Greatest Hits

The walk from the quiet armory tents to the Red Keep took scarcely ten minutes, though it felt considerably longer thanks to the weight of your gown, the ache in your feet, and the endless list of grievances you had apparently been saving for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

Your deep burgundy silk was beautiful, certainly. It was also currently your greatest enemy. The boning of your corset dug viciously into your ribs, the petticoats dragged at your ankles, and you were beginning to suspect your maid had laced you with the express intention of killing you before supper.

"I am going to strangle my brother before the feast is over," you announced, your silk fan fluttering with unnecessary violence as you rested your hand on the crook of Gwayne's arm. "I swear to you, Gwayne, if he makes one more remark about the Arbor Gold harvest or my 'improper posture' in the grandstands, I will pour an entire carafe of wine into his lap."

Gwayne looked like a man who had just been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He walked beside you with an effortless, infuriatingly pleased stride, his green cloak sweeping behind him. There was still a scrape along his cheek from the joust, and a darkening bruise beneath the collar of his linen tunic, but neither seemed to trouble him in the slightest.

"And my cousin," you continued. "She spent the entire morning whining about potential suitors from the Stormlands, as though I have any desire to spend the rest of my life in a castle where it rains nine months of the year."

"A terrible fate."

"My feet are aching. My corset is trying to kill me. And the servants served the wine lukewarm."

Gwayne glanced down at you. "That," he said gravely, "is unforgivable."

You snapped your fan shut. "And then there is you."

"Ah, finally."

"You paraded around those lists like a man determined to get himself executed, and now half my family has been asking me why a Hightower knight was wearing Redwayne silk over his heart."

"You could have told them the truth."

You halted as Gwayne took one more step before noticing, turning right away to look down at you with an expression of innocence.

"The truth?" you repeated.

"The truth."

"The truth would have my father drag me back to the Arbor on the next ship."

"Would he? How unfortunate..."

You stared at him. He grinned—not his usual arrogant one, but something gentler, almost silly, and so openly pleased with himself that you could hardly stand it.

"Gwayne," you sighed. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Every word."

"Then why are you smiling like an absolute simpleton?"

His blue eyes dropped briefly to your hand resting upon his arm. "Because you've been talking to me for ten minutes."

"That is your answer?"

"It's an excellent answer. I would happily listen to you complain about your family, your gown, the weather, or the entire bloody court until dawn," his thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. "So long as you keep talking to me."

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away before he could see the smile threatening to betray you. "You are a sick man, Ser Gwayne."

"Devoted," he corrected, giving you that radiant smile once again. "The word you're looking for, My Lady, is devoted."

The Great Hall greeted you with a deafening roar of music, laughter, and conversation. Flutes trilled beneath the high stone arches while servants hurried between the tables carrying platters of roasted meat and fresh bread.

At the high table, King Aegon was already several cups deep into his wine, surrounded by young lords shouting over one another.

Gwayne, being on duty as a Hightower knight, could not sit beside you at the Redwayne table. That did not stop him from becoming a nuisance.

Every few minutes, he found some flimsy excuse to wander past.

First, he intercepted a servant and sent him back for a bottle of properly chilled Arbor Gold. Then he appeared beside your seat while you were reaching for a lemon tart.

"Would Her Majesty like me to provide a softer cushion?"

You kicked him under the table. He barely moved—chuckling beneath his breath as he returned to his post near the stone pillars looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Your cousin watched him go, then glanced back at you. "Honestly, I don't know how he puts up with you."

You frowned. "With me?"

"He has spent the entire afternoon listening to you complain."

Across the hall, the redheaded knight happened to glance over. "I find it rather adorable," he mouthed, barely moving his lips.

Your cousin raised an eyebrow as you rolled your eyes at him.

Then Ser Lucamore of House Tarly arrived to ruin everything.

He was a pleasant knight from the Reach, broad-shouldered and well-spoken, with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went. He approached your table carrying a small silver box filled with candied plums.

"Lady Redwayne." He bowed. "I noticed you sitting here while your knight keeps watch. I thought a lady of your refined tastes shouldn't have to endure the feast without proper company."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Ser Lucamore. That is very kind of you."

Down the hall, Gwayne went stiff.

He tried very hard not to stare. He took a slow drink, looked toward the high table and back at you...Lucamore was still standing beside you.

Gwayne's fingers tightened around his goblet. Beside him, Lord Commander Criston took one leisurely sip of wine.

"Something troubling you, Hightower?"

"No."

"You look murderous."

"I am observing the room."

"You're observing aggressively."

Criston's eyes dropped to the goblet in his hand. "You're crushing your cup."

Gwayne looked down to find that the silver had indeed begun to buckle beneath his fingers. He loosened his hold and placed the damaged piece on the nearest ledge. "Poor craftsmanship," he mumbled.

At the Redwayne table, Lucamore was still smiling. "Would you honor me with the first dance of the evening, My Lady?"

You opened your mouth. Before you could answer, a shadow fell across the table.

"Ser Lucamore."

Gwayne stood beside you. He had not run—that would have been undignified—he had simply arrived with suspicious speed.

"Forgive the interruption."

Lucamore looked up. "Ser Gwayne. Is something wrong?"

The knight paused. For one terrible moment, it was obvious that he had absolutely no idea what to say. Then, with the confidence of a man willing to lie directly to the King's face, he said, "His Grace requires the Redwayne party at the royal pavilion."

"Does he now?"

His blue eyes remained firmly on Lucamore. There was a long beat of silence.

"He might..."

Lucamore stared at him, then at you, before a grin laced his lips. He rose, looking thoroughly amused. "My apologies, Hightower. I didn't realize the lady's dance card was already so fiercely guarded."

He bowed to you and disappeared into the crowd.

You waited until he was out of earshot, then glared at Gwayne.

For perhaps the first time that evening, the knight had nothing clever to say. He merely exhaled, caught your elbow gently, and guided you through the nearest archway.

The courtyard outside was still and cool beneath the moonlight.

Gwayne walked three paces away from you before stopping, his hands settling on his hips, his head bowed.

You leaned against the balustrade, watching him with a smile you were making no effort to hide. "Were you jealous, Ser Gwayne?"

"Pardon me?"

"You dented a goblet. Followed me halfway across the hall and lied about a royal summons." You laughed, and Gwayne's expression softened despite himself.

"You nearly glared a hole through poor Ser Lucamore's head."

"He was standing too close to you."

"There were three feet of space between us."

"Exactly, My Lady."

You let out a groan."That makes no sense."

"It made perfect sense to me." He stopped closer. The moonlight caught the scrape along his cheek—the same one she had cleaned for him in the armory tent—and suddenly he looked less like the smug knight who had been tormenting you all afternoon.

You tilted your head. "You know, Ser Lucamore was actually rather charming."

Gwayne's smile fell instantly. It happened so quickly that you almost burst out laughing.

"Do not say that...please."

"Why?"

He looked away. "Because I don't want to hear it." There was no teasing in his voice now. Only honesty.

You watched him for a moment. Then you stepped closer and lifted your hand to his cheek, your thumb stroking over the little cut near his eye.

His eyes closed for a fleeting second as he leaned instinctively into your palm.

"I wasn't looking at him, Ser Gwayne."

His eyes opened. "No?"

"No," you said with a smile. "I was waiting for my very foolish, very dramatic knight to come and take me away from the feast."

Then the tension left his shoulders, and a slow smile pulled at his mouth. "You needn't wait any longer," he murmured, covering your hand with his. "I am taking you away."

"That sounds awfully suspicious."

"Somewhere no one else can ask you to dance, and somewhere I can have your attention all to myself."

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter. "Is that so?"

"It is." He leaned closer, his voice melting into a murmur meant only for you. "Her Majesty has been neglected terribly tonight."

You laughed softly. "Have I?"

"Abominably."

And with that, Gwayne offered you his arm again. You took it—leaving the noise of the feast behind, stepping out into the shadows of the Keep together.

The night air was crisp, scented with blooming jasmine and salty tang of Blackwater Bay. Moonlight flooded the graven paths, turning the stone archways and manicured hedges into a labyrinth of silver and shade.

You hesitated at the edge of the terrace, looking down at the quiet greenery. "Where are we going, Ser Gwayne?" You looked back at the glowing windows of the Great Hall, where the faint sound of flutes still echoed, then back at him. "What if someone notices we're gone?"

