betrothal. Ormund approached that responsibility as he approached all others: with severe discretion, particular judgment, and standards so high that no man alive seemed capable of meeting them.
There had never been a shortage of suitors. You were young, unmarried, and beautiful– and whatever Ormund might say of your father’s house, the hand of a Targaryen princess remained a prize few sensible men would dismiss.
As you grew older, the procession became a lengthy one.
The first man to formally inquire after you had been Ser Joldwin Mormont. You remembered him quite clearly. He had been nearer Ormund’s age than your own, tall and broad as most Northmen seemed to be, with a rough face that was not altogether unpleasant. He was steady in temperament and remained remarkably calm beneath Ormund’s inquisitions. He had even brought you a gift: a beautiful velvet cloak trimmed in bear fur. You had thought he resembled the carved likenesses of the Warrior found in the sept. He would make a good husband, you had decided.
Ormund had not agreed.
He had no shortage of qualms. Men of the North were ignorant, uncivilized, and hardly better than an illiterate barbarian dragging around a club in Ormund’s opinion. Bear Island was remote, bitterly cold, and impoverished. Worst of all, the Mormonts possessed a peculiar habit of treating their women as though they were equals.
It was not a place, he decided, where you belonged.
Ormund had declared Joldwin entirely unsuitable, and forced you to toss the beautiful cloak into the fireplace of the Great Hall. He said it smelt of bear shit.
After that, the list of suitors started to blend together.
There was a Martell, handsome enough to make you blush with warm brown eyes, who winked at you across the hall. Ormund reacted as though the man had attempted to bed you in the middle of the Hightower. The Dornish were lecherous and tried to “fuck anything that walked”, he told you.
There was a young Rowan who stuttered frequently and spoke so softly that you had to lean closer to hear him. Ormund dismissed him as weak and unfit for a wife.
A ruddy-cheeked and quite cheerful Redwyne heir sent you summerwine and a song composed in praise of your beauty. Ormund called him frivolous.
One man lived too far from Oldtown. Another lived so near that Ormund questioned whether he sought your hand only to gain influence within the city. One possessed too many ambitions. Another had none. One was too young to govern you properly, while another was so old that Ormund expressed outrage at the very notion of subjecting you to him.
There was always some defect. Too proud. Too timid. Too wealthy. Too poor. Too worldly. Too sheltered. Too handsome. Too plain.
Ormund’s standards contradicted one another so thoroughly that, had all his preferences been gathered together, the perfect husband would have needed to be commanding without controlling you, gentle without indulging you, wealthy without greed, devout without presumption, and situated near enough that you might never truly leave the Hightower.
Such a man had yet to present himself.
Perhaps, you thought as you placed your candle down before the Maiden’s altar and bowed your head, Lord Godric Ashford would be different. Perhaps today would finally be the day Ormund found a suitable match for you. Perhaps today was the day you would understand what fate had intended for your life. Perhaps you would finally be chosen.
You set your candle upon the Maiden’s altar and prayed for love, for a fruitful marriage, and for a husband who chose you with a pure heart. You tried to imagine such a life with Godric, though you did not yet know his face.
You hoped he was strong, like Ormund. Tall, like Ormund. Handsome, like Ormund.
You hoped that he might be enough like Ormund to earn his approval. You hoped, without really understanding why, that he was like Ormund.
By the time you returned to the Hightower, Lord Ashford had already been shown into Ormund’s solar and begun his proposition.
Ormund had never permitted you to be present for such conversations, of course. Serious matters, he insisted, were to be muddled by girlish sentiment. Over the years, you had therefore found other ways to learn what decisions were being made about your future without you. Some time ago, you had discovered a narrow passage running behind the rear wall of Ormund’s solar– an old servants’ entrance, long forgotten, its doorway boarded over and concealed behind a heavy tapestry.
And so, upon returning to the Hightower, you dismissed your ladies with the excuse that you wished to pray alone in your chambers (surely the gods would forgive the lie, given the good reason for it). Once they had gone, you slipped behind the tapestry and crept down the cobwebbed corridor until you reached the boarded door. Pressing your ear to the weathered planks, you heard the low murmur of men’s voices.
“...and I would never seek to separate her from Oldtown, Lord Hightower,” an unfamiliar voice spoke. You leaned closer. It was firm but polite, young but not imprudent. Lord Godric Ashford. He sounded kind. “I understand the princess is quite close with you, and I would ensure she could visit the Hightower as often as she wished. Family is of the utmost importance to me.”
You heard Ormund’s chair squeak. You could imagine he had leaned back in it, hands clasped in front of him, assessing Lord Ashford as he did all things brought before his judgement. “That seems to me an indulgence. She would be your wife, would she not? You would not want her with you in Ashford?”
“Of course, my lord. But I would not be so cruel as to forbid her from visiting the man that raised her. My own mother was a Caswell, and she visited my grandsire at Bitterbridge at every turning of the season.”
“And if she wished to visit more often than you considered appropriate?”
There was a brief pause. “I would speak with her, as husband and wife should.”
“Hmm. And if speaking did not bring her around to your judgement?”
There was another lull, longer this time, before Lord Godric gave an uneasy chuckle. “Well, I would hope my wife did not need to be disciplined as a child would.”
“Hopes are not the same as reality,” Ormund replied easily. “Particularly where Targaryen blood is concerned. They are a willful and proud people. Very resistant to correction.”
“I-I have heard no such things of the princess, my lord.”
“No? Then what have you heard of her?”
“Every account has described her as the very image of what a noblewoman ought to be: beautiful, gracious, and demure. I’ve been told she is quite pious, as well.”
A thoughtful silence settled over the solar. You wished desperately you could see Ormund’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“She is.”
Your heart swelled and instinctively, you pressed yourself closer to the boards. You were a good girl.
“But do not mistake her nurture for nature, Lord Godric. She did not arrive in Oldtown so.”
“My lord, I did not mean to suggest–”
“Every virtue you have heard praised in her was cultivated beneath my hand. Her modesty, her devotion. The weeds of Targaryen pride had to be pulled, one by one. A garden does not become handsome just because a flower has good intentions. It becomes handsome because a gardener has the discipline to attend to it every single day and cut away what ought not grow.”
Lord Godric hesitated in his answer. “And…you believe a husband must continue that work? Pull the weeds from her?”
“I believe,” Ormund answered slowly, “that any man who means to take her from me must be capable of preserving what I have made.”
What he had made.
You drew a shaky breath, your fingernails pressing into the weathered boards.
Perhaps it was true. Ormund had spent years teaching you the faults of your father’s house. They were blasphemous, unnatural. Incestuous and violent. An abomination before the Seven. His lessons were so ingrained within you that even the faintest reminder of your Valyrian blood could fill you with shame.
You had not chosen that blood. You had not asked to be born into it. You had only ever wanted to be good. And if Targaryens were innately wicked, perhaps you truly did owe everything virtuous within you to Ormund.
As a child, you had often wondered what sort of creature you might have become without his guidance. If he were true, which he often was, you would be a terrible creature malformed by sin. The thought frightened you still. But another more terrible one followed suit: without his guidance, you would not have had him.
No arms around your waist in the night. No hand smoothing your hair. No voice telling you what was right, what was wrong, what was safe. A life without Ormund. You tried to imagine it and found only emptiness. Would such a life truly be worth living?
And yet…you wanted to be chosen.
Your own mother and father had decided they had no need of you in King’s Landing, though they kept their other children close. You had been sent to Oldtown, where you doubted Ormund and Lady Hightower had been given much choice in whether they would receive you. No one had ever truly chosen you.
That was what made the suitors difficult to dismiss. They came before Ormund willingly, they asked for your hand because they wanted you. You liked that more than you wished to admit.
And though the thought of leaving Ormund filled your stomach with dread, it had become increasingly difficult not to resent him for refusing every man who tried to choose you.
“I believe I have heard all I need,” Ormund said suddenly, his voice decisive. Your heart faltered. You knew what that meant.
“...My lord?” You could hear Godric shift closer to the desk. “I hope I have not caused offense of any sort. I only meant that, should the princess become my wife, I would do all within my power to–”
“I said I have heard enough.” Something heavy was placed on the desk with a thud. A wine cup, presumably.
You wanted desperately for Godric to protest. You wanted him to declare his love to you, though he had never once seen your face. You wanted him to insist that perhaps the choice of whom you married ought to belong, at least in part, to you. You wanted him to accuse Ormund of cruelty for denying you the right to a husband.
The last thought filled you with immediate shame. You whispered a hurried prayer under your breath to the Father, begging forgiveness for having judged the man who had only ever sought to protect you.
Godric did none of that. Instead, he simply uttered with cool restraint, “As you will, Lord Hightower.”
A chair scraped across the floor and heavy footsteps crossed the solar, followed by the opening and closing of its main door. You withdrew from the boarded door slowly, blinking as tears began to brim at your eyes.
Usually, disappointment was all you felt when another suitor was refused. A dull ache in your heart followed by the acceptance that Ormund must have seen some defect you had overlooked. He knew the nature of men and the dangers of the world in ways you did not.
This time felt…different.
Godric had spoken respectfully. He had promised not to sever you from Oldtown. He had regarded your devotion and gentleness, and when Ormund questioned whether he could govern you, Godric had not boasted of cruelty or correction. His only failure had been suggesting that you ought to be treated as a wife rather than a child.
By the time you emerged from behind the tapestry, Lord Ashford was gone. The corridor stood empty, save for the guard outside the solar, offering no glimpse of the man who had come to ask for your hand and been dismissed before you could even see his face.
Ormund had instructed you to come to him once the proposition concluded. Usually, you obeyed quickly. Now, though, you lingered outside the solar door with your hand raised to knock, struggling to understand the feelings swimming in your mind. Confusion, disappointment. And something dangerously close to anger.
