what fandom do you write for? jujutsu kaisen (gojo, megumi, nanami), love & deepspace (sylus, zayne, caleb), a knight of the seven kingdoms (ser duncan, valarr, aerion), house of the dragon (ser gwayne and ormund)
you’re posting! but why don’t you answer my asks/messages? despite seemingly online all the time, i’m actually only online barely 30 minutes or so everyday to queue asks and posts to avoid clogging the dash, so i most definitely will miss a lot of notifs and asks. i’ll answer you soon!
chu, there’s this discourse about xxx ! sorry, but i’m a private person. don’t ask about or drag me into any sort of discourse, it’s plain dumb. i have a life outside this hobby app
i’ve sent you a request! why won't you write it!? has your suggestion fit my rules? regardless, i have all the rights not to pick up a request, so please don’t take it to heart and send another one befitting the criteria... you might have a better chance
the reader in your fics is NOT me! she doesn’t look or act like me! oh, is that so? that’s a shame. remember, if you don’t like it, you can always block or see yourself out without spewing hate like a cultured person
please write me a story about [character] and a reader who is like this, wears this and uses this as her weapon! sorry, but no. i write most comfortably with creative liberty
chu, can i write a story based on your headcanons? no, you can’t. everything under headcanon tag is going to be a part of my fics and overall mine, so that constitutes as plagiarism
can i translate your works and post it in wattpad/quotev/tiktok/etc? no, you can’t. i won’t ever permit it, and if you still do then you’re straight desperate for attention and a plagiarist, and should i catch you then i’ll call you out as well
what’s the schedule of fic posting? for longtime readers, you might remember that i used to post weekly, but since i have a lot going on in my personal and professional life, this blog will now have slower updates. i usually post around 00.00 ~ 03.00 CST, so keep an eye out!
why am i blocked? most commonly? spam-liking and posting porn links. for others, please refer to the rules, thank you
i believe i sent you an ask about [topic] and you’re avoiding to answer it on purpose. it must be the vibe your asks brought into my askbox, questions that make me uncomfortable, or i simply just don’t want answer it. therefore, please mind your words in the future
why do you stop writing for jjk and lads? will you write for it again? at this point, i believe everyone knows the toxic state of those two fandoms. maybe one day i will come back. i kindly ask for you to refrain from asking me when though, because it feels like a pressure and that is the last thing i want here
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in the crucible of war, tying the two strongest houses in a holy matrimony is a scheme easier than any other. you’ve known ormund hightower your entire life, but he is also the man who has broken your heart... in a play of power and game of love, how will you protect your heart from him?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, marriage of convenience, unrequited love, slight enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, yearning, age gap, mentions of pregnancy, kidnapping, fluff, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/alysmond. wc. 5.5k ! so ormund hightower makes an appearance, james norton is hot and i just watched house of guinness... so here's some brainrot concocted in my brain <3
They said... the best fairytale is the one that begins with a wedding.
The lady of the roses and the lord of the high tower. There was no union more perfect in the eyes of the Reach as the drums of war began to echo across Westeros. You were the vision of genteel grace and elegance while Ormund stood beside you as a stalwart protector.
Men mourned the loss, for the fairest maiden of Highgarden was no longer theirs to dream of, while women looked on with envy, wishing for a husband with the strength and stature of the Lord of Oldtown.
If only they have known…
Had it been ten years past, you would have been the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
And if fairytales begin with a wedding, then yours was doomed from the start— because long before the day you wed him, your story had taken root in heartbreak of your own making.
You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.
“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.
You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.
And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—
“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”
The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.
However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.
“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”
It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.
“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”
Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.
But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.
“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”
Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.
However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.
. . .
“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”
That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.
“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”
Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”
“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”
Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”
You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”
How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?
“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”
For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”
“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”
“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”
Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.
“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”
He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:
“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”
This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.
But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.
He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.
Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.
He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.
And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—
—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.
One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.
And now—
“Haah...”
The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.
Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.
This was him entirely at your mercy—
You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.
“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”
Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”
“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”
Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.
With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.
The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.
. . .
When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.
Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.
His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.
How is a man well-known for his faith lure you into thinking of sins?
You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.
Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”
“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.
You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.
However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.
You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.
His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.
“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.
“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”
You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.
But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.
“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.
“Must you hate me that much?”
You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.
“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.
Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.
Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?
It was so fucking unfair.
“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”
Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”
To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.
He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”
Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.
You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.
That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest
You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.
Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.
You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.
Until the turn of the moon, at least.
“My lady... this is strange.”
The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.
“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.
Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”
“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”
“I am pulling, my lady, but...”
Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”
You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.
“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:
“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”
. . .
“We will march for Tumbleton.”
You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.
“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”
His words passed by at first.
“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”
“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”
“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”
It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.
But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.
Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.
“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”
The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.
There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.
“May the Seven guide your path.”
The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.
However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.
“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”
Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.
With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.
And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.
Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.
It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—
“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.
The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.
From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.
“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”
“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”
The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.
Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.
Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”
“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”
You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.
For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.
You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.
“But my lady—!”
“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”
He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”
A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.
Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.
There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.
You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.
The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.
He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the innocent Lady Tyrell.
His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you shouldn’t be bound to a man like him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.