Gwayne unbuttoned the high collar of his tunic with one hand, looking unbothered as he said, "then I'll tell them Her Majesty ordered me to escort her."

"And if they ask where?"

"I'll lie," he spoke plainly, a shameless little grin flashing on his lips.

Once again, your heart did a silly, treasonous flip. He was standing there looking so incredibly proud—as if he had just won the realm, instead of walking a lady out into the garden.

"You are far too pleased with yourself," you teased.

"Then punish me for being so." His blue eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

"How?"

His smile widened, bright and wicked. "Make me catch you."

Before he could even finish the sentence, you slipped your hand out of his, pivoted on your heel, and took off down the gravel path.

"Oh, you little—" Gwayne gasped out behind you.

You didn't look back. Even weighed down by your heavy petticoats, you knew the layout of the Royal Gardens far better than a knight visiting from Oldtown. You darted around a massive marble fountain, slipped behind a towering wall of clipped ivy, and let out a breathless laugh as you heard his boots crunching against the gravel somewhere behind you.

"You know, for a knight who claims to be so devoted, you're terribly slow!" you called out over your shoulder, deliberately letting the edge of your skirt trail into the light before ducking down another winding path.

"I am pacing myself, My Lady!" Gwayne's voice echoed back, rich with amusement. He wasn't even rushing; he was trailing you with the easy patience of a man who knew how this game was going to end. "A proper knight does not rush a victory."

You rounded a tall rose trellis, cutting into a secluded courtyard surrounded by stone hedges. You stopped, pressing your back against the wall, holding your breath, and listening intently.

...

Nothing but a rustle of leaves and the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs below.

You let out a sigh, a smug little smile curving your lips. You smoothed down your skirts, stepping out into the center. "Looking for someone, Ser Gwayne?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

The voice came from right behind you.

Two strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you backward until your spine was pressed against the solid, warm chest of his before you could even take a gasp.

A startled laugh escaped your lips, instinctively bringing your hands up to grip his forearms as he held you fast. "Gwayne!"

"Caught," he murmured against the crown of your head, his chest rising and falling on your back, vibrating with triumphant laughter.

"You cheated!" you gasped, trying and failing to pry his hold from your waist. "You let me think I got away!"

"I am a knight of Oldtown, My Lady. I used superior tactics."

"Then why chase me?"

Gwayne leaned down, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder, his breath fanning across the skin of your neck, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Because I wanted to catch you."

The laughter halted in your chest.

The playful energy in the quiet garden shifted, turning thick, and sweet. Gwayne didn't loosen his hold, but his grip changed—softening, his hands resting over your ribs, pulling you a little closer to his heat.

He turned his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. Patiently, he turned you around in his arms until you were facing him.

Gwayne's mocking armor had vanished in the pale gloom. His hair was slightly tousled, collar open at his throat, exposing the subtle bruise beneath his collarbone. His eyes were so dark and hopelessly smitten that it made your knees weak.

His hand came up, his long fingers trailing up your arm, resting gently at the side of your neck, his thumb over your jawline.

"No more running?" he asked.

Your eyes raised up to meet his—at the arrogant, proud, lovesick knight who had teased you, flaunted himself for you, and glared at other men all day to keep your attention.

"No more running," you whispered, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"Good girl."

He leaned down, closing the distance between you, and finally—finally—pressed his lips to yours.

The change from that long-awaited kiss to raw desperation happened in a fraction of a second.

Gwayne's mouth was hot and sweet over yours, his tongue gliding against yours with a ragged groan. For all his knightly composure and clever banter, the moment he finally had you tasting of wine and yielding in his arms, his restraint fractured.

He backed you against the secluded hedge, his hands dropping from your waist to the heavy silk of your dress.

The knight didn't bother with the dozens of delicate pearl buttons. Nor with the petticoats. He was entirely done playing the patient, dignified gentleman.

With a harsh breath, his long fingers bunched up the thick layers of burgundy, dragging the fabric up past your knees and your thighs, until the night breeze hit your bare skin.

You gasped out against his lips, your breath hitching as his rough hands slid up the inside of your bare thighs, spreading your legs wide. "We are in the garden—anyone could—"

He didn't give you a second to process. Before you could even draw another full breath, Gwayne dropped straight to his knees in the grass.

"Gwayne—!"

He hooked your legs over his sturdy shoulders, anchoring your hips firmly against the wall behind you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs like a starving man clinging to a lifeline.

"You've been tormenting me all day," he muttered breathlessly, looking up at you from between your legs, his blue eyes wide and utterly blow out with desire. "Complaining, scolding me, wearing that silk...I'm going to make you forget your own name, Her Majesty."

Right away, he buried his face right into your wet cunt.

Your knees weakened as his hot tongue swept over your clit, slow, soaked, and agonizingly deep. You let out a helpless gasp, your hands moving to his head, your fingers tangling frantically into his auburn hair to keep your balance.

He didn't just taste you; he devoured you.

He worked his tongue over you with a fierce pace, licking you clean, sucking hard on your clit until you were crying out into the quiet night. Every time you tried to squirm or arch away from the overwhelming sensation, his hands squeezed your thighs, holding you pinned, two of his fingers sliding effortlessly deep inside your tight heat to fuck you in rhythm with his tongue.

"Look at me," Gwayne pleaded, his voice muffled against your wet pussy as he raised his eyes at you through his lashes. He loved it—loved hearing you whimpering in the open air, loved watching you roll your eyes back while he tasted your cunt like a king kneeling before his queen.

"Look at your knight."

You gripped his hair tighter, pulling his face against you as he sped up his pace, his tongue flicking expertly over your sensitive core while his fingers pumped inside you, until a violent crash of pleasure ripped straight through you.

Your thighs clenched against his shoulders as you came, a stifled sob breaking from your throat as you hid your face against your arm, your pussy pulsing hard around his fingers.

"Oh—ffuck me, I'm comin—"

Gwayne drank in every drop of your release with a low moan. The sheer sight, sound, and taste of you unraveling on his face was too much—his own breath hitched hard, his body going rigid between your legs as he brought himself to a shuddering release right inside his breeches, coming completely ruined by you without even touching his own cock.

He pressed one last, sloppy kiss to your dripping folds and the inside of your thigh before rising up off his knees. His hair was a mess, his collar thoroughly wrecked, and his mouth glistening wet with your slick.

He didn't look remotely embarrassed. Rather, he looked insufferably proud of himself.

Gwayne smoothed down your skirts back with care, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes heavy with a promise.

"Now," he whispered, a wicked smirk curving his bruised lips as he hooked his arm through yours once more, "shall we find a proper room so I can put my cock where my mouth just was, My Lady?"

The mattress beneath you creaked under his weight, the velvet canopy above casting shadows across the bed, but Gwayne was nowhere near quiet.

He was making the most embarrassing, pathetic, impure sounds you had ever heard a sworn knight make in his entire life.

His head was resting in the crook of your neck, his face burning hot against your collarbone as he let out another long, ruined groan. Every single time his hips rolled forward, driving his throbbing cock all the way to your cervix, Gwayne sounded like he had died and gone to heaven.

"Gods...gods, you're so wet," he choked out, his voice wrecked and devoid of any dignity. "You're fucking killing me, my love."

It had been an absolute, chaotic scramble from the moment he dragged you into his quarters.

He hadn't even made it three steps past the oak door before he had you backed against the panel, his mouth bruising yours while his hands tore at the suffocating laces of your corset. He had been practically overflowing with impatience, muttering curses under his breath as the boning resisted his fingers, until he finally ripped the silk free, letting your gown tumble to the floor in a heap of burgundy.

He had carried you to the bed like a madman, stripping off his tunic and unbuckling his soaked breeches with hands that were visibly shaking.

And then came the moment he actually pushed inside you.

When he had lined the gleaming head of his cock up against your dripping entrance—still drenched from where he had eaten you out in the garden—Gwayne had paused for one brief second. He had looked down at you, his forehead slick with sweat, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Tell me it's me. Say my name." His hips hovering above yours, hands trembling where they braced beside your head.

"Gwayne," you had moaned, reaching up to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down. "Put it in. Now."

He hadn't needed to be told twice.