You knocked anyways.
“You may enter,” Ormund called.
You opened the door and stepped inside, carefully pulling it shut behind you. Ormund had moved from the desk to the window and stood peering down at the city below. The shutters had been opened. He turned at the sound of the door closing, looked you over once, and– apparently finding no objections with your appearance– gestured towards the carved chairs near his desk.
“Sit.”
You did.
Ormund remained beside the window and drew a long breath through his nose. His face tightened with mild disgust. “Lord Ashford seems, from his smell, to possess a great fondness for horses.”
You sniffed discreetly. There was nothing in the air besides parchment and the dried florals Ormund preferred to keep throughout his rooms. “Perhaps he rode in this morning.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the men of Ashford prefer to sleep in stables.” Ormund reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the ornate pomander he carried. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled deeply. Only once he appeared satisfied that every trace of Lord Ashford had been driven from his nostrils did he return it to his pocket. Then he turned to you, settling against the window ledge with his hands clasped before him. “You attended the sept this morning?”
You stared down at your hands, folded in your lap. “Yes, my lord.”
“And for whom did you light a candle for today?”
You chewed on your lower lip. “The Maiden.”
Ormund nodded in consideration, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why did you choose the Maiden today?”
“I…I wanted to pray for your meeting with Lord Ashford to go well.”
“You prayed for Lord Ashford?”
Your palms had begun to feel sweaty. “Y-yes, my lord.”
“You prayed to marry him?"
“...yes, my lord.”
The muscle under Ormund’s eye twitched. He pushed himself away from the window and approached you slowly. Rounding the corner of the desk, he stopped beside your chair. Then, tugging at the fabric of his breeches over his thighs, he lowered himself until he was kneeling at eye level with you. You kept your gaze fixed on your lap.
“You wish to leave Oldtown so badly,” he said softly, so quietly it was barely a whisper, “that you would pray to marry a man who you have never met?”
“M-my lord, I did not–”
“Look at me.”
Trembling, you raised your gaze to meet his. Ormund’s face had gone still, though the blue of his eyes had turned icy. Your stomach lurched.
“I have risked much to raise you,” Ormund began, leaning in closer to you. “I have shielded you from those at court who question why King Viserys cast his youngest daughter out of King’s Landing. I have protected you from men who would use your blood and name for their own advancement. I have purged you of the evils of Valyria and shaped you into a proper woman. And now, now you hate me enough that would you leave my bed for a stranger?”
Heat burned at your cheeks, hearing Ormund speak like that. Like your shared bed was something…you could not finish the thought. “No, Ormund, please, I don’t–”
“You hate me enough that you would question my judgement?” he pressed, voice lowering to a gravelly hum. “You believe you know better than I? That I am ignorant?”
Hot tears had begun to spill over, wetting your lashes and blurring your vision. “I don’t, my lord, I don’t know b-better than you, I only wanted–”
“Tell me, then.” Ormund seized your face in one hand, his rings digging into your cheeks as he forced your chin upward. “Tell me that you do not wish to leave me.”
“I-I do not wish to leave you, my lord,” you choked, sobbing fully now.
“Tell me that no man could care for you as I have.”
“No man could c-care for me as you have!”
His hand tightened enough around your chin that your cheeks squished together. His face, though, had shifted, a diseased softness bleeding into it. “Now, you must tell me what you have forgotten to say.”
Shame and something hotter burned low in your gut. He always made you say the words like this. When you had no option but to force the truth out of you.
“I…” your breath shuddered. “I love you.”
Ormund’s grip refused to loosen. “Again, please.”
The words caught in your throat, scraping like sand. “I love you, Ormund.”
Finally, his face eased, and so did his hold.
“There,” he murmured, sickeningly tender as he wiped his thumb across your cheek, catching one of your stray tears. “Was that so difficult to say?”
You shook your head quickly. You did not trust your voice.
Seemingly satisfied, Ormund rose from where he was crouched, dusting off his breeches. The matter was finished. He returned to his desk, lowering himself in his chair, no trace of the man who had just seconds ago demanded the sick truth of your devotion. You remained frozen, unable to move, cheeks wet and burning. You suddenly were conscious of how horrible you must look, swollen eyes and shaking hands.
Ormund glanced up from his papers. “You will go and ready yourself for the evening’s feast now.”
Numb, you stared at him. He raised one brow in question. Ormund did not like to repeat himself.
“Y-yes, my lord,” you stuttered.
“Wear the blue silk. The one with the square neckline,” he dipped his quill into the ink, already moved on from the excitement and back to his usual self. He glanced up once more, eyes moving across your face. “And…have the women repair your face. It would be quite unbecoming to our guests to see you have upset yourself.”
You were thoroughly humiliated. “Yes, my lord.”
Legs shaking slightly, you rose and smoothed your skirts.
“And, one more thing,” Ormund spoke, though he continued reading the parchment he held. “You will not speak with Lord Ashford this evening.”
You paused. Was this a trap? “Would it…would it not appear discourteous if I refused to–”
“The matter has already been decided, my girl. You have no need to encourage him further.”
“I…I understand.” You bowed, trying not to trip over your still unsteady feet, and then turned towards the door. You had just put your hand on the latch when Ormund spoke again.
“Have you forgotten something?”
You paused, and then looked back in the solar. Ormund had finally lifted his eyes from the parchment and was leaning back in his seat. He tapped one finger against his cheek.
Your cheeks grew hotter, though you had done this hundreds of times before. Thousands, perhaps. You crossed the solar to where Ormund sat, his expression completely neutral. Heart beating in your throat, you bent carefully and pressed your lips briefly to his cheek. He caught your wrist before you could retreat.
“Once more, properly this time,” he commanded.
You swallowed and kissed him again, lingering this time until you felt the faint scrape of where he had shaved that morning and breathed in the familiar fragrance of his pomander.
Ormund released his grip on you, mouth curled in a smile. “Good girl. You may go now.”
You bowed, lower this time, and left the solar with the warm and humiliating feeling you had become accustomed to now living in the very place Ormund had hollowed out inside you over years and years.
As you walked down the halls of Hightower, face lowered so any passerbys would not catch a glimpse of your reddened cheeks and puffy eyes, you wondered why you felt the way you did.
Lord Ashford would be at the feast that evening, and though Ormund had forbidden you from speaking to him, you knew that you would search for him among the gathered faces. For what, you could not say. To prove something, perhaps. But what, exactly?
That Ormund was right? Or that he was wrong?
And afterward…no matter the excitement from the day, you had not forgotten Ormund’s reminder that morning.
“It is the seventh day.”
You dreaded the fact, but not for the ritual that awaited you, but rather the shameful fact it made you excited.
It seemed this was to be a day of contradictions.
You wanted Lord Ashford to see you, and you hoped he never appeared so that you might obey Ormund without temptation. You wanted Ormund to loosen his hold upon you, and you wanted him to swear that he would never allow you to belong to anyone else.
How could both desires live in the same body? The same heart? You did not know.
You knew only that, by the end of the night, Ormund would decide which desire you were permitted to keep.
Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TagaryenWife!Reader
Description: You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife?
WC: 3.5k
CW: Reader is an icon and a very mean diva. No physical descriptions of Reader. Gwayne is smitten (and breedable, but the roles are reversed for this one). SMUT, just smut and a tiny little plot. PinV. A slight spit/saliva kink if you use a magnifying glass or a scanning tunneling microscope. My favourite word: breeding. Cunnilingus. Cum eating. More breeding. Slight cockwarming in the end. Reader tops but gets tired, but a diva still has needs.
GIF Credit (TYSM!): @/dracaria-dracarys
The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter.
Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.
However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband.
You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired.
Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you.
Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.
The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself.
“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?”
“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”
“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”
Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.
“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other thugs, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.
You retaliate.
“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”
It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face.
You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.
You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.
Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”
You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”
The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow.
It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching.
You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”
With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes.
You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.
The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.
At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love.
Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.
You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority.
“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.
“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.
“Are you mad at me?”
That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad.
“Absurd.”
He sighs, “you are tense.”
“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”
That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.
You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people.
He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.
“You are pliant, husband.”
“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you.
His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.
He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies.
He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit.
On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.
He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side.
Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows.
Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips.
To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity.
You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.
“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne.
If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.
Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.
There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.
It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.
He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have.
“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”
That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.
He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.
His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.
Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.
His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.
“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment?
You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his.
Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care.
You were not going to finish this day without a fight.
You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty.
His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.
His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.
“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”
The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face.
By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other.
He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.
“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.
His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.
Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.
He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back.
His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.
Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.
“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”
His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you.
Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.
Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TagaryenWife!Reader
Description: You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife?
WC: 3.5k
CW: Reader is an icon and a very mean diva. No physical descriptions of Reader. Gwayne is smitten (and breedable, but the roles are reversed for this one). SMUT, just smut and a tiny little plot. PinV. A slight spit/saliva kink if you use a magnifying glass or a scanning tunneling microscope. My favourite word: breeding. Cunnilingus. Cum eating. More breeding. Slight cockwarming in the end. Reader tops but gets tired, but a diva still has needs.
GIF Credit (TYSM!): @/dracaria-dracarys
The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter.
Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.
However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband.
You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired.
Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you.
Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.
The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself.
“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?”
“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”
“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”
Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.
“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other thugs, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.
You retaliate.
“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”
It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face.
You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.
You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.
Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”
You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”
The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow.
It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching.
You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”
With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes.
You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.
The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.
At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love.
Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.
You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority.
“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.
“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.
“Are you mad at me?”
That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad.
“Absurd.”
He sighs, “you are tense.”
“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”
That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.
