Run to the rescue with love and peace will follow

the following morning you'd woken up early, before the sun had even rise to make him a warm meal.

the snow had been falling for days, making it hard for you to reach the military base. you clutched the lunchbox to your chest, your fingers numb from the fierce wind. 

here you were now, fidgeting with your hands, as you slowly approached the base. you had been here before, once, when simon forgot some urgent documents in his office at home and asked you to deliver them.  

the guard at the gate barely glanced at you before exclaiming "training yard's to the left," he said, his voice bored "lieutenant is probably there."

you thanked him with a whisper and made your way through the gates. 

you spotted some recruits as you came to the proximity of the field.

"excuse me," you called softly, clearing your throat. "i'm looking for lieutenant riley."

a young soldier turned, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, probably wondering what were you doing in a place like that. he was taller than you, double your size, but not as big as simon, and his piercing eyes made you shiver. 

"and you must be?" the soldier sneered, his tone dripping with arrogance. "do you think anyone can meet him?"

"i-i'm here to bring him his lunch," you said, showing him the bag that was held tight to your chest.

the soldier turned around, exchanging a glance with his friend. "his lunch? you his personal errand girl?"

the other recruit laughed, joining the teasing. "im sure lieutenant doesn't need a little thing like you bringing him food. he's got proper food here. not whatever home cooked rubbish you've got in there."

your cheeks flushed, heat rising to your face. "it's not uhm... like that. he forgot it this morning. i just wanted to-" you began to stutter, avoiding their mocking gaze. 

"you wanted to what? speak louder won't ya?" the first soldier stepped closer, leaning down to reach your eye level "a stupid girl who can't even make a simple sentence without stuttering wants to see him? you think you're special?"

"i-i'm his wife," you managed to say but you could feel your eyes begin to well up.

the soldiers stared at you for a moment, then burst into laughter. the sound was loud and mocking, echoing through the corridors. "right," the first one said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "and i'm the captain. nice try, love. lieutenant riley doesn't have a wife. everyone knows that."

you wanted to correct him but got quickly interrupted.

"look, sweetheart," the second recruit cut in, "we don't have time for this. he's a busy man." he gestured vaguely to the gates "you need to leave. now."

"b-but I'm telling you the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "i'm n-not lying."

the first soldier rolled his eyes. "you're not authorised to be here," he said, his voice hardening. "if you don't leave on your own, we'll have you escorted out."

"i-i have a pass," you said, fumbling in your pocket. "i have a visitor's pass. see?" with shaking hands, you held your pass.

the soldier snatched it from your hand, glancing at it briefly before tossing it to the ground. "probably stolen," he said dismissively. 

"get the fuck out now." the second soldier said, as he grabbed your arm and began pushing you toward the gate. 

you stumbled, falling down on your butt, then the gate was slamming shut behind you.

you stood there, frozen. you reached for your phone to call your husband but it wasn't there. in a hurry to leave the house, you left it on the kitchen counter.

this is why ghost always tells you to be more careful with your belongings. 

"clumsy little girl." was what simon would often call you.

the snow continued to fall, piling up around you. you were going to freeze out here. 

you were so cold you could barely hear a distant voice calling your name.

the voice was low and behind his mask you saw a strangely familiar face. you lifted your head, your vision blurry with tears and snowflakes, and found yourself staring at a bearded man. his dark eyes were the only thing you could see.

"oh, john." you breathed, and then you were sobbing. "i...they didn't believe me...i couldn't...i just wanted to bring him lunch and they-"

"hey, it's alright," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. he stepped forward, shrugging off his heavy coat and draping it over her shoulders. it was too big, swallowing you whole, but it was warm. "come on. let's get you inside."

he led you through the gate once again, past the recruits who had just thrown you out. price didn't say a word to them, but the look he shot them held a lot of warnings. 

the captain guided you to a chair, sat you down, and knelt in front of you. 

"are you hurt?" he asked, checking for any possible injury.

you shook your head, scared your voice would betray you. "j-just c-cold. r-really cold."

price's eyes hardened. "i'll take care of it."

he pulled out his phone and called simon.

the recruits were still in the yard when ghost appeared, and the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. his mask was pulled tight, but it did nothing to conceal the fury radiating from his posture.

"which one of you," he said, his voice low and threatening, "did it?"

the first recruit, the one who'd laughed at you, tried to play it cool. "lieutenant, there was some woman trying to get in, claimed to be your wife. i mean its ridiculous, uh? but i handled it."

"you handled it," ghost repeated, with a nod; his voice flat, emotionless. "you fucking handled my wife."

the colour drained from the recruit's face. "sir, i didn't, we didn't know-"

"i will deal with you later." simon spat out, not sparing them another glance.

he crossed the yard in a few long strides, his hands shaking with fury. he found you in the common room, wrapped in price's coat. you were still clutching the lunchbox, and the sight of it, the sight of you being so pitiful, nearly made him lose the control.

his hands found your waist, and then you were pulled into his arms, crushed against his chest so tightly you could feel the frantic beating of his heart. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, the fabric of his mask damp and warm against your skin, and wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you'd dissolve if he loosened his grip even a bit.

he pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest. 

"sweetheart," he breathed, the word cracking somewhere in his throat. "i'm sorry. fuck."

"it's okay," you whispered, your fingers clutching his shirt. "y-you're here."

"no, it's not alright." he pulled back, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "i will never, ever let that happen again."

he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. his fingers were stroking your cheeks, trying to warm you. 

he scooped you up, cradling you against his chest, and carried you toward his quarters. his arms were strong and steady, as you whimpered from the cold.

"price," he called over his shoulder, "round them up. i'll deal with them properly later."

the door to his quarters closed behind you, and simon set you down gently on his chair. he knelt in front of you, his hands working to unzip your coat, to peel off the wet layers. 

"bastards," he cursed under his breath. "i'll kill them all."

you flinched, but were too exhausted to speak, so you let him wrap you in his clothes, and hold you until the shaking stopped. wrapped by simon's thick scent and his body warmth, you soon fell asleep from the exhaustion.

outside, the recruits stood shivering in the yard, watching the snow pile up around their boots.

ghost quickly crossed the yard, his face a mask of cold fury, and grabbed the first recruit by the throat.

simon's fist quickly connected with the soldier's jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the silent yard. then he turned to the second one, the one who'd grabbed your arm.

"your turn." the man tried to run, but price was there, blocking his path. ghost caught him by the collar, dragging him back, and drove his feet into his stomach. one kick, two kicks, until he collapsed, unconscious, into the snow.

"get them off my base," he said to john.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”