Gwayne had nudged his entire length inside you in one unrelenting thrust. The sheer heat of your tight cunt clamping around him had sent his head snapping back, a ragged sob ripping from his throat as he froze, overwhelmed by how impossibly good it felt to finally be buried to the hilt inside you.

Now, he was setting a punishing pace, his thighs sliding against yours as he fucked you deep and slow, his hands locked around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.

Gwayne whimpered against your lips, his hips stuttering as he dragged his cock almost all the way out before slamming back inside you, making you gasp out his name. "Look at what you do to me. I haven't...fuck—I haven't been able to think about anything else for months."

"Harder, Gwayne. you're so good."

"Every time you scolded me...all I wanted was to fuck this pretty cunt," he babbled helplessly, his chest heaving as he pumped into you, his rhythm becoming faster, harder, more sloppy as he felt your walls pulsing tightly around his shaft. "I'm yours. I'm so fucking yours—"

His thrusts were coming in short desperate bursts. He was past the point of holding back, his eyes half-lidded and glossy with tears of pure pleasure as he voiced his love against your jaw.

"I can't—I can't hold it, please," Gwayne whimpered.

That milking rhythm triggered his release, sending him crashing over the brink. With a guttural sob, Gwayne slammed his hips, sinking himself to the root as his cock surged wildly inside you, shooting hot, heavy spurts of cum deep into your cervix.

You cried out, the sensation of his thick release filling you pushing you right over your own, your cunt rippling and contracting frantically around his tip.

That was his undoing.

Instead of easing off, the clenching of your climax caused a second, involuntary wave of pleasure through his body. Gwayne's legs almost gave out, his cock throbbing once more, releasing more cum into your tight heat as his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Gwayne—gods—" you moaned, nails digging into his bare back, overstimulated by the endless, intense sensation.

"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, I can't stop—" He was at the mercy of your body. Every tiny twitch of your pussy sent another pulse through his reddening cock, keeping him locked in a continuous release that left him sobbing softly into your skin.

Completely undone, drained, and utterly ruined for anyone else forever.

The Great Tourney of King's Landing was loud, dusty, and altogether dreadful.

Sitting in the plush Redwayne family box, you fanned yourself with a painted silk fan, letting out a dramatic sigh that you were certain could be heard over the roar of the crowds. The afternoon sun was merciless, the wooden benches were impossibly stiff, and the wine—if one could even call the sour, watered-down nonsense served at the public tables—was utterly undrinkable.

"If the heat doesn't strike me down, the sheer tedium surely will," you muttered under your breath, adjusting the lace of your sleeve for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Behind your seat, a smooth voice dropped down close to your ear, dry and unbothered.

"My deepest sympathies, Her Majesty. Shall I summon the Royal Stonemasons to craft a softer bench? Or perhaps I ought to run my sword through the sun itself for daring to shine so brightly upon you?"

You didn't even need to turn around to know the smirk on Ser Gwayne Hightower's face.

You glanced over your shoulder, glaring up at the knight. He looked infuriatingly composed in his polished green-and-silver doublet, his posture straight, hand resting on the pommel on his sword. He was supposed to be keeping watch over the perimeter of your family's dais, but for the last hour, his eyes had barely left the back of your head.

"A cup of decent Arbor Gold would suffice, Ser Gwayne," you sniffed, turning back toward the dirt lists below. "Though I doubt even a Hightower could secure real vintage in this chaotic pit."

"Is that a challenge?" Gwayne murmured, stepping half a pace closer. Before you could respond, he vanished into the crowd.

Not two minutes later, he was back, sliding a silver goblet into your hand. You took a cautious sip—it was cool, crisp, and undeniably from your family's private cellars back home.

"How on earth did you—"

"I have my ways," the red headed knight spoke, giving you an arrogant little wink. "Her Majesty demands, and her humble servant delivers."

"You two look remarkably domestic for a knight and his charge," a gruff voice interrupted.

Ser Criston Cole strode up the wooden steps, his white cloak fluttering behind him. He looked between Gwayne's smug expression and the flush climbing up your neck, his lips twitching into an amused line.

"Lord Commander," Gwayne acknowledged, though he didn't move away from your chair.

"The King's joust is up next, Hightower," Criston said, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms. "I noticed your name wasn't on the rooster. A pity. I thought a Hightower knight would leap at the chance to show his valor. Or are you too busy playing cupbearer?"

Gwayne cleared his throat, his eyes darting to you for a second before settling back on the Lord Commander. "I am merely fulfilling my duty to guard the Redwayne party."

"Right. Guarding," Criston drawled, chuckling away from his sight. He leaned in closer to Gwayne, dropping his voice just enough so only the two of you could hear. "She's been fussing about the heat and the seats for an hour, Ser Gwayne. If you want her looking at you like that all afternoon, you'd better get down in the dirt and earn it. Go ride a lap. Unless you're afraid to take a tumble in front of her?"

The knight's jaw set. The playful edge in his composure instantly turned into a competitive pride. He looked down at you, the teasing light vanishing from his gaze to reveal a sudden intensity that made your pulse jump right into your throat.

"I am afraid of very little, Lord Commander," he replied.

Ser Gwayne stepped directly in front of your seat, blocking out the glare of the afternoon sun, and sank down onto one knee in the dust. the emerald velvet of his tunic brushed the bottom step of the Redwayne dais as he held out his open hand, palm up, right in front of the whole bloody court.

"My Lady," he rasped, his voice stripped of its usual sarcastic front. "I seem to have been goaded into entering the lists. But I refuse to bleed in that dirt without a guarantee of your favor."

Around you, the grandstand roared as another pair of knights thundered down the lane, but the noise faded into a dull hum. Up on the higher pavilion, young King Aegon was laughing loudly, tossing back a goblet of wine, while the court carried on in its familiar dizzying fray.

And yet, right here, Gwayne Hightower remained still, looking up at you as if the two of you were the only people in the Seven Kingdoms.

You gazed past his shoulder. Ser Criston Cole was still leaning against the wooden railing, his arms over his white cloak. The Lord Commander had the most obnoxious look plastered across his face. He caught your eye and gave a subtle, mocking nod, as if to say: Go on then, Lady Redwayne. Deal with him.

You looked back down at the kneeling knight.

His hand was still extended, waiting patiently. The cocky, teasing grin he'd worn a moment ago had softened around the corners.

Does he do this for everyone? you wondered, an immediate spike of panic filled in your chest. Or is he just a ridiculously attentive knight with too much pride?

"Ser," you muttered, leaning forward just enough so your voice wouldn't carry over the noise of the crowd. "Everyone is looking."

"Let them look," he replied, not lowering his hand by a single inch. "I'm awaiting an answer, Her Majesty. Am I riding down there as your knight, or am I going to have to let Lord Royce knock me into the dirt out of sheer heartbreak?"

"You are insufferable."

"So you've told me. Daily." A ghost of his arrogant smile returned to his lips, but his gaze remained entirely fixed on yours. "The favor, My Lady. Before Ser Cole decides to come over here and hand me one of his own ribbons out of pity."

Your fingers shook slightly as you reached up to the sleeve of your dress. You loosened the narrow band of crimson and gold silk—the Redwayne colors—that was pinned near your elbow.

Gwayne watched your every movement, his breath turning shallow.

Slowly, you moved down and laid the silk across his open palm. The cool fabric brushed his warm skin, and his fingers closed over yours—a fleeting, firm squeeze that sent a spike of heat straight down your spine—before he released your hand.

"Do not make a fool of me out there, Ser Gwayne," you warned, trying desperately to keep your voice brisk.

Gwayne stood up in one graceful motion, towering over your chair once more. He folded the ribbon carefully, tying it around his upper arm, right over his heart, pulling the knot tight with his teeth before smoothing it down.

He gave you a low, sweeping bow—dramatic, immaculate, and completely devoted.

"Your humble servant would never dare."

He turned on his heel and walked down the wooden steps toward the armory tents, his green cloak snapping behind him.

You sank back into your bench, your fan entirely forgotten in your lap, watching his form disappear into the crowd of armored men. The seat was still hard, the sun was still blazing, but suddenly, you weren't bored in the slightest.

The roar of the crowd was a physical force, shaking the heavy wooden beams of the Redwayne family box.