You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people.
He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.
“You are pliant, husband.”
“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you.
His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.
He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies.
He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit.
On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.
He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side.
Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows.
Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips.
To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity.
You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.
“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne.
If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.
Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.
There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.
It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.
He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have.
“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”
That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.
He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.
His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.
Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.
His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.
“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment?
You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his.
Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care.
You were not going to finish this day without a fight.
You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty.
His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.
His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.
“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”
The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face.
By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other.
He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.
“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.
His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.
Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.
He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back.
His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.
Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.
“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”
His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you.
Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.
Just some thoughts on the reader being Aerions wife while heavily pregnant at Ashford Tourney…
He would be all over you. Princes don’t ride in carriages, they rode on their horses alongside them. But when Aerion saw you step into the carriage, with no one but his drunk older brother who had already fallen off his horse, he broke the standards and slid in beside you without a word. If Daeron were to snore to loudly, or scare you with his nightly visions on the way there, he would kick his brothers shin, shutting him up instantly.
When you’d finally arrive there, Aerion would be the only one to help you out, he didn’t trust anyone near you anymore, after all you were carrying his hatchling now, as he liked to call it. To his logic, the male dragon always protects the nest, despite the child being born yet or not.
He would watch you with every step you took, and if anyone were to dare get too close, attempt a conversation, or merely disturb your peace? It’s safe to say they would not be seen anywhere again that day.
You would have been the one to convince him to go to the puppet show, it was about dragons after all, and you knew his strict obsession with them. It had started off pleasant, you, in his arms. But it seemed he had snapped that poor girls fingers in the blink of an eye.
You had tried to get the nearby guards to stop the taller man from coming at Aerion. You knew your husband was in the wrong, but to see him being brutally attacked meant more.
When you had returned back to the small castle of Ashford, where you were all staying, Lord ashford was waiting with Maekar and Baelor. You were sat near Lord ashford. Aerion often liked to put you far from him, only so he could stare at you fully for the night. As he ignored the hedgeknights words, he instead snapped some nuts open.
The final one had flown across the room, going past Lord Ashford and landing on your boots. When you had begun to bend down to retrieve it Aerion let out a noise of displeasure. Instead he gestured to Lord Ashford, pointing at your shoes. He watched as the Lord scrambled to remove it while you blushed in embarrassment.
“My wife is carrying a prince, my Lord, it is only right you go to your knees before her” is what he had said with a shrug before Maekar had snatched him by the collar and dragged him out while Baelor spared you a smile.
Aerion had made you clean his cuts that night, just so he could entice you to a bath with him. You knew how that always ended….
Watching the trial was horrible for you, seeing your husband lose, was not something either of you were used to. For the next week, Aerion let you baby him. Though he did moan and complain when you cleaned his wounds, he would stay quiet when you’d brush your fingers through his silver hair.
You being pregnant was the only reason in the end that Maekar didn’t send Aerion to Lys. So that night Aerion made sure he fucked you to your hearts content.
“It brings on the birth” he’d whispered in your ear as he finished inside of you for the third time
Summary : Gwayne doesn't like you, every time you meet, you insult him in High Valyrian. At least, that's what he thinks, in reality, you're confessing your feelings to him. A brief conversation with Jacaerys helps him understand a few words of Valyrian and shed light on the truth.
Warnings : Fluff, not so much warning, its soft.
Word count : 5.4 K
English is not my mothertongue so my dearest apologize for the mistakes.
Gwayne Hightower was a noble man, not only by birth but above all by his conduct. Just, upright, kind-hearted, a true gentleman. All of this came naturally to him, he was born that way—nothing extraordinary from his point of view. Women were all entranced by this knight who was as handsome as he was kind, and it was easy for him to be charming with every one of them. All except you, ever since both of you met as children, he had never been able to openly express his admiration for you. Not because you were a Targaryen, Viserys’s second daughter, whose beauty was matched only by your intelligence. Not because you were a seasoned dragonrider whose ease on your dragon was reflected in your dance steps. No, he appreciated all those qualities and would gladly have voiced all the compliments lying dormant in his mind if you hadn’t hated him.
The worst part wasn’t just that you didn’t love him, no; he could have accepted that but the fact that, despite your sharp tongue, which had rebuffed lords far higher in rank than he, you wouldn’t deign to tell him so frankly. You smiled at him and were polite, just as one would expect from a princess.
So how did he know you didn’t hold him dear in your heart? You insulted him in High Valyrian; not even one of your encounters had gone by without you uttering words in the Targaryen language. And that frustrated him to no end. You didn’t consider him worthy of hearing your thoughts about him in the common tongue; you preferred to speak to him in that lilting dialect, always with a sparkling smile. As if to remind him that he was merely a man the youngest son of a second son, unable to understand the language of the gods. If only he knew…
He was pacing back and forth in the castle; you were due to arrive accompanied by Daeron, his youngest nephew. It had been agreed that Daeron would be raised here, far from the venom of King’s Landing. He was looking forward to your arrival as much as he dreaded it. He wished you were already gone, so he could recover from the emotional exhaustion that each of your encounters caused him.
A powerful scream shattered the silence, and all the staff rushed to the windows or outside. Those already outside looked up to see a silver dragon and a smaller golden dragon approaching the castle. In a few flaps of their wings, the creatures reached their destination and landed on the ground. Lord Hightower, his wife, and Gwayne came out to greet you.
You dismounted gracefully from your dragon, Daeron secured to you by straps, which you unfastened, freeing the five-year-old who remained hidden behind you, clinging tightly to your jacket with his little hands. Gwayne couldn’t help but melt at the sight. You helped Aegon dismount from Sunfyre; he was holding a baby dragon in his arms. You bowed before the lords of the manor, and your half-brothers followed your lead.
Lord and Lady Hightower, Ser Gwayne.
Princess, Prince, they replied in turn.
Did you have a safe journey? asked the old man.
No problems. Aegon insisted on accompanying me to bring Tessarion, Daeron’s dragon. She’s far too young to fly the distance.
Everyone looked at the baby dragon, who was gazing all around him and letting out little squeaks.
That was very kind of you, my prince, said Lady Hightower.
I must say that Aegon is an excellent rider; it was his first long journey, and he handled it perfectly, especially given the responsibility of caring for such a young dragon.
Ten-year-old Aegon blushed slightly. Gwayne watched the exchange; he couldn’t help but appreciate the bond that united you with his nephews. Being only five years apart in age from Aegon, you were close, and it seemed clear to everyone that you were closer to your half-brothers and sister than to your own sister.
The dragon trainer will probably arrive tomorrow, said Aegon.
The dragon trainer ? asked Gwayne.
Just as you were about to explain the terms of a dragon’s training, Lord Hightower cut you off:
Let’s go inside, you must be tired. We’ll discuss the details of our arrangement regarding Daeron and his dragon over a meal.
Aegon and you nodded in agreement. As you walked past Gwayne, you said to him,
Rytsas gevie (hello beautiful)
Aegon looked at you with wide eyes. Tessarion squeaked when he heard you speak.
Iksā gevie tolī” (you are beautiful too), Aegon whispered to the dragon, who calmed down by rubbing his head against the boy’s cheek.
Daeron rushed over to Aegon to claim his dragon, looking slightly sulky at the interaction. Gwayne, who hadn’t been paying attention to the boys, forced a smile on his face, convinced that you were insulting him. Once inside, you delivered Viserys and Alicent’s message to the Hightowers regarding Daeron’s and his dragon’s education. A wet nurse, a tutor, and a master dragonrider were on their way to assist with this task. It was agreed that you would stay the night to rest. Sunfyre was, in any case, too young to make the return trip so soon. The next morning, you waited for Daeron to wake up to say your goodbyes; the poor child cried his heart out, and you couldn’t help but shed a few tears yourself.
We’ll write to you often; the nurse will read our letters to you, and you can send us drawings until you learn to write.
After kissing him on the forehead, you joined Aegon and helped him settle onto his dragon.
Lord Hightower, thank you for everything; the king will not forget the service you have rendered him.
It is a pleasure to serve House Targaryen.
You bowed with a smile.
Ūndegon ao aderī, gevie vala (see you soon, pretty man), you say to Gwayne.
Princess, he greets you, looking tense.
You can’t help but laugh before climbing onto Silverwing and commanding him to take flight. In the years that followed, Gwayne could have learned a few words of High Valyrian from Daeron and his tutor, but he never dared. Being convinced that you were insulting him every time they met was one thing. Having proof of it was another. Five years later, he was sent to King’s Landing for a meeting at Otto’s request.
When he entered the throne room, he saw the king on his throne, with Alicent at his side. He stepped forward, bowed, and greeted those presents. Otto descended the steps to join his son.
How you’ve grown, what a fine man you’ve become.
Thank you, Father.
He couldn’t help but quickly glance around the room but saw no sign of his nephews, or of you. Alicent offered to accompany him to his chamber.
Where are your children?
Helaena is in her room; her pregnancy is nearing its end, and she’s tired. Aegon, only the gods know where he is. As for Aemond, he’s out with Y/N and their dragons. You’ll see them tonight.
Gwayne grimaced, a look that didn’t escape his sister’s notice.
Is there a problem?
I don’t really feel like seeing her.
Why?
She hates me; she insults me as soon as she sees me.
Alicent seemed upset by this news.
No one ever mentioned that she said, frowning. She must be punished.
I can’t prove it Gwayne was quick to say.
Alicent stopped walking and looked at her brother, confused.
What do you mean?
She insults me in High Valyrian.
You speak High Valyrian? she asked, surprised.
No.
Then how do you know…
I know it. He interrupted her. I'm sorry, he added.
Alicent seemed to be thinking.