The Gods are cruel, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.
However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.
You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.
That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.
But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.
“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”
Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs.
. . .
“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”
Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.
However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.
“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”
“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”
Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—
“My lord!”
Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.
She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.
“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”
A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply.
And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.
“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”
They had taken you to Tumbleton.
The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.
Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.
And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.
“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”
“Then what of us? What of the woman?” another rasped.
“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”
Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.
“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.
But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.
Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.
I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.
You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.
As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.
He is devilishly handsome and gentle. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.
The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.
Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.
You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.
Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?
But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:
“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.
“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”
The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.
The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.
He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.
“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”
His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.
“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.
Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.
Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.
He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.
When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.
His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.
“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.
“I... I was—”
“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”
You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.
“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”
“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.
“So know that even if roses bear thorns,” he continued, his thumb brushing a fallen tear from your cheek. “I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on, so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”
That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.
Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—
For the lord had reclaimed his lady, and their story might lead to a fairytale after all.
What are the chances for Inflop to bring Valko back? If the issue is 731 why not remove Xavier?? Caleb is promoting incest too and hated but why not he removed?????
istg please stop with these questions. i’m tired of answering anything related to lads atp. this is the last i’m answering question regarding lads fiasco and yes, i’m snappy on purpose bc i’ve received so many asks ranging from hate, racism, vent and even death wish about lads this week it’s making me fed up. read this to know more about what really happened so you won’t have the same questions
1) i don’t know. but if they bring valko back then one thing is sure: infold’s credibility will take another hit bc promoting-cancelling-releasing is a major business disaster that will label them as incompetent. a really messy company, they should pick a struggle—the cancelling in itself has been a dumpster fire as you can see
2) …sigh the 731 mess is not about specific character—it’s tarnishing whole game and company itself. why would they delete an already established character who has generated them money?
3) he’s loved in china, and for the 628382 time, his trope is not blatant incest as they’re not blood-related and it’s freaking normal in asian culture in general. most hate he got is only by some in the global fandom who are illiterate, simply haters or who don’t even try to understand chinese culture, that’s why. additionally, if you’re caleb hater and want to make your thoughts known to me then dni bc i don’t care
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- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
tagging @luvweezer @j3ons4 @heavenlypuggs @salinaiacono6 @thelastemzy @meowingtotheoldies @violetrainbow412-blog @reading-it-all as per request <3
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Chu, have you ever played Obey Me! or Mystic Messenger by any chance?
i haven’t played obey me but i did play mystic messenger for a bit and i don’t really like it :’) before lads i used to play tears of themis and now i’ll resume playing it
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- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
tagging @luvweezer @j3ons4 @heavenlypuggs @salinaiacono6 @thelastemzy @meowingtotheoldies @violetrainbow412-blog @reading-it-all as per request <3
as someone that hasn't watched any of the GOT shows, do you recommend it or am I gonna get stabbed in the heart?
i recommend watching them only if you have and can keep an open mind :’) bc some things happening in got/hotd/akotsk are really, really brutal, questionable, can get very dark and sometimes just so awful that it will make you so angry. but ultimately the story is gold— really political, has many actions on dragonback and very interesting, and we can get attached to its characters quick while not knowing when they’ll die 🥹
Jello Chu! I hope you’re doing well. I just wanted to tell you that I love your writing so much. As a English literature major I’m quite envious of you because your writing is beautiful. I discovered you through your LADS fics but I couldn’t get enough of your writing so I started to read your other fics about the dragons hehe. I don’t know anything about the show but I love what you write for them nonetheless. As much as I love your LADS fics, I understand if you want to stay away or not write for them anymore. The current stare of the game and fandom makes me so sad, people can be so cruel. But I will continue to support your writing and hopefully when I graduate, I will become a good writer like you too (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) Thank you! Take care 💗
thank you for the kind words and for reading 🤍 really, i’m average :’) i wish you luck on your studies and i know you’ll do great!
what happens in lads fandom now is really eye-opening in the sense of “oh so these are people who i have interacted with and write for?” as a matter of fact, i’ve gotten so many asks about how they hate cn and such (the vilest one being an ask cursing me and the entire chinese country wow i hope they get help fast). i’ve deleted all asks related to lads on valko’s cancelled day bc i’m so drained reading the hate, the vent and the self-entitlement
i can’t believe how it has descended into hysteria. i get being disappointed and absolutely valko wanters should make their voice heard to infold but the moment they started fanwars and being unapologetically racists and villainizing cn side, i lost all my sympathy and respect bc wow the things they said to real people are so vile and it’s for the sake of a fictional character who’s barely there for 8 days. it’s almost as if they have collectively lost all their logic, sanity and shame in a mass psychosis. why is it so hard to realize that the main villain of this madfess is infold itself…?
i’ve spent millions in lads so no, i’m not boycotting. i love this game but i do know infold is an ass company so what i’ll do is cutting my spending after my aurum pass ends. i’ll be taking a break from the fandom until further notice but i’ll still enjoy the game on my own
and i hope those reading this won’t come to my askbox preaching their vent or giving me their justification bc i really don’t care about childish and idiotic things going on in the fandom anymore :)
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- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