You had told yourself you wouldn't watch. You had explicitly assured your cousin, who was currently giggling into her handkerchief, that you were merely sitting up to catch the sea breeze, and that your intense fixation on the dirt track below was purely out of polite interest for King Aegon's grand festivities.

Except your painted fan was clutched so tightly in your lap that the ribs were nearly snapping under your knuckles.

Down in the lists, Ser Gwayne was being an absolute, shameless show-off.

He rode a massive, dappled-grey stallion, his polished plate armor gleaming like newly minted silver under the brutal noon light. But it wasn't his immaculate green-and-gold enamel that had half the grandstands whispering, nor was it the proud Hightower crest emblazoned on his shield—it was the bright Redwayne silk tied securely around his left arm fluttering wildly in the heat.

When his horse trotted past your box before the first pass, Gwayne didn't look up at King Aegon, who was lounging boisterously in the royal pavilion. He didn't look at Lord Commander Criston Cole, who was standing nearby.

He flipped up his visor and caught your eye in the crowded grandstands. His expression softened at once, the arrogance melting into a warm, almost boyish smile that was meant for you alone.

That absolute menace.

"Lord Royce doesn't stand a chance," your brother assumed beside you, taking a sip from his goblet. "Ser Gwayne looks like he's about to fight the entire Crownlands nobility just to prove a point."

"He is merely fulfilling his duty as a knight," you snapped, though your cheeks burned hot enough to rival the sun.

Your brother snickered into his cup, shaking his head. "I'm sure raiding our cellar for Arbor Gold was purely knightly duty, as well."

Down below, the trumpet blared. The horses charged, iron-shod hooves tearing into the dirt.

The sound of splintering wood cracked through the arena like lightnings. You gasped, moving closer to the railing despite yourself, holding your breath until the dust cleared—only to see Lord Royce tumbling violently into the mud, his lance shattered to splinters, while Gwayne rode past effortlessly, his own lance held high and unbroken.

The people erupted into cheers. The winning knight brought his stallion into a sharp turn, trotting back toward the Redwayne dais instead of riding to the royal box. The crowd couldn't believe it, expecting him to pause before the King, but he simply brought his heavy mount to a halt beneath your seat.

He lowered his visor for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours with a triumphant, wicked spark. He tilted his head down in a riding-saddle bow, his hand coming up to press firmly against the ribbon bound to his arm, before turning his horse to prepare for the next round.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the tiny, pleased smile tugging at your lips.

It was infuriating. It was public. And it was the most thrilling thing that had happened to you all summer.

He fought two more rounds. With each tilt, he grew more confident, more theatrical—turning his mount with flawless elegance, catching your attention in the crowd every single time he landed a hit, completely ignoring the grand ladies waving their ribbons in the lower rooms. He was fighting for an audience of one, and he made sure everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew it.

An hour later, the jousts had concluded, and the high-born crowd was slowly dispersing toward the feast halls to escape the relentless heat.

Instead of heading to the Great Hall with your family like a proper, sensible lady, you found yourself marching down the stairs of the grandstands, heading past the royal pavilions and into the dusty maze of armory tends behind the lists.

You were fuming. Or at least, you were trying very hard to convince yourself you were fuming.

The man had ridden like a lunatic. He had unseated three lords, shattered four lances, and performed like a peacock in front of everybody. It was improper. Absurd. And he had a bloody scrape on his face to show for it.

When you yanked back the canvas flap of Gwayne's tent, the scent of steel, sweat, and polish hit you immediately.

Gwayne was sitting on a low bench in the center of the tent, his chest piece already unbuckled and sitting on the dirt ground. He was stripped down to a thin linen tunic—damp with sweat, unbuttoned at the collar, and clinging delightfully to his shoulders. He was leaning back against a post, letting a young squire try—and fail—to dab a wet cloth at his cheek.

"Hold still, Ser, you're bleeding—" the poor boy stammered.

"I am perfectly intact, boy, stop hovering like a mother hen," the red head was muttering, waving a dismissive hand.

Then his eyes snapped to the tent opening.

The second he saw you standing there—chin held high, arms crossed tightly over your gown, giving your best, most formidable glare—Gwayne's irritable mood vanished into thin air.

A terribly handsome, unashamed grin spread across his face, lighting up his eyes with pure glee.

"Out," you commanded the squire, not taking your eyes off the infuriating knight in front of you.

The poor lad didn't need to be told twice. He practically dropped the washcloth into the basin and bolted out of the tent like a startled rabbit.

Gwayne couldn't even pretend to look ashamed. he stayed right where he was, leaning back against the post, resting his elbows on his knees, and looking up at you with that utterly smitten smirk.

"Well," Gwayne purred, "did Her Majesty come all the way down into the grimy armory tents just to yell at her devoted champion? Or did you miss me already?"

"Do not ‘Her Majesty’ me, Gwayne Hightower,” you huffed, stomping right into his personal space and snatching up the clean linen from the basin. "You rode like an absolute idiot out there! Lord Royce nearly took your head off on the second pass!"

"Ah, but he didn't," he pointed out cheerfully, his blue eyes dancing with amusement as he watched you wring out the cloth with far more force than necessary. "In fact, if I recall correctly, Lord Royce is currently lying in the dirt having his bruised pride tended to, while I am sitting here being graced by my favorite lady in the Reach."

Stepping between his parted knees, you snapped, "Hold still. You're bleeding, you dramatic brute."

"I am merely a wounded knight awaiting his reward."

He didn't pull away when you brought the cool cloth up to his cheek. Instead, he leaned right into your touch, letting out a contented sigh.

You dabbed at the bloody cut along his cheekbone, trying to keep your expression stern. But it was nearly impossible when Gwayne was looking up at you like you had hung the sun in the sky. He didn't look at your dress, nor the tent—his gaze was fixed entirely upon your face, taking in every twitch of your brows, every frustrated little groan.

"Ouch," Gwayne whined softly, though his grin never faded. "Careful, My Lady. You're rubbing my pristine face raw. How am I supposed to look handsome for you at the feast tonight?"

"You don't need to look handsome, you need to look sensible," you scolded, moving the cloth down to carefully dab at a dark smudge near his collarbone, brushing aside the damp fabric of his shirt. "Which is clearly an impossible task. You could have been seriously hurt."

"Would you have cried for me?" he teased, his voice suddenly dipping into a sweet register.

Your hands stilled against his chest. Gwayne wasn't mocking you. he was smiling—a ridiculously smitten smile—looking up at you from between his knees with shameless affection.

"Oh, fuck off—I would have told everyone you deserved it for being a show-off." you muttered, stubbornness shielding your fluttering heart, except your cheeks were burning a furious shade of crimson.

He let out a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against the palm resting on his chest. Before you could pull your hand away, his fingers slid up, lightly catching your wrist. He didn't pull hard—he just held you there, his calloused thumb stroking the pulse point.

"Lies," he whispered, his eyes sparkling with flirtatious mischief. "You were terrified for me. You almost broke your fan in half during the third pass."

"I was not—"

"You were," Gwayne insisted, tugging gently on your wrist until you were forced to lean down just a fraction closer to him. "You were watching me the entire time. Admit it."

"I was watching to make sure you didn't embarrass my family's silk," you sniffed, raising your head up, trying desperately to maintain your dignified posture while standing between his thighs with him holding your wrist.

"You are so wonderfully stubborn," the knight murmured, his eyes dropping shamelessly to your lips before sliding back up to meet your eyes. "I fight off three lords, win the entire joust in your name, and I still can't get a compliment out of Her Majesty."

"You'll get no such things when you act like a fool," you said, though your voice lacked all of its previous bite.

"What if I beg?" his free hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, his fingers warm through the fabric of your gown. "What if your humble knight begs for just one tiny, sweet word from his lady?"

You bit down on your lip, fighting the stupid, helpless smile that was dying to break across your face.

"You're a menace, Ser Gwayne."

"That's not a compliment," he teased, leaning in even closer, his eyes glowing with victorious warmth. "Try again, my love."

Your breath hitched completely at the nickname. My love. He said it so easily, so naturally, as if he had been calling you that in his head for weeks.

You opened your mouth to scold him again, to tell him he was being too bold—

"Ser Gwayne! Lord Commander Cole says the King is demanding a toast—"

The canvas flap rustled frantically as a young guard burst into the tent.

You moved backward as if you had been burned, tearing your hand from his chest and nearly dropping the silver basin.