My sons are fluent; we'll have them translate his next words, and appropriate measures will be taken, she said firmly.
Gwayne thanked her, but part of him couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “This is ridiculous,” he told himself. “It’s not your fault; you’ve never done anything to deserve being disrespected.” Despite his attempt at self-reassurance, he couldn’t help but feel anxious at mealtime. Helaena was eating in her room, too tired to get out of bed, when Aegon arrived with his parents. Aemond and you arrived shortly afterward. You’d all changed over the past few years, but by the gods, you’d become the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. You smiled at him with that little crooked smile of yours that hadn’t changed a bit.
Ryts…” you began, before changing your mind and saying, Ser Gwayne, with a curtsy.
Alicent and Gwayne exchanged glances for a moment. He was surprised by your behavior but quickly understood. You only spoke Valyrian in front of him when no one was around to translate your words. Aegon gave a slight, sidelong smile; he was the only one who knew about your little game, but he’d rather die than reveal your secret.
Dinner went well; many questions about Daeron were asked, and Gwayne was happy to answer them. Everyone dispersed in their rooms. Alicent and Gwayne stayed behind for a while to chat, while you went to check on Helaena’s condition. As you left her room, you ran into Gwayne on his way to his own.
Sȳz bantis, ñuha prūmia (Good night, my heart), you said to him without stopping.
If you have something to tell me, just say it
That’s what I just did, you smiled.
You understood perfectly well,tell me what you just said.
Sȳz bantis, ñuha prūmia.
In the common tongue, he snapped.
Where’s the fun in that?” you said, continuing your way.
Gwayne watched you until you disappeared around a corner; he wanted to scream. You were the most frustrating creature he’d ever met.
Once in your room, you, too, felt like screaming. Why on earth couldn’t you just tell him how you felt? Ever since your first meeting, you hadn’t been able to stop admiring the youngest of the Hightowers, he was so noble, so kind, intelligent, and cultured, not to mention his striking good looks. You’d think that a Targaryen, riding one of the oldest dragons and possessing such a strong character, would have no trouble expressing her feelings fully.
But no,the fear of being rejected by that boy, who had grown into this incredible man, had always gotten the better of you. The first time you’d tried to tell him you found him handsome, you’d just been speaking High Valyrian with your father, and the words had come naturally in that language. Gwayne had looked surprised, and when you realized your mistake, you’d wanted to correct yourself, but embarrassment stopped you.
Realizing that confiding your thoughts to him in another language allowed you to release your pent-up emotions without revealing your true self, you had done it again. After a while, it had simply become impossible to admit the truth, even though it seemed to bother Gwayne.
Lost in these thoughts, you fell asleep, letting your dreams fill with shared memories of the handsome redhead from the Hightower family, and as had happened so many times before, your dreams eventually turned into a romantic and, for the first time, erotic vision.
Waking with a start, your body drenched in sweat and your heart pounding frantically, you wondered if it was possible to go on living without ever confessing the truth.
The inner council met early that morning. Alicent, Aegon, Aemond Gwayne, Otto, Maester Orwyle, Criston Cole, and you. Viserys, too exhausted, stayed in bed more often. The discussion turned to Rhaenyra and her succession to the throne.
She’ll never agree to give up her place to Aegon, Criston Cole said harshly.
She’s been more open to negotiation since Daemon’s death, though, Alicent pointed out.
What matters most to my sister is her children. Let’s secure their future in exchange for her relinquishing the throne.
How can we do that?” Otto asked, interested.
Let’s confirm the succession: Dragonstone to Jacaerys, Driftmark to Lucerys.
Aemond grunted.
Do you have a better idea? Otto asked his grandson.
They’re bastards; They have no claim to this succession.
Criston Cole nodded. You rolled your eyes.
The princess’s proposal is reasonable, and I think Rhaenyra will find it far more advantageous than being crowned.
That’s not fair, Aemond complained.
Alicent seemed torn; she wanted to avoid a bloodbath, but giving Rhaenyra all the advantages again seemed unfair to her.
That’s true, you conceded, it’s not fair. But you shouldn’t let your hatred blind you, there’s much more at stake than a family feud.”
I’m not blinded began Viserys’s second son.
You are, you cut him off, I understand. What happened at Driftmark, the loss of your eye, Lucerys getting off scot-free. It’s unfair, Aemond. But I don’t have a solution. If I could ease your pain, I would.”
Aemond fell silent, aware that you were right.
I agree with Y/N, but perhaps we could find some compensation for my brother said Aegon.
The council members pondered.
Execute his dragon, said Criston.
Never in a million years, you snapped.
Out of the question said Aegon.
No added Aemond.
You had almost spoken at the same time. No matter what disputes divided you, none of you wanted to see a dragon die. Gwayne smiled at this exchange; he watched you closely. You were thoughtful, always calmly seeking the best solution. But capable of flying into a rage in a matter of seconds when something touch you sincerely. The three dragonriders were still glaring at Cole when Gwayne suggested.
Prohibition on lineage
What? Alicent asked.
No lineage for him; Jacaerys will be able to continue the Velaryon line, which protects us from their animosity. These children will be able to inherit Driftmark upon Lucerys’s death.”
It was agreed that this was a fair punishment; everyone agreed until Otto asked,
Who’s going to break the news to Princess Rhaenyra?
Y/N, Alicent suggested. You’re her sister.
We all remember how things ended the last time we saw each other.
The members present looked at the floor, contrite for not having thought of that. Aegon and Aemond, however, smiled. As for Gwayne, he was perplexed, unaware of what had happened.
I’ll go he offered. It was my idea; I’ll make my case.
After a few more updates, the council was adjourned, and everyone went back to their business. Gwayne approached his sister.
What happened at the last meeting between the sisters?
The queen sighed.
Viserys indicated that he was still considering whom to name as heir to the throne. Rhaenyra wanted to rally supporters, so she asked Y/N to choose between her and Aegon.
I see, said Gwayne. I suppose Rhaenyra didn’t expect her sister to choose their brother.
Indeed, she replied. She asked her in front of many lords, convinced that under social pressure, she would choose her sister. Y/N chose Aegon without hesitation.
Gwayne grimaced; it was humiliating. He understood why Viserys’s oldest daughter wasn’t willing to speak to her sister, even though she was the one who had set up the chain of events in motion.
Rhaenyra had largely ignored her sister in their youth, blaming her for their mother’s death. She was distant, not to mention the ten-year age gap between them. Y/N and Aegon are very close, and it pains me to admit it, but I believe that without her, he would have gone astray.
Gwayne nodded; to him, Alicent’s words made perfect sense.
Be careful during the negotiations; you’ve always been gifted with words, but Rhaenyra gets defensive easily, especially when it comes to her children.
Gwayne thanked her and went to get ready. As he was finishing his preparations, there was a knock at the door.
Come in.
The knight was surprised to see you enter.
Forgive me for disturbing you.
It’s nothing. How can I help you?
I’m not sure if this will bring you luck, but who knows.
You unfolded a handkerchief, revealing a silver necklace adorned with sapphires, its pendant bearing the symbol of House Arryn.
Gwayne gave you a questioning look.
It belonged to our mother; it was a gift from her father, a lord of House Arryn.
I see he said.
Give it to Rhaenyra on my behalf; it should appease her anger a little and allow the negotiations to begin on good terms.
Thank you, Princess, he added with a nod.
There was a silence, then he asked,
Do you love your sister?
I care about her, but I’ll never love her the way I love Aegon, Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, you said sincerely.
He nodded.
That must seem horrible to you.
What, exactly? he asked.
That I prefer my half-brothers and half-sister to my sister.
He weighed his words and replied,
Family is complicated, and I don’t think anyone is to blame for this situation, nor is there any right or wrong in what results from it.
You smiled slightly.
A cautious answer, wise, even, one might say.
I try to be.
You laughed together, then he asked,
Do you think you can improve your relationship with Rhaenyra?
No, you said without thinking. I’ve forgiven the hurtful words she spoke when she was young, but I’m not as wise as you. Some things can’t be healed.
Gwayne watched you, leaving you the choice to continue if you felt the need.
She once told me that we could never be close because of our age difference. And for years, I believed her. But I’m ten years older than Daeron, and I love that child more than anything. He’s my little brother, and no force in this world could make me say otherwise.
I know, said Gwayne tenderly. Maybe you’re wiser than you think, after all.
You smiled at each other.
I must finish getting ready, he said reluctantly.
Yes, of course.
Then you added
Jikagon ȳgha, jorrāelagon hen ñuha ābrar” (Travel safe, love of my life).
Why do you always have to ruin everything ? he lamented.
You simply smiled before leaving his room. Once the door was closed, he looked at the piece of jewelry and noticed that the handkerchief was embroidered with your initials. He held it to his nose and smelled your perfume. He unconsciously bit his lips. As you turned the corner of the hallway, you took a deep breath to keep from crying; Gwayne’s words had hurt you, even though you were the only one to blame.
The trip lasted two days. On board the ship, Gwayne couldn’t help but stroke the handkerchief you’d given him, the necklace had been placed in a box. He’d breathed in its scent so much that even after the fragrance had faded, he could still smell it. He’d always been confused about his feelings for you, and the more time passed, the worse it got. He decided to confront you on his return. He wasn’t going to spend another sleepless night because of your behavior.
His arrival was, of course, met with suspicion. The first thing Gwayne did was give the necklace to Rhaenyra, who understood from this gift that the negotiations Gwayne had come to undertake were no trivial matter.
The princess council was scheduled to meet the next day. Gwayne therefore had the opportunity to discuss Rhaenyra’s children, as well as Baela and Rhaena, whom they had met a few years earlier.
When Gwayne presented the request to cede the throne to Aegon in exchange for a secure and unquestionable future for her heirs, Rhaenyra hesitated, but the request that Lucerys never have children caused an uproar. The council immediately split into two camps: those in favor and those opposed. Gwayne was asked to stay for a few days while they considered the matter.
That evening, as he was reading in the library with Baela and Jace reading at a table a few seats away Gwayne heard Jacaerys say to Baela:
Sȳz bantis, ñuha prūmia
The memory of those words spoken in your voice as you passed him in a hallway came flooding back, and he called out to Jace.
Excuse me, my prince.
Yes?
If it’s not too forward, may I ask what you just said?
Sȳz bantis, ñuha prūmia?
Yes, what does that mean?
He looked at Baela, who was smiling at him.
It means good night, my love.
What?! he exclaimed.
You seem surprised. Baela and I are engaged; sweet words are not out of place.
Oh! No, that’s not why I’m surprised, he hastened to say.
He ran his hand over his face, unsure whether he should reveal the nature of his confusion. Were those really the same words? It seemed unlikely.
I thought I’d heard those words before, and I wanted to know what they meant, but now I’m not so sure. I must not have an ear for High Valyrian.
Rhaenyra’s firstborn was surprised to see Gwayne so troubled by a few words. The man didn’t seem the type to be easily moved, and yet at that moment, the gears in his brain seemed to be turning at full speed. After a moment, he asked,
Would it be possible for you to teach me a few words of Valyrian?
Baela and Jacaerys exchanged another glance, both surprised and amused.
Why not? said the prince.
With the help of Lucerys, Jacaerys, and Baela, he learned much more than just a few words. He couldn’t say whether he had an unexpected talent for learning languages or whether the idea of discovering the secret words you’d been speaking to him for over a decade might hide something other than insults. He quickly recognized the words you used most often: Gevie (beautiful), ñuha prūmia (my heart), ñuha jorrāelagon (my love). He blushed several times and wondered if these were really the words you had said to him. It seemed too good to be true. And yet, as he continued his study which lasted seven days while the council reached a decision, there was no longer any room for doubt.
Every night before falling asleep, he would trace the initials on your handkerchief. His mind was filled with questions: Why had you never spoken of your feelings, or at least, why had you hidden them like this? It didn’t make sense, you weren’t shy, not the type to mince your words, so why this habit? Could it be possible that he, Gwayne Hightower, the most reserved member of his family, the one mocked by his cousin and mostly ignored by the rest of the Hightowers could make you vulnerable.
He lay down on his bed; the handkerchief clenched in his hand against his heart, thinking back on memories of you. Smiling with your brothers and sisters, flying on your dragon. He let his heart imagine scenarios involving the two of you, close together, you in a white dress, sharing kisses, his hands on you, whispering pleas for more, your belly rounding with each passing moon, children who were a mix of Targaryen and Hightower.
He sat up suddenly, reaching for the water carafe on the table; he poured water over his hand before splashing his face, which had flushed and grown hot from his daydreams.
He shook his head he was merely the youngest son of a second son; the chances that King Viserys would accept their union were slim to none. But in this world where marriages are political above all else, what an irony it would be if a marriage of love were not allowed…
Of course, for that to happen, you’d first have to get her to admit her true feelings. And who is more stubborn than a dragon? Her dragonrider.
On the seventh day, even though his mother had forbidden him to intervene, Lucerys announced that he accepted not having children if it could prevent a war. Rhaenyra therefore accepted the terms demanded by her family. Papers were drawn up to confirm each party’s statements, with the requirement to travel to King’s Landing to make things official before all the great houses.
When he left Peyredragon, Gwayne warmly thanked the young dragonriders for their help. His accent wasn’t great, and he stumbled over certain linguistic nuances, but he was able to follow a conversation as long as it wasn’t spoken too quickly.
He had never been so eager to put new knowledge to use. The boat trip seemed to last for weeks, and he was itching to gallop home. That would have somewhat spoiled the element of surprise he hoped to create, but it was hard to resist. That said, people would have had plenty to talk about: Gwayne Hightower, the ever-reserved knight, galloping as if the devil were chasing him. Abandoning his men to storm into the throne room like a fury, only to shout to King Viserys’s second daughter that he understood Valyrian. That he could reveal to the whole world that you’d been declaring your love for him for years.
The thought repulsed him, the idea of giving you a taste of your own medicine for all those sleepless nights he’d spent wondering what your words meant. Why did you act that way. Blaming himself for no longer knowing whether he hated you or desired you ,it made him more than envious. But public humiliation was far from what he wanted. When the castle came into view, Gwayne could hardly stand it; his thoughts were racing, his heart was pounding, he was even more nervous than he was during a battle.
When he entered the council chamber, his gaze sought yours, and he found it easily. You were standing next to your father, helping him drink.
Ser Gwayne, he said, what a joy to see you back.
We thought you’d found a betrothed on Dragonstone, you joked.
Gwayne smiled broadly and by the gods, that smile would have given even the purest of septas some rather unorthodox thoughts.
My heart has been taken for a long time now, princess, said Gwayne, looking at you.
Really? said King Viserys.
Everyone present looked at him in astonishment. It was rare for anyone to reveal such thoughts in public, and coming from Gwayne, it was more than surprising. He was always so reserved and strict about principles. Moreover, he had never spoken of a woman to anyone. Only Aegon smiled slyly.
My position will likely never allow me to tell her.
The council members realized he was referring to his birth order, and before anyone could say anything, he added.
I’ve returned with good news.
He explained that the terms had been accepted and that Rhaenyra and her children would arrive at the new moon to reaffirm their decision before the houses of Westeros. He was congratulated, and Alicent breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone discussed the preparations for the arrival of Viserys’s eldest daughter. Finally, the council members rose and left; Alicent and Cole supported the king, escorting him back to his chambers, while Otto, with his hand on Aemond’s shoulder, asked him if he was satisfied with the situation. The Viserys’s second son finally seemed to relax at the thought of obtaining justice. Maester Orwyle told Aegon that Helaena would give birth shortly. As he turned his head, he saw that Gwayne and you were still standing motionless; he smiled before resuming the conversation.
You were finishing up putting the papers away; Gwayne was watching you. He had wanted only one thing these past few days to be alone with you but now he didn’t know what to say. Just as you were about to leave, you smiled at him.
Skorkydoso kostagon ao sagon tolī gevie than skori ao geptot (How can you be more handsome than when you left)
Zȳha ūndegon ao arlī ñuha jorrāelagon, bona mazverdagon nyke gevie (“It’s seeing you again, my dear, that makes me glow), he replied with the brightest smile he’d ever worn.
You dropped the scrolls, your mouth agape, your eyes wide. You forgot to breathe for a few seconds. You felt heat rising from your lower abdomen to your cheeks, and a cold sweat running down your back. The combination of the two blurred your vision. Gwayne sensed your discomfort; he caught you, wrapping his arms around you.
Are you all right?” he asked worriedly. Is my High Valyrian that bad?
What? Since when? you panicked.
A few days, Gwayne replied, helping you sit down in a chair.
He picked up the scrolls and explained how he’d ended up asking your nephew for help learning the language. You shook your head.
All these years living with Daeron and his teacher. You could have found out at any time... I should have known it would come back to haunt me sooner or later.
He sat down across from you.
I always thought they were insults; I didn’t want to know what you thought of me, he said, rubbing his fingers together. I have to admit, the truth is more pleasant.
You still didn’t dare look at him, ashamed of having been found out.
Can we talk? he asked gently, placing his hand on yours.
There’s not much to say, you whispered. I always knew your heart would never be mine, but I couldn’t stop mine from beating for you. And I was right.
Why do you say that? he asked, kneeling down in front of you.
You said it yourself, your heart is already taken. I didn’t know it until now, but it was obvious this would happen. All the women who seek your favor are so beautiful.
Gwayne smiled and gently guided your gaze to meet his.
Ñuha dōna jorrāelagon, īles ao (My sweet love, I was talking about you)
What?
All these years, even though I thought you didn’t love me, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I told myself not to feel any more than that. But when I realized your feelings were the same as mine… I let it all come flooding back.
Gwayne, you smiled with tears in your eyes.
Avy jorrāelan (I love you) he said.
By the gods you exclaimed.
He slowly sat up to kiss you tenderly, his lips resting delicately on yours, yet he hesitated a little during that first kiss. Your eyelids closed softly as your hands found his face. He pulled back slightly, smiling at you, before planting several lights, butterfly-like kisses on your lips, making you laugh. The sound made him smile even more, and he leaned in again; you closed the distance, kissing him more firmly, catching his lower lip between yours and gently sucking on it.
A moan escaped the knight’s lips, and a tingling sensation ran down his spine. His heart raced as your hands caressed his face and the nape of his neck. Every time he caught his breath, you went back on the offensive, demanding more. He felt feverish; he never would have thought that feeling desired could have such an effect. And judging the blush on your cheeks and your ragged breathing, you felt the same way.
Gwayne lifted you up and sat you on the table, positioning himself between your legs to be more comfortable. Your mouths parted slightly; your tongue instinctively slipped into your lover’s mouth, caressing it gently, before passion took over again. Your hands gripped each other’s clothes, caressing one another firmly. Despite being a Targaryen, you were hot. You pulled apart for a moment; you noticed a drop of sweat trickling down Gwayne’s temple. The sight of his dilated pupils, his flushed lips, and his ragged breathing sent another wave of heat coursing through you. He rained kisses on your neck, making you gasp, and sucked on your tender skin in several places. You moaned as you felt an electric shock in your groin from his touch. As your eyes locked, trying to figure out just how far you could go
I’M GOING TO BE A DAD!” Aegon shouted as he burst into the room.
You both jumped in surprise; Gwayne stepped back to face his nephew.