Gwayne, however, barely flinched. He simply let out a dramatic sigh, slumping back on the bench with a look of profound disappointment.

"If Cole ruins one more moment of my life today, I am going to poison his wine," he grumbled loudly, not even bothering to look at the surprised guard.

The poor guard blinked, looking between your flustered, bright-red face and Gwayne's dramatically pouting expression, before ducking back out of the tent at top speed.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your cool hands to your burning cheeks as you tried to regain your composure . "I...I am leaving. Before you lose your head completely."

He stood right back into your space, unbothered by your attempts to flee, and offered you his arm with a low bow. "You can run away now, Her Majesty," he smiled, "But you still have to let me walk you to the feast. I have a reputation as your knight to uphold, after all."

You glanced at his offered arm, and slapped your hand into the crook of his elbow. "You're the worst knight in the Seven Kingdoms," you grumbled as he led you out into the sun.

Gwayne just laughed—a bright, booming sound—and squeezed your hand against his side. "And yet, you wouldn't trade me for another."

You’ve known one another for years, passing in corridors, teasing and knowing words given to his cousin while you were offered but a warm smile as your arm linked around his. But in Gwayne’s absence it’s different.

Now, it was different. War had broken the realm into two sides, green and black banners thrown over every seat in the kingdoms. And you, without your husband. Every passing day, every journey further from your home, the man you once barely remembered the face of, lingers everywhere around you.

He stands at your side. Demands guards around the perimeter of your tent at all costs. He doesn’t speak much for the first few weeks, every time you move across rolling fields in the rickety old carriage and him in the leading garrison, you don’t do much as see him. But he makes a point to show his face, to allow himself a closeness to you.

And it begins at Tumbleton. With tensions growing higher and Rhaenyra taken King’s Landing, he acts as their lord, and in turn you as their lady. You are still dressed in fineries much too delicate for the dire times you are in, jewellery and perfumes sent to your assigned chambers.

And as ravens from your husband grow less and less, presumably lost, Ormund finds more excuses to keep you close, and he starts looking at you less like his cousin’s wife and more like something he believes should be sought after, to be properly treated, to have been his all along.

Across the Crownlands, Gwayne fights a war, never realising another one is unfolding behind the safety of his own men’s camp. Ormund becomes more than just a commander, power isn’t just about battles and successes anymore, it is about what he can give to you. Your comfort, your safety, what you need even if you state otherwise.

Ormund who starts insisting you dine with him because “it’s safer.” Ordering his men around you like wildfire before your eyes, and tending to your every need. Though he won’t speak on it longer than that, he simply turns the other way, the smugness in his face hidden from view.

Ormund who escorts you everywhere because the streets are “Far too dangerous for a lady.” and yet Daeron eyes you expectantly from across the room, just as confused at his sudden chivalry.

Ormund who’s begins finishing your sentences and speaking for you in the room full of lords and ladies with you near enough on his arm because “It’s easier.” But it doesn’t change the fact his eyes don’t leave your own, much less they linger when you look away. Always watching, lurking, calculating the next move.

Ormund who has pride in his chest for the way you look after Daeron, his prodigy, his creation of sorts. He looks up to you as a mother figure, and something about that stirs even more want in his chest.

And truly it is for your comfort and safety, yours and the Prince’s, he tells himself. But his sense of responsibility is lost between getting what he wants and control more than he’ll admit. None of the men question it, why their commander will stand by another man’s wife so closely or ask after her whereabouts so often. Or why he even cares? But he does.

Except Daeron does notice after a while.

He begins noticing the way Ormund’s eyes always find you in a crowded room, the way his voice softens only when speaking to you and not even for him anymore. Even when he loses his temper, his jaw ticks tighter with you in the room. How when letters arrive he takes longer to look at them, not allowing anyone else to see, no names, no addresses, not even any signs of life.

And yet he still holds you as you cry from no word of your husband, unknowing that the last words weeks before we’re settled in ash in the hearth.

Your fears and confusion are only heightened the moment the young Prince nudges the door gently to your private chambers in the late evening, stone walls flickering with the orange glow of the candles at your desk.

Daeron hangs his head low, offering you a soft smile as he ducks his way in. And you usher him in, because he had always done it, ever since he was a small boy, the one you had known to be your own since he was just a babe in Oldtown.

Your fingers tangle around the braids of his hair as he rests into your lap, Valyrian silver hidden beneath ashen red. He huffs quietly, so deeply that you stop. A longing one, a sadness that he attempts not to speak of.

“When is my uncle coming?”

You had been heading home when the rain started, the first cold drops splattering against your cheeks and soon saturating your jacket. As the downpour intensified quickly, you changed course, deciding to head to Tony’s. With each block you hurried down, your clothes grew heavier, and your hair plastered to your forehead. With a dead phone and soaking wet, you finally slipped into his flat. The faint, sharp tang of city rain carried in on you, mingling with the comforting undertone of Tony’s cologne that lingered near the entryway. Each step squelched, your socks heavy and cold against the hardwood. Your damp skin prickled as you moved further inside, shivering from the arctic temperature Tony kept the thermostat set to. Drops fell from your body, leaving tiny puddles with every movement.

Even with the blinds open, the apartment was cloaked in darkness, except for the glow of the green clock on the oven and the TV’s red standby light. Thunder rumbled, heavy and close, vibrating through the floors and making the windows vibrate in their frames. Lightning briefly lit the room, the flash turning the raindrops clinging to the window into tiny silver beads, illuminating the empty couch and the folded blanket Tony always left out. You hurried toward the bedroom, needing to plug in your phone to let him know you were there.

While you’re in his room, more thunder bellows, the sound rolling through the apartment and masking the soft creak of the window sliding open. Heavy boots land with a dull thud on the wooden floorboards. Dex appears, soaked and shaking, struggling to catch his breath. Rainwater drips from him, leaving a trail as he staggers forward. He moves slowly and painfully, every motion deliberate, as he hauls himself inside and takes his time standing to his full height. His face is drawn and pale beneath the balaclava, jaw clenched tight. The searing pain in his side begs him to stay hunched over, blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt, the metallic scent mixing with the rainy air.

Deciding to make a cup of hot tea, you leave your phone to charge and walk to the kitchen, your sock-clad feet padding silently against the floor. Still traversing the place in the dark, you round the corner, feeling your way to the cabinet with the tea bags. As you enter the kitchen, your eyes catch a dark silhouette in the corner of the living room; you ignore it, blaming the darkness for playing tricks on you. It isn’t until you’re gripping a mug that you hear the rain pitter-pattering louder than you had before. Growing stiff, your brain replays the moment you walked into the room. The blood in your body becomes freezing cold as you realize that a window is now open, which means your eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on you.

There is a person in here with you.

Someone is standing less than fifty feet away from you, in the dark. Suddenly, the air feels thick, suffocatingly so, as you now feel the difference of having someone else occupy the same space. As calmly as your shaking body will allow, you turn, ceramic mug still in hand, to face the intruder. Through the dark, you make out the wide span of thick shoulders, with long, bulging arms resting down by his sides. Truly, a unit of a man stands before you, hidden inside the shadows. While you can’t see his eyes, you feel them locked heavily onto you. No one speaks, no one moves; you both stand frozen. The thumping of your heart is so loud you’re certain it’s echoing through the apartment, while every limb throbs from adrenaline pumping through your veins. Just then, a serrated line of white cuts across the sky, filling the room with blinding light.

The lightning’s glare reveals him in sharp detail: a navy blue suit, knives strapped everywhere, a gun holstered at his chest, and wild, unblinking eyes locked onto you. Terror tears through you as recognition dawns. This isn’t just any intruder. It’s Bullseye. A skilled marksman, a trained killer, a man devoid of remorse and conscience. Panic takes over, and before you know it, the mug is flying from your hand, aimed straight at him. You don’t wait to see if it lands. Scrambling like a frightened fawn toward the bedroom, one desperate thought pulsing in your mind: get your phone.

Muffled by adrenaline, you hear the mug shatter and heavy footsteps pounding after you. You barely reach the bedroom door when a pillow skids across the floor, attempting to trip you. Stumbling but staying upright, you shove the door open, fingers grasping for your phone. The footsteps quicken, growing louder as he enters, and your pulse skyrockets. Only the queen-size bed stands between you and him.