Oh, sorry he said.
Is Helaena in labor? you asked, climbing down from the table.
Yes, she’s asking for you, Aegon said, looking back and forth between the two of you.
I must go you told Gwayne.
The tension had eased, but his eyes were still looking at you with love.
I know, he replied. I’ll always be here when you come back.
Avy jorrāelan (I love you), you said before kissing him gently.
He smiled as he returned the kiss. When the door closed, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. His heart was still beating too fast, and shivers still ran across his skin. The sensation of your lips on his still felt present. He didn’t yet know how you two would make this relationship work, but even if it had to remain hidden well, to hell with the gods. He would swear his soul away so that you would belong to him.
I hope you like it, i thought about a second part with a wedding maybe...
could I ask for a Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader- where the reader is on team black and he is obviously on green, And he sees her on dragon back during one of the battles he’s apart of ?
back to you | g.h
Pairings: Gwayne Hightower x Wife!Reader
Summary: at Rook’s Rest you find more than battle
WARNINGS: angst, hurt to comfort, reader is team black, reader is Rhaenyra’s sister, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, my man is desperate in this one
A/n: bring back men yearning pls
masterlist | wc: 6.3k
THE ROAR of dragons tore violently through the sky, and you felt it vibrate in your bones even before Cannibal spread his immense black wings over the battlefield of Rook's Rest. The air was so thick with smoke it burned your lungs with every breath, heavy with the acrid stench of ash, freshly spilled blood, and the metallic tang of clashing weapons. Beneath you, the battle stretched to the edge of the forest like a vast open wound carved into the earth: thousands of men fought amid agonized screams and frantic neighing, tattered banners whipped through the flames, while shattered catapults and overturned wagons littered the ground with splintered wood and lifeless bodies. From the sky everything seemed small, and yet you could make out every detail, every knight struck down, every blade sinking into flesh. Cannibal let out a low, rumbling growl, his massive body trembling beneath you, eager to descend into what, for him, was nothing more than a feast.
Your eyes were fixed on Rhaenys Targaryen. She had fought like a queen, like a legend destined to be remembered for centuries, and even from that distance you could see the fierce elegance with which she guided Meleys through smoke and fire. You had arrived too late. Fate had already chosen for her. You watched the enormous jaws of Vhagar close around the red dragon's neck with a brutality that stole your breath, the sound of bones breaking blending with Meleys' desperate roar, and for a moment time seemed to slow to a halt. Then the dragon fell. It dropped like a star devoured by the sky, crashing into the castle walls below in an explosion of stone, fire, and dust. The impact made even Cannibal shudder, and a towering column of flames surged upward, swallowing everything. You gripped the saddle so tightly your fingers ached, as a dull, savage pain tore through your chest.
Cannibal roared, and his cry echoed across the mountains and over the battlefield, forcing men and horses alike to pause for a fleeting instant. Even Vhagar seemed to stiffen. Atop the oldest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen slowly turned his head toward you. His single eye narrowed, immediately recognizing the dark shape of Cannibal emerging from the clouds like an omen of death. A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips. He knew you. He could read the fury consuming you better than anyone, because that same fury ran in his blood as well. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Brother and sister remained suspended above an army that continued slaughtering itself, watching one another like two predators deciding which would devour the other.
Below, Gwayne Hightower, the man who had become your husband only a few years earlier, found himself unable to breathe. He saw you emerge from the sea of smoke with a determination he had never forgotten, Cannibal's vast wings spread like a shadow capable of blotting out the sun itself. For a moment, the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, the noise of armor, and the crackle of flames all vanished. The world seemed to shrink until it held only you. You, who had once shared his bed in the silent chambers of Oldtown. You, who in rare moments of peace had spoken his name with softness. You, who laughed so quietly that he had to lean closer just to hear you. You, who now rode toward death. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He had spent the past weeks trying to convince himself he had forgotten you, that he had buried every feeling along with your broken marriage. He had told himself the war had erased everything, that oaths mattered more than love, that you now belonged to different worlds. And yet one glimpse of you was enough to shatter every lie he had so carefully built.
He still loved you. He understood it with brutal clarity as he watched you lean forward in the saddle, completely fused with your dragon. He could still remember the warmth of your skin against his, the scent of your hair when you fell asleep on his chest, the way you would look away whenever he tried to kiss you first, only to make him chase you with a laugh. In truth, he had always been the desperate one. He was the one who sought your lips with impatience, who chased every small gesture of affection as though it were a privilege. You never denied him, but you always made him earn it, and that was what he missed most. Not the caresses, not the kisses, but the constant need you had created within him, that hunger for your presence that no other woman had ever been able to satisfy. He looked at you now, smeared with ash, infinitely different from the girl he had married and yet exactly the same. Still capable of breaking his heart with a single glance. He wanted to meet you in the ashes of your yesterdays when life was easier, waiting where the light used to fall, recalling what you had when present felt empty. Learning how to miss you.
He understood it completely the moment Cannibal lowered his head and plunged into a dive toward Vhagar. The sky itself seemed to crack under the force of the impending collision. Gwayne stepped forward without even realizing it, as though reaching out a hand might somehow touch you up there. "Don't do it..." he whispered, but his words were swallowed by the chaos of battle, lost to the wind and the thunder of dragons. No one heard him, not even you. Perhaps that was for the best, because he knew you well enough to understand that you would not have stopped anyway.
You faced your brother without the slightest hesitation. There was no fear in your movements, no doubt, not even the faintest trace of mercy. Only fury, fueled by the grief of Rhaenys's death and years of smoldering resentment. Cannibal opened his jaws, revealing rows of enormous, jagged teeth, and his roar made the air tremble before a torrent of black and red flame engulfed Vhagar. Aemond's dragon answered at once, unleashing a blaze so vast it resembled a burning wall. The two infernos collided in the sky, creating a storm of sparks and ash that rained down upon the battlefield like fire. Below them, men screamed and scrambled for cover, while terrified horses broke ranks, trampling friend and foe alike. Aemond guided Vhagar with precision, every command delivered through the slightest shift of his body, while you responded with equal instinct, as if Cannibal were an extension of your own will. The two dragons crashed into each other with devastating force, claw against claw, wing against wing, locking together in a violent dance that seemed to shake the very air.
It was an impossible battle. Gwayne knew it. Everyone did. Vhagar was the oldest, the largest, the most powerful of the living dragons. Every battle she had fought had carved scars into her immense body, shaping her into a creature that seemed made for war. Cannibal, for all his ferocity and wildness, was still younger, smaller, forced to make up with speed what he lacked in strength. And yet he did not yield an inch. He continued to assault Vhagar with relentless determination, forcing even the colossal dragon to recoil beneath the violence of his attacks. Gwayne followed every movement, his heart clenched in a vice. He saw you lean from the saddle as the wind lashed your ash-streaked hair, saw blood running down your temple without you seeming to notice, saw your eyes burning with rage. It was the same expression you had worn the day of your separation, the day he had spoken the words that destroyed you both, confessing that he would fight for Aegon. He still remembered the silence that followed, far more painful than any scream. In that moment, you had understood that something between you had broken forever.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Cannibal seized a fleeting opening in Vhagar's guard and lunged at the massive dragon's neck with savage ferocity. His jaws snapped shut with a terrifying crack, sinking his teeth into the ancient armored scales until they pierced through. The roar that erupted from Vhagar's throat was so powerful it made the sky tremble, a sound filled with pain and fury that echoed for miles and brought the battle to a stunned, fleeting halt. Dark blood streamed down the old dragon's neck, evaporating almost instantly in the heat of the flames. Vhagar writhed violently, trying to break free from the grip, while Aemond pulled hard on the reins, shouting commands in the tongue of Old Valyria. Cannibal did not let go. He tightened his hold with relentless determination, intent on tearing flesh down to the bone. Below, Gwayne held his breath, unable even to blink.
Vhagar crashed to the ground with brutal force. Her enormous claws sank into the blood-soaked earth, shattering stone, wagons, and bodies alike without distinction, while a wave of dust and debris rose all around her, forcing men and horses to retreat in panic. The thunderous beat of her wings swept away already-tattered banners, feeding the fires that devoured Rook's Rest, and her roar echoed through the broken castle walls. You did not hesitate for even a moment. You pulled sharply on Cannibal's reins, guiding him with the weight of your body, and the dragon understood your command before you spoke a single word. With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared back into the sky, leaving behind the black smoke and flames that reflected across his dark scales. You were finally satisfied.
Below, Gwayne Hightower followed your every movement without even noticing what was happening around him. The screams of soldiers, the clash of steel, the shouted orders, all of it reached him as though muffled and distant, as if he were submerged underwater. Only you existed. His eyes could not leave your figure as you slowly pulled away above the battlefield, higher and higher, closer to the smoke-blackened clouds. That was when something caught his attention. A short distance away, among the charred remains of a collapsed tower, an archer stood as still as a statue. He was filthy with dirt and blood, his face smeared with soot, his hands trembling so badly it seemed impossible that he could still draw a bow. And yet his gaze was steady, fixed on you. The arrow was already nocked, ready to fly. For one terrible instant, Gwayne saw clearly the path it would take. His body made the decision long before his mind did.
It was as if he moved on instinct alone, adrenaline suddenly surging through his veins. In a few strides he reached the man, slamming into him hard enough to make him stagger. But the archer's fingers had already released the string. The arrow flew regardless, slicing through the air with a thin, deadly whistle, so fast it was almost invisible. Gwayne lifted his gaze at once, unable even to breathe. He felt his heart pounding so violently it hurt, as he followed that slender line of death climbing into the sky.