He circles the bed with the slow, predatory caution of a wolf stalking prey. You mirror his every move, left when he goes right, until you are both weaving in sync, tension stretching between you. His long arms dart out, reaching for you, and you back away from the mattress. Your eyes flick to the lamp to your right; his gaze follows. In a low, guttural voice, he growls, “Don’t.” You ignore his warning, grab the lamp, and hurl it at him. He dodges, gliding around the bed as you vault over it, feet slipping on the velvet duvet.

“No, no, no,” you whimper, the words rushing out as you make your escape.

He’s right behind you as you bolt back toward the kitchen, the hair on your neck bristling; you feel akin to a rabbit fleeing a fox. Your name rasps from his lips, chilling you to your core. You sense the heat of his hand, almost brushing your skin. Glancing back, you miss the puddles that have gathered on the floor. You skid, feet flailing, spinning out like a car on wet asphalt. With a gut-wrenching crack, your back slams into the kitchen island, and your head snaps against the plaster. A hoarse gasp escapes you, and for a split second, everything spins and fades. Your mind reels, tears springing to your eyes. This is it, you think, I’m about to die.

Bullseye skids to a halt, looming over you, gloved hands lunging for your arms. Another lightning flash splits the room, and this time you see him up close. Blood streaks his suit, weapons gleaming, eager for use. In that harsh light, your tear-filled eyes meet his wild stare, and terror swallows you whole. A scream, raw and piercing, tears from your throat. He hesitates, then his hands move through the air, fast and harsh. You flinch as he does, bracing for whatever he’s planning. Instead of feeling anything, the sound of fabric being adjusted and a voice that’s too familiar reaches your ears.

“Don’t be scared, baby. It’s just me.” His voice is soft and low, trying to be reassuring, but it only makes you feel sick. Your mind lurches through a rapid-fire jumble of memories: Tony laughing with you in the sunshine, whispering promises into your hair, the gentleness of his hand in yours. Then, just as quickly, your mind flickers to the chase—boots pounding behind you, the frantic eyes glaring at you through the mask, your own scream ricocheting off the walls. Your senses and memories clash and entangle, making it impossible to reconcile the gentle tone with the nightmare you just lived through.

Terrified thoughts crash around in your brain: Is this really Tony? Was any of it real? How could the man you loved be the same person who hunted you down? Everything you thought you knew feels suddenly paper-thin and fragile. A ringing starts in your ears, drowning out everything except the sound of your own ragged breath. Your heart feels like it has been split open, disbelief crashing through you like another stroke of lightning. The Bullseye mask is off, but the terror is still crawling on your skin. You search his face, desperate for this to be some mistake or hallucination. But it is undeniably Tony – the man you loved, the man who just chased you through the darkness. Nausea surges, and your mind can barely wrap around the betrayal. All you can do is stare, wide-eyed and trembling, as if the world itself has broken apart.

This has to be some sort of sick joke. There’s no way Tony is standing above you wearing the Bullseye outfit. There’s no way that your back and skull are throbbing with pain because of your gentle-natured boyfriend. Your head begins to splinter harder from Tony’s reveal.

Hands reach out to help you. You whine, sliding away from him. “Don’t.” It hurts to say, as your throat constricts uncomfortably. Once you’re not stuck between him and the kitchen island, you stand on shaky legs. There’s double of everything as you sway, but still, you refuse to let Tony come closer.

His whole face twists in anguish, “Please, I-I’m sorry. Just-”

Reeling backward, you hurl yourself at the door, wrenching it open before Tony can react.

​

The rain beats at your already oversensitive skin, each stride agonizing as your legs tremble, muscles quivering with fatigue. Your lungs burn as you pull in cold, wet air that sears your throat. You want to stop, your whole body is screaming for it, but terror keeps you running. You can’t risk looking back. Not yet. Not until you reach home.

When your building finally rises from the haze, relief almost makes your knees buckle. Reaching the street outside, you double over, strength gone, gasping for air that feels too thick to swallow. A fit of wrenching coughs wracks your chest. Nausea overtakes you, folding you to the unforgiving, rain-slick concrete. You clutch at the ground, the rough sidewalk scraping the thin skin of your knuckles as the chaos of the past hour slams into you all at once. The world tilts violently. You retch until there’s nothing left, knees pressed to the cold pavement, grief and horror expelled with every shaking breath.

When the convulsions finally ease, and your breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, you push yourself upright. Somehow, you manage to stumble up the steps and through the front door, the brief shelter making the silence feel deafening after the roar of the rain. Only when the door clicks shut behind you do you let yourself fall apart. Collapsing onto the floor, every muscle unraveling, sobs tearing from your throat as hot tears stream down your cheeks. For a long moment, you lie there, feeling the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down, your mind struggling to process the terror and relief warring inside you.

Gradually, you drag yourself upright, limbs heavy, and you shiver, your wet clothes clinging to your skin. Peeling off your soaked jacket, then the rest of your clothes, you are frantic to get rid of anything contaminated by the awful situation. It all falls in a sodden heap by the door. The apartment feels cold and hollow, every shadow sharper, every creak in the walls amplified by your nerves. You stumble toward the bathroom, desperate for warmth and to wash away the filth coating both your mind and body.

Inside, the light flickers on, casting your reflection in the mirror, gaunt, wild-eyed, streaked with rain and tears. Not wanting to look at your pitiful self anymore, you enter the shower. The mundane sound of water running gives your mind something to cling to, allowing you to numb the pain for a moment. You turn off the water, pressing your palms to your eyes, willing yourself not to cry again, but the anxiety comes back, curling in your chest like smoke.

You move through the apartment, switching on every light, checking each lock and window three times. Only when you’re certain you’re alone do you finally sit, knees held to your chest, and breathe in the slow, trembling silence. The rain outside has softened to a whisper, but inside, every sound makes you tense, worried you’ll turn to find Tony in your apartment.

Back in his apartment, Dex begins to spiral. The panic attack seizes his whole body, and suddenly his breath is coming in ragged, shallow bursts. His chest contracts, muscles clenching as if he is being crushed from the inside. He wraps his arms around himself, trying in vain to calm the tremors shaking his body. His heart pounds so fast and hard it feels like it might crack his ribs. His hands are numb and tingling, sweat pooling along his hairline despite the cold. Each inhale burns in his throat, and when he tries to move, his legs collapse beneath him, leaving him curled on the kitchen floor, shaking violently. Something he had thought he had seen the last of years ago. The attack is all too familiar, a relic of the past version of Dex. It had taken him years to learn how to help himself see the light at the end of the tunnel. But now, all it takes is one bad hour to extinguish that hope; he sees no shore in the ocean he’s currently drowning in.

He messed everything up. Not only had he scared you, but he had caused you harm. You had looked at him like you didn’t know him, the fear in your eyes chilling him to his bones. Bile rose in his throat at the sound of your broken voice, your body hitting the kitchen island, your terrified scream all echoing in his head. Everything he didn’t want to happen had happened. Without any idea of what to do, he lay there on the floor. Soaking in his own blood, sweat, and tears, caring nothing about the mess he’s making on the clean tiles. His mind whirls as he wonders how this even happened. Misplaced anger grows in his chest at you being in his place unannounced, but it quickly disappears as he remembers this isn’t your fault. He’s the only one to blame. More anger bubbles in his chest at himself before it morphs into sickness. For a split second, he thinks of reaching out to you, desperate to explain or beg forgiveness, but the shame is too great. Maybe it would be kinder to disappear from your life entirely, to spare you from ever seeing this version of him again. Caught within the urge to run after you and the paralyzing fear that he has lost you forever, his body goes limp as he’s yanked into unconsciousness.

​

During the sporadic hours of sleep you had gotten, Tony and Bullseye haunted your dreams. When you woke at four in the morning, you surrendered to insomnia. You brewed a large pot of coffee, grabbed your laptop, and began digging into Bullseye's history. Not being a New York native, you had missed the previous public incidents involving Wilson Fisk. All you knew was that Bullseye was loose on the streets and had tried to assassinate Fisk last year. You had never seen his face or known his real name until now: Benjamin Poindexter. Once a Special Agent with the FBI, he became Wilson Fisk’s personal Daredevil; before that, he was an orphan in a group home. Each new piece of information pulled at your mind in a different direction.

Anger burned in your chest as you realized how much he had hidden, while twisted sympathy crept in as you scrolled through the grim details of his childhood. Seeing photos of Tony, or Dex, or Benjamin, from before you knew him broke your heart even as confusion tangled through you. The sight of his hollowed eyes and pallid skin revealed a man merely pretending to fit a mold, clearly a shell of who he should have been. Part of you pitied the lost boy in those images, just as fiercely as you hated the man who deceived you. You didn’t know whether to cry for him or scream at him, or at yourself for not noticing the cracks until it was too late.

Videos of his trial and his mug shots stare at you, harsh, vivid reminders, as a strange sympathy creeps in. The names Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock, and Karen Page appear in article after article. Each story turns your stomach. Watching the trial footage and seeing Tony, the man you thought you knew, standing with a smug, bored expression as the judge pronounced him guilty, only intensifies your anger. After hours of research, that anger turns inward.

How could you have been so naïve? So blind? Your desperation for love and a relationship had made you overlook every glaring red flag: the baseball cap he always wore in public, his avoidance of crowds, the secrecy surrounding his job, the unexplained bruises he always brushed off. The shabby apartment on the lower side of town, where nobody cared who he was. His overprotectiveness, the constant check-ins, it all made sense now. Your eyes grow wide at the next thought.

Meeting him hadn’t been accidental; it wasn’t some meet-cute. He’d been following you for months before introducing himself. Back then, you thought it was fate, the stars aligning just for you, but now you see the truth. Of course, you’d caught the attention of the city’s deadliest vigilante. A deep groan escapes as you collapse onto the couch. The splitting headache returns, and the bright light of your computer only makes it worse.

​

Dex waits a week. A full week of living in misery and spiraling before he decides he’s done. After getting back to the apartment one night, it’s like a mask had been pulled off his eyes. His trashed apartment glares back at him. The view makes him itchy, digits twitching as the need for order and cleanliness barrels through him. It takes a few hours, but it’s all worth it as he stares at his work. Everything is folded, tucked, turned, and staged in their rightful places; a layer of anxiety falls off his shoulders, and his mind clears. Another week passes of Dex punishing himself. He doesn’t allow himself to look for you, avoiding all your spots to ensure there are no run-ins. He’s decided that you just need space, that you’ll be back once you’ve calmed down and once that night and the pain have dulled in your mind. You’ll want to see him, he hopes. You’ll miss him, and then you’ll be back to him, he prays.

The third week is when Dex falters, a pure accident. He had been walking, not paying much attention to where he was going, when suddenly the rich smell of coffee filled his nose. Glancing up at the sign of the cafe, he quickly surveyed the area, scanning for you. It takes no time for him to spot you, inside, curled away in the corner, clearly trying not to be seen by passing eyes. But you could never hide from Dex; he’d spot you anywhere and in any crowd. Dex’s heart spasms in his chest. Seeing you again reignites everything. He can’t stop thinking about speaking to you, holding you, kissing you, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. He desperately needs you back in his life.  

​

The chill from the cold granite of your bathroom counter migrates up your arms as your elbows rest on the sink's edges. Patting the rest of the warm water off your face, you hear a knock on the front door. Gently and quietly, you shuffle through the apartment, looking through the peephole to see who’s there.

Before you can think logically, you move quickly away from the door, and the action causes the floor to groan. The noise alerts Dex; his head tilts up, like the human embodiment of a dog hearing a squeaky toy. Softly, he calls your name, not tauntingly, not overtly horrifying, just in the same tone he always did when he saw you after a long day. A softer knock rings through the apartment, “Please, let me-let me explain everything.”

You freeze in place, unsure of what to do now. Again, your name reaches your ears, the sound soft and broken. Clenching your eyes, you try to will yourself to walk back to your bedroom and call the AVTF hotline, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, you stand battling yourself and finally, against better judgment, you open the door.

On the other side, Dex stands just as shocked as you. A relieved look crosses his face at the reveal of you, but it is soon replaced with the guilty, stressed-out look he had previously been wearing. Putting space between you two, you move back into the apartment, and Dex follows you. Gently closing the door behind him, his hand never touching the lock, showing you that you’re free to leave or maybe just giving you the illusion.

“Go on.” You speak steadily, despite the way you’re shaking with nerves.

“How are you feeling? You hit the kitchen island pretty hard.”

“I’m fine, Tony,” You sigh, eyes closing in frustration. “Benjamin or Dex, or whatever your actual name is.”

"It’s Dex. I hate the name, Benjamin. Tony was the man I tried to build, the man I prayed you could love. But Dex is who I really am. I thought if I could hide that side, if I could just be Tony for you, it would be enough."

You nod, lips tight, but say nothing. The silence between you is loaded, Dex’s breath trembling as he tries to steady himself.

He looks up, voice husky and raw. "I should’ve told you the truth, but I was a coward. I wanted to keep you in the light, because I’ve only ever known the dark, and-and you’re so perfect and everything that I want to be. So I thought if I hid everything ugly and broken, you might love the version of me that wasn’t real and believe me to be the man that you deserve."

Dex’s hands tremble as he attempts to step closer, but decides to keep his distance, as if afraid his presence is poison. "I’m begging you, please. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I know what I did hurt you in ways I can never fix. I know it feels like I betrayed you, but you have to know why I lied. I wanted to spare you, to protect you from my darkness."

He scrubs a shaking hand over his face, voice faltering. "I keep replaying that night, over and over. The terror in your eyes, the way you looked at me, and your scream.” His eyes clench shut as he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the memory. “I will never forget it or forgive myself for that. I hate myself for it. I never wanted you to be afraid of me. I never wanted to be the reason you hurt."

He sinks slowly to his knees, eyes shining with tears. For a moment, you are frozen, your breath caught in your chest, arms locked around your ribs as if holding yourself together. Your heart pounds so violently it feels as if it might burst through your chest; a harsh, involuntary sob wracks your body.

Staring up at you, shaky hands alternating between grasping at his chest and reaching out for you, he continues. "I lied because I was scared. Scared you’d see me for what I am, scared I’d lose you forever. I told myself it was to protect you, but I realize now it was all about protecting myself. I’m so sorry. I know words aren’t enough, but if there’s any way to make this right, I’ll do anything. I just want a chance to earn back your trust, or at least your forgiveness."

Something tight and hot unfurls in your chest, violent and raw. Your hands clench at your sides. It hurts to look at him, so instead you stare at the floor between you, vision blurring with angry, helpless tears. You want to scream, to break something, to demand how he could do this to you, but the words stick like thorns in your throat. A bitter laugh bubbles up and breaks into a sob.

When you finally look up, your face is wet. Resentment and heartbreak are loud in your whisper: "You shattered everything. I don’t know who I am to you anymore, or what was real. Even how we met was fake. You lied about everything! You lied from the second you started speaking to me and just continued for the last year!"

“I know. I know.” Dex cries out, his green eyes closed tightly in shame. Fat shiny tears roll down his flushed cheeks while his lower lip trembles.

“How am I supposed to trust you? How can I feel safe around you?” The words come out sharp and aching, but underneath them is a mess of raw confusion and longing that makes your voice tremble.

“You’ve always been safe with me.”

“You chased me through your apartment in the dark. My entire back is bruised, and I’m pretty sure I had a minor concussion because of you.”

“I panicked! You ran, and I couldn’t have you calling the cops-”

“So you chased me? Instead of doing anything else?” You exclaim, hands waving through the air in frustration.

“I tried my best. I-I didn’t know what to do. Everything that I had built was crumbling around me. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m sorry, so sorry, baby, please.” His voice cracks at the end. Sinking further down, now on hands and knees, he cries before your feet. Wide, desperate, sad, dark green eyes peer up at you. He babbles more apologies to you, begging for forgiveness.

Taking a tentative step forward, you try to ignore the spark you feel as you watch Dex’s eyes begin to gleam with hope at your proximity. You kneel, joining him on the floor. Gently, you splay your palms on either side of his cheeks, your thumbing absentmindedly stroking the muted pink scar.

“Dex,” He keens as you whisper his name.

“I need time and space. Nothing is going to be magically fixed overnight. I-I don’t even know if I still want to be with you,” at your admission, Dex’s lip trembles again, a fresh batch of tears clumps his lashes. “But if I do, it’s going to take some time, and it’ll be on my terms.” You raise your eyebrows, hinting at Dex to respond.