The arrow that would have surely struck your heart hit your shoulder instead. Even from that distance, he saw your body jolt from the impact. Blood splattered across Cannibal's black scales, staining the already dirtied fabric of your clothing, while your face twisted in a sudden grimace of pain that made his stomach tighten. Your body wavered dangerously on the dragon's back. One hand reached desperately for purchase on the saddle, the other instinctively grasped the wound. For a long, endless moment, it truly seemed as though you might fall.
Gwayne felt a scream rise in his chest, but he could not release it. It remained trapped there, choked into nothing more than a broken breath. "No..." he managed to whisper, his voice so weak it was swallowed instantly by the wind.
Then he saw you react. With sheer stubbornness, you clenched your teeth and slowly straightened in the saddle. Your hand trembled as it grasped the shaft of the arrow lodged in your flesh, but you did not try to pull it free. You simply pressed your palm against the wound in a desperate attempt to slow the blood that continued to run down your arm. Cannibal, sensing your pain, let out a low, uneasy growl, but continued to climb, obedient to your commands. Gwayne released a trembling breath he had not even realized he was holding. He had saved you. He had changed the course of that arrow. He had betrayed his men, his oath, his very house. He had done it for you. He had chosen you. He watched you grow smaller and smaller against the gray sky, his chest rising in uneven, ragged breaths, unable to find a rhythm.
And then he saw you fall.
Your hand slipped. Your fingers, weakened by blood loss, slowly lost their grip on the saddle. Gwayne's eyes widened. For a moment, he convinced himself you would recover once more, that you would seize the reins again, that Cannibal would correct his flight. You were strong, the strongest woman he ever knew. But it did not happen. He watched you slip from the dragon's back in slow motion. Your body separated from the saddle and hung suspended in the void for a fraction of a second before being swallowed by the sky.
"No." This time the word left his lips with more force, but it was still too small, too fragile to reach you.
His heart seemed to stop. Gwayne took a step forward, then another, without even knowing where he was going. He kept staring at the sky like a madman, reaching out a hand in your direction, as though the distance between you might suddenly vanish, as though wanting it enough could make it so. But you were too far away, too high above him. And he was only a man, with a sword too heavy in his hands and too much love in his heart, bound to a ground that would never let him reach you. He watched you fall, powerless to do anything at all. Your hair scattered in the air, and from that distance your face seemed strangely serene. At peace, as if the war and all its suffering had suddenly been stripped away from you. Then your body disappeared beyond the veil of smoke and low clouds, swallowed by a void Gwayne could not see.
The noise of battle returned all at once, crashing over him with unbearable force. Everything felt too loud, too close. Gwayne stood frozen in the chaos, his eyes still fixed on the place where you had vanished. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his sword nearly slipped from his grasp, held only by a strength that was no longer there. He could not move. He could not even think. He saw the moment again and again in his mind. He had tried to save you. He had seen the arrow. He had acted without hesitation. If he had not struck that archer, the shaft would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly. And yet it had not been enough. He had only changed where the wound landed. Only delayed the inevitable.
A cold, unbearable emptiness began to consume his chest, hollowing him out from within, stealing the breath from his lungs. His knees nearly gave way beneath him, and he had to drive the tip of his sword into the ground to keep from collapsing. He felt his heart tightening more and more, as though an invisible hand were crushing it without mercy. All his life, he had tried to be the man others expected him to be, a good knight, a worthy son of his house, a man faithful to his oaths. And he had failed. He had tried to be a good husband too, when he had still had the chance, but he had failed at that as well. Every choice he had made, every sacrifice he had endured, seemed to have led him inevitably to this exact moment. You had fallen anyway. The arrow had reached you anyway. And he had not been able to stop it.
He slowly raised a hand to his face, brushing at his eyes as though wiping away the tears threatening to fall might also erase the image of what he had just seen. But the memory of your body falling into the void remained etched behind his eyelids with brutal clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vivid it became, the heavier the weight of guilt pressed against his chest. Perhaps this was his punishment. For the selfishness that was planted in the human body. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for his greed. He had wanted both, had demanded to keep the honor of his house and, at the same time, the love of the woman he had lost. He had believed he could serve two masters without losing anything. And the gods, as they always did, had claimed the price of that illusion.
Night fell slowly over Rook's Rest, swallowing everything in its darkness, erasing every trace of the battle. The last cries of the wounded had faded one by one, replaced by the low crackling of fires lit among the ranks of the victorious army. Tongues of flame flickered in the night wind, casting brief light upon exhausted faces smeared with dried blood, soot, and dirt, eyes reddened by fatigue and war, hands still unable to stop trembling after hours spent gripping a sword. The acrid smell of smoke lingered everywhere, mingling with that of burned flesh, worn leather, and blood soaking into the ground. Here and there someone laughed; others drank in silence, staring into the void with hollow gazes, too drained even to speak. The crows had already begun gathering in the trees at the edges of the battlefield, patient and still, waiting for morning to claim their feast.
Among the soldiers, the same words passed from mouth to mouth, whispered beside the fires. They said the battle was over, at least for that day. They said Vhagar had survived, though gravely wounded, and that Cannibal had vanished into the sky, never to return. But above all, they said that you were dead. That after falling from your dragon's back, you had plunged into the lake beyond the forest, swallowed by the black waters without leaving a trace. Some even claimed they had seen your body disappear beneath the surface. Others swore no one could survive such a fall. Each time your name was spoken, it was followed by a satisfied laugh. To many, you had been nothing more than a traitorous princess who had met the fate she deserved.
Gwayne Hightower, however, could not believe a single word of it. He simply could not. Sitting a short distance from the others, his back resting against the rough trunk of a great oak at the edge of the encampment, he stared straight ahead without truly seeing anything. His cloak was still stained with mud and dried blood, his armor scratched in several places, barely reflecting the flickering light of the nearest fire. His hands lay motionless on his knees, as still as those of a statue. Around him, the camp slowly drifted to sleep. Some soldiers continued recounting moments from the battle, their voices thick with exhaustion and wine. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else wept, believing no one was watching. The blacksmiths gradually extinguished their makeshift forges, the stablehands checked on the last surviving horses, and little by little every sound seemed to fade, becoming muffled and distant. Gwayne had the distinct sensation of standing behind an invisible barrier that separated him from the rest of the world. His body was present, but his mind remained suspended in the sky, in the exact moment he had seen you fall.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, it took only the briefest closing of his eyes for it all to begin again. He saw the archer. The arrow leaving the bowstring. The moment he struck the soldier in a desperate attempt to deflect the shot. Then he saw the bolt reach you anyway, burying itself in your shoulder with a violence that stole his breath. He saw the blood staining your dress. Your hand clutching desperately at the wound. Your fingers slowly losing their grip on the saddle. Your body tilting ever so slightly. And finally, the fall. Again, and again, and again. Each time, his stomach twisted painfully, forcing him to bend forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyelids until it nearly hurt, as if physical pain might erase what tormented his mind. But it did not work. The image remained there, seared behind his eyes with unbearable clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vividly it returned, as though the Gods liked the way it devoured him from within. All he could do was relive it and hope, somehow, to earn forgiveness for his sins.
A long, trembling breath slipped from his lips as he slowly ran a hand over his weary face. Beneath his fingers he felt skin caked with dirt and dried blood, and the cut he had taken across his cheek during the fight. He was exhausted, but he knew he would not sleep. Around the fires, some soldiers drank to their victory. They had accepted your death with a readiness that made him sick. They called you a traitor. They laughed, imagining your body dragged to the bottom of the lake. Someone even claimed that Cannibal had abandoned you, unable to save his own rider. Gwayne had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to tear it, just to keep himself from rising and striking the first man who dared speak your name with such contempt.
Dragons fell, and their riders died. It had always been so. Ever since the Dance of the Dragons had begun, every battle had claimed its toll of fire and blood. It was the fate of those who rode such creatures, everyone knew it. Everyone accepted it. But that simple truth did nothing to comfort him. Because to him, you had never been merely a rider. You were not just a Targaryen princess. You were not simply a name destined to appear in the songs of bards.
You were his wife. The woman before whom he had spoken vows he believed eternal. The girl he had learned to love long before politics, war, and the duties of your respective houses forced you apart. You had been his home, his refuge, his greatest weakness and even greater undoing. Even after your separation, even after finding yourselves on opposing sides, he had never stopped thinking of you. He had tried to convince himself otherwise, of course. He had told himself that time would heal every wound, that distance would extinguish that feeling that picked at his chest. But every attempt had failed miserably. You had remained his greatest regret. His ruin. And, despite everything, you were still his only love.
When the last fire in the camp dwindled to a bed of reddish embers and even the final conversations faded into silence, broken only by the snores of sleeping soldiers, Gwayne knew he could not remain still a moment longer. He rose slowly, careful not to make a sound. His joints protested from the strain of the day, but he did not notice. He adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, left his sword sheathed, and walked away without looking back. He moved between the tents like a silent shadow, avoiding the sleeping men and the sentries who watched the forest with heavy eyes. Each step carried him farther from the camp and closer to the place where you had vanished. He did not truly know what he was searching for, perhaps only a body to mourn, a grave before which he could kneel. Perhaps he needed to see with his own eyes the final proof of your death, because a part of him stubbornly refused to believe it.
The forest welcomed him with silence. The trees towered high above his head, turning the moonlight into thin blades of silver that barely pierced the dense weave of branches. The ground was damp, covered in leaves and moss that muffled his steps, while the wind stirred the treetops, producing a constant rustling like an incomprehensible whisper. Now and then a broken branch cracked beneath his boots, or a nocturnal creature fled through the underbrush, but otherwise the forest seemed to hold its breath with him. The air was far colder than in the camp, damp and heavy. Each breath filled his lungs with a painful sensation, yet he kept walking without slowing. His heart beat faster with every step, feeding a hope he desperately tried to smother, for fear it would destroy him.
When at last the trees began to thin and the lake appeared before his eyes, Gwayne stopped instinctively. The water lay still as a black mirror, so dark it seemed bottomless. The moon reflected upon its surface in trembling fragments, barely disturbed by the wind, while a thin mist began to rise from the shore. No sound came from the water. No ripple. No sign to tell what had happened only hours before.
Gwayne swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Please..." he whispered hoarsely, not knowing whether he was praying to the gods, to the lake, or to you. It was a desperate plea, spoken without even realizing it.
He began to walk slowly along the shore, his eyes darting frantically from one point to another. He searched every reflection, every log carried by the water, every dark shape lying among the stones and reeds. His hands trembled so violently that he had to clench them repeatedly to keep from losing all control. The farther he went, the more despair grew within him. He was ready to throw himself into the lake without a second thought if only he glimpsed a fragment of your cloak beneath the water. He did not care about the depth, nor the cold. He did not even care about dying. He only kept searching for you, with the same stubborn determination he had always had when it came to you.
Then, suddenly, his gaze stopped. You were there, lying on the shore, motionless, just a few steps from the dark water. Your hair, still wet, spread in disarray over the damp grass like threads of silver in the moonlight. Your clothes were soaked with water and blood, clinging heavily to your body, while one of your arms lay abandoned at your side. For a long, endless moment, Gwayne stood completely still. His heart nearly stopped, and terror seized his throat so tightly he could not even breathe. From that distance he could not see the rise and fall of your chest. He could not tell whether you were breathing. And his greatest fear, the one that had driven every step he had taken toward the lake, rose up once more to devour him. He feared he had arrived too late. He feared the gods had made a mockery of him.
Gwayne lunged forward, breathless, running along the uneven shore of the lake without regard for the slippery stones, the low branches that scratched his face, or the mud that slowed his steps. The only thing he could see was you. Every beat of his heart felt like a blow struck directly against his ribs, so fast it stole his breath. When he finally reached you, he dropped to his knees beside you, splashing water and mud across his cloak. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to convince himself that you were truly there. He stared at you with a terrified expression, as if a single wrong movement might make you vanish before his eyes. Then his hands, trembling uncontrollably, moved slowly toward your face. He brushed your forehead gently, as though he feared even the pressure of his own fingers. He caressed your cold cheeks, still damp with lake water, tracing the line of your jaw down to your neck in a desperate attempt to feel a pulse. A strand of silver hair, stuck to your skin, covered part of your face. He moved it aside with infinite care, letting his fingers linger briefly in your hair in a gesture so familiar it almost hurt him. How many times had he done the same in your chambers in Oldtown, when you fell asleep beside him with your face hidden against his chest? How many times had he watched those strands spread across the pillow, convincing himself that such happiness would last forever? Now that same hand trembled too violently to even touch you.
He was already sinking into the abyss of despair when it happened.
A faint breath, barely perceptible, slipped from your parted lips, breaking the silence of the lake. It was the slightest whisper, so weak that another man might not even have noticed it. But Gwayne felt it, felt it with every fiber of his being. His eyes flew open in disbelief as the world seemed to halt around him once more. He remained motionless for a few seconds, almost afraid he had imagined it. Then your chest rose slightly, in a slow, labored movement, but enough to shatter, in a single instant, all the pain that had suffocated him until then.
A broken sound escaped his lips before he could stop it, something between an incredulous laugh and a choked sob. Tears stung his eyes, but he made no attempt to hide them. "You're alive..." he murmured softly, as though he feared that speaking the words too loudly might frighten the gods into taking back what they had just spared him. He was definitely a selfish, selfish man. "You're alive..." he repeated, this time with his face bent close to yours, as if he needed to hear the words from his own lips to truly believe they were real.
Urgency immediately replaced his astonishment. Gwayne roused himself, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and without wasting another moment he seized the edge of his cloak. With a sharp tear, he ripped a long strip of fabric from it, ignoring the sound of the cloth splitting. His fingers were clumsy, made awkward by fear and cold, yet he tried to press the makeshift bandage gently against the wound still bleeding on your shoulder. The arrow was gone, likely broken during the fall or lost in the waters of the lake, but the blood continued to seep slowly, soaking your already drenched clothes. Each time the fabric darkened with red, Gwayne's heart seemed to tighten further. He lifted you with the utmost care, slipping one arm behind your back and the other beneath your legs just enough to move you away from the shore. He drew you against his chest, trying to shield you from the cold night and the damp ground. At once he felt the weight of your body yield against him as he had never felt before. Your breathing, weak but present, broke against his armor and passed through the fabric of his tunic to reach his skin. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
"Stay with me..." he whispered, his voice breaking as he lowered his head until it brushed against your forehead. "Please... stay. Don't leave me now."
For several endless moments, he feared you had not heard him at all. Then your lashes began to tremble softly. Your eyelids lifted with agonizing slowness, as if even that simple movement required immense effort. Your eyes, still clouded with confusion and pain, wandered aimlessly before finally settling on his face. You looked at him for a long time in silence, your expression lost and distant. It was as if you were trying to remember where you were, or perhaps simply trying to understand whether he was real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Gwayne held even his breath, terrified that this fragile connection might shatter.
You continued to stare at him. Your lips parted slightly and, in a voice so faint it nearly blended with the wind through the trees, you asked: "Am I dead?"
Those words pierced his heart. Gwayne shook his head immediately, leaning closer to you. One hand remained firm behind your back, the other still cradled your face as if he feared you might vanish at any moment. "No." The answer came too quickly, broken by emotion. "No... you're here. You're alive." He swallowed hard, but the words poured out of him uncontrollably, dragged forth by weeks of silence and a guilt he could no longer contain. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, lowering his gaze briefly before searching for yours again. "I'm so sorry. I... I didn't mean— I saw that man. I thought that if I could stop him..." His voice broke. He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady the tremor in his chest. "If I hadn't intervened, maybe... maybe the arrow would have taken a different path. Maybe you wouldn't have fallen. I—" He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to continue. "I can't stop thinking about it."
His hands instinctively sought yours. They always sought your. When he finally managed to lace his fingers with yours, he was almost startled by the contrast between the warmth of his own skin and the cold that had overtaken yours. They were freezing, so cold it frightened him. He held them with the utmost care, as though afraid of hurting you, then slowly brought them to his lips. He pressed a long, trembling kiss upon them, just as he had done countless times during your marriage. It was a gesture that had become an involuntary reflex of his love. Every time you were sad, every time you were afraid, every time he returned from a long ride and found you waiting for him, he would take your hands and kiss them in that exact same way. Now he did it again, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his heart in pieces.
You were so pretty even like this. His pretty girl.
"It's my fault..." he whispered against your skin, almost unable to look at you. "You fell because of me. I made you fall. I don't even know how to ask for your forgiveness, my love."
You watched him for a long time without interrupting. There was no anger in your eyes, only an infinite weariness, made deeper still by the pain of your wound. Slowly, with an effort that broke his heart just to witness, you freed one hand from his grasp and lifted it toward his face. Your fingers trembled visibly as they reached his cheek. You touched him lightly, with a caress so gentle it felt like the brush of a feather. Gwayne remained completely still, holding even his breath. It had been so long since you had last sought his face. "You need not to apologize..." you murmured, your voice barely audible. A faint smile appeared on your chapped lips. "You were only protecting your family. Just as I do."
He lowered his gaze slowly, letting his forehead rest against yours. What an angel you were, he thought not even the fairest maiden could ever hope to be like you. What monster he was to ruining you like this, rotting you until your core. "It shouldn't be this way..." he whispered bitterly, gently stroking your still-damp hair. His fingers moved through those strands with the same tenderness as before, as if every gesture might carry you back to when you had been happy. "We shouldn't be on opposite sides. We shouldn't be forced to choose." He lifted his eyes again to meet yours. "You too are my family."
His hand lingered on your face for a few moments more, caressing you hesitantly. It was as though he were touching you for the first time, and yet as if his body remembered perfectly every line of your face. His fingers traced slowly along your cheek, the curve of your jaw, until they came to rest near your lips. The most beautiful lips he so loved kissing. For a moment, it felt to him as though he were back in your chamber in Oldtown, he could almost hear the rain against the windows, smell the burnt candles and the warmth of the sheets. For a few heartbeats, the war ceased to exist. There was only the two of you.
He leaned down toward your face, and finally he kissed you. That kiss carried every unspoken word, every night spent longing for you, every wrong choice that had led you both to that lake. His lips trembled slightly against yours, as though he feared it might truly be the last time he would ever be able to do so. They were soft despite being chapped by cold and exhaustion. And you, despite the pain coursing through every part of your body, let yourself fall into him, into his arms, against his chest. That was where you belonged, in his arms. Gwayne held you a little tighter, one hand finding your waist, careful not to touch your wound.
How he loved kissing you. How he loved when you clung to him as he was your savior. His heart always exploded in an hundreds of sparkles, making him dizzy with your taste. He felt so drunk of you, feeling you everywhere. Yet Gwayne wanted to feel you even more, merge his body into yours, flesh into flesh. He wanted to burn into you. He wanted you to kiss him forever.
He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. Why he wanted so much? Is he allowed to wanting?
It’s was so hard not to when you touched him so, looking like the prettiest dream.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches. Your breaths still mingled in the cold night air, your foreheads nearly resting against each other, lips still chasing. His eyes could not leave yours, as though he feared that looking away might cause him to lose you again. He remained there, motionless, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. He could not let you go. After believing you dead, after watching you fall from the sky, after thinking he would never hear your breathing again, separating from you now felt simply impossible.