“Of course, anything you want, I’ll do it.” His voice comes out rushed and breathy, like the mere idea of a potential relationship is enough to get him worked up.

The silence between you stretches, thick with exhaustion and the weight of everything left unspoken. Dex sits back on his heels, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaving angry red streaks along his cheeks. You stand up first, the movement stiff, your knees aching from the cold floor. Dex follows suit, but keeps his distance, watching you with a look that’s equal parts hope and devastation.

Needing movement, anything to ground yourself, you move toward the kitchen. Dex hovers in the entryway, hands twisting together. He doesn’t ask if he can stay; he just waits, like a stray dog who’s been kicked too many times to expect kindness but is still hoping for it.

You pour two glasses of water, setting one on the table for him without looking back. Dex takes it, murmuring a quiet thanks. The gesture hangs between you, an olive branch offered and accepted. Drinking in silence, only the hum of your fridge and the creaking of floorboards as you shift your weight fill the air. The two of you sit in uneasy peace. For now, there are no more apologies, no promises, just the slow, tentative act of existing in the same room, each of you yearning but unsure of where to go next.

​

The call comes at one am. The buzzing of his phone against the wooden bedside table startles him out of sleep. In an instant, the light is flicked on, and he's already answered before the sleep was wiped from his eyes.

“Hello?”

It’s loud, so loud that Dex winces away from the speaker. Against the pounding of music and overlapping voices, a small sniffle echoes the loudest in Dex’s ear. His eyes snap open, more awake now than he had been a second prior.

“Dex?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I need-” Your speech is slurred and thick with tears. “I need-I shouldn’t be calling you.”

“Are you alone?”

There's a pause before you answer, clearly not wanting to tattle on yourself.

“...yeah.”

He’s already dressed and storming through the apartment. The front door barely survives his force as he races towards you.

He doesn’t have to ask; he already knows where you’re at. He gets there in record time, storming in past the stragglers outside and the intoxicated people too involved with themselves to recognize the fire in his eyes as he searches for you.

“Hey,” He says just loud enough for his voice to carry over the music. You turn to face him, face flushed, eyes glossy and heavy-lidded.

“Hi.” It’s short and almost painful.

“Where are your friends?”

“Not here, I came by myself.”

Anger flares in his chest, his heart rate spiking even further at your carelessness. Closing his eyes, he exhales through his nose, pushing the anger down.

The bartender places another drink in front of you, the unnaturally blue liquid glowing in the multicolored lights. Dex glares at the shiny glass like it’s personally offended him. Quickly, he pushes it away from you, calling the bartender back over, ordering a water for you instead.

“Drink this, then I’ll get you home.” He pushes the cold water into your hands. You stare down at it for a moment before your eyes brim with more tears.

“What is it?” He asked, concerned that there was something unsavory in the cup.

“Nothin’. Just too much goin’ on.”

He nods, reassuring your drunken thoughts.

Once the water is gone, you stand from your chair, Dex moves with you, and as you sway, he has to stop himself from reaching out for you. So he stands there and watches you steady yourself. You grab your purse, then head for the door; Dex stalks behind you.

A small crack in the pavement catches your heel, and your drunken mind is no match for the speed at which you stumble forward. Dex, moving faster than you, reaches out, his large callused hand wrapping around your bicep. Out of habit, he pulls you into his chest.

Forcefully, you break away from his grip, your arms coming up to wrap around yourself. Unsure whether you are trying to hold yourself together or keep him out.

"I don’t think you should take me home," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, every word trembling but unyielding.

"I understand, but you’re way too intoxicated for me to feel okay with you walking by yourself," Dex replies, his voice gentle, but a stubborn edge cuts through.

"Then just forget I called you," you mutter, bitterness and shame tangling in your throat.

He rolls his eyes, but the gesture is tired, not mocking. "I can’t do that," he says, softer than before.

"I’ve done it before," you snap.

"You’ve done what?" Dex asks, incredulity sharpened by a hint of hurt.

"Walked home drunk. Multiple times. In fact, I just did it the other night," you admit, swaying, your voice brittle with forced bravado.

"You’re kidding, right?" He tries to mask it, but fear and exasperation leak through.

You grunt out a "no," shaking your head, shame burning in your cheeks. "Just got too drunk tonight. Didn’t even mean to call you," you mumble, the words barely making it past the knot of regret in your throat.

Dex exhales, shoulders slumping. For a moment, you both stand in the gold-lit silence, the thrum of the bar in the background. He looks at you, jaw tight, torn between wanting to argue and wanting to protect you from yourself.

"I'm still walking you home," he says finally, voice low but resolute. "We can fight about it tomorrow."

You want to protest, but your body is spent, and the thought of being alone outside is suddenly unbearable. So you nod, turning away from his searching gaze.

Dex falls into step beside you, a careful distance away. The walk is quiet, each of you wrapped in your own thoughts, tension simmering just beneath the surface. Occasionally, your hand strays to your side, as if remembering the warmth of his grip. Dex notices, but says nothing.

At your apartment, Dex lingers by the front door, following you with just his eyes as you retreat further into the building.

The next morning, while Dex goes about his normal routine, a simple “thank you” text stops him in his tracks. A small smile tugs at his lips. He stands there, fingers hovering over the screen, unsure of what to say. He types a few sentences before deleting them over and over. Finally, he settles on “You’re welcome.” before continuing his run.                                    

Over the following weeks, the two of you drift into being strangers again. You focus on surviving one day at a time, forcing yourself into the routine of work, eating, and sleep, even if everything feels heavier than before. Late at night, when the apartment is still and your worries gather thick around you, you scribble angry rants and messy confessions into a battered journal. Little by little, you start reclaiming parts of yourself, joining a weekly yoga class, discovering new favorite spots, finding pockets of peace in small, gentle rituals.

Dex occasionally catches a glimpse of your life through your friend's social media account. Your bright smile aimed at the camera always makes his heart ache, his love for you still overwhelmingly present.

On a random afternoon, Dex decides to take himself for coffee. Not wanting to risk running into you and ruining the trust he hoped you had slowly been building towards him, he goes to the other side of the city.

Stepping through the large glass doors, he’s met with sweet, buttery bread and rich, earthy coffee, while another all too familiar scent swirls through the air. As he stands in line, he begins getting slightly tizzied as he can’t place the other smell. His eye rakes over the baked good cases and the syrups behind the counter, looking for anything to solve the mystery. He grabs his drink from the counter and finds himself a table outside.

As he nestles in with his iced beverage and a book, a shadow falls over him. Sparing a glance from the corner of his eye, he’s thrown into complete shock when it’s you that he sees. Before he can jump into explaining that he had no clue you were here, you begin speaking.

“Is this seat taken?” You gesture at the one across from him.

He freezes before stumbling over his words. “No, no, not at all.”

You sit in the chair, the sun-basked metal warming your skin as you do. He stares, his green eyes open wide as his brain catches up to you willingly being in front of him. You allow a patch of silence to rest over you two, watching as Dex resets himself.

“Funny how we both ended up here.”

He nods, hands coming up to gesture as he begins explaining that he had no idea you were here. You don’t let him speak much. Instantly, he stops talking as your pointer finger raises in the air.

“I believe you, Dex. I think it’s fate bringing us back together. I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently.” You admit a little shyly.

“You have?” Dex feels your words easing him. He had been worried you would never think of him again.

“I’ve been wanting to reach out, but I was unsure of how to put myself back in your life. Now that I know everything, I fear that I don’t fit in it anymore.”

Dex shakes his head almost comically hard. “That’s not true. You were my life. You are what’s important to me. We fit together; I know we do.”

You reach out for his hand. Dex wastes no time in grabbing yours.

“Let's try again. But I need to be honest with you, Dex. There’s still a part of me that’s scared this could happen again. That you could hurt me again.”

You look him in the eye, your grip tightening on his hand. “If we’re really doing this, I need you to work for my trust. No more secrets, no excuses. If you ever lie to me again, or if I even start to feel like you’re keeping things from me, we’re done. I can’t go through that again. So, if you really want to rebuild this, then I’ll try too. But it has to be different this time.”

He squeezes your hand tighter.  “It will be. I promise.”

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”