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ɢᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ x ꜰ!ᴛᴀʀɢ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

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wc: 6.1k

description: you and gwayne were lovers once, in a time that feels so distant now. The war has since torn you apart, but the memories reamin gliterring reminders of what once was; and more bubble up as you come face to face once more with the man you used to love.

warnings//content: canon typical graphic violence, mentions of blood, mentions of p in v sex, mentions of oral sex, usage of the words fuck and cunt in a sexual scenario, angst, ormund is here and is a warning himself, reader is rhaenyra's sister but not written to be close, reader is a warrior and has battle experience, reader has white hair and violet eyes but is otherwise not described.

a/n: first hotd fic! some causes of events or info in general may be slightly inaccurate, i only watched a few full episodes between the first seasons (watching now though dw). lmk what you guys think of this and any inaccuracies/things to improve on!!

The stench of spilt blood and cold sweat fill your senses as yet another Hightower guard is cut down by your sword. Six and counting, taking each one with little effort as they came- or as you came upon them. It certainly isn't your toughest battle, sneaking into Ormund Hightower's headquarters and taking all these men by surprise gave you and easy advantage.

A stocky, lump of a man runs at you with a growl and a sword held high, which you whirl around to block. The metal clashes a time or two before you adjust your stance to land a forceful knee to his side, making him lose his focus for a moment to lean over in pain. The split second is enough time for you to to twist your sword over and out of the weight of his, gaining the upper hand, and making quick work of slicing his throat.

Another guard storms your path immediately after, but your blade finds his throat all the same. You finally reach the stairs, slowing down to a quieter pace as to not alert any men that are lurking on the second floor. A wisp of bloodstained silver hair falls into your face, the already loosened braids becoming further undone from exertion, but you barely pay it any mind. You had always had the genes for battle, brought to fruition in your youth due to the few extra freedoms of being second-born, and if there was one thing you remembered being drilled into you- it was to always pay attention.

What would've been a quick ambush by a guard lying in wait just past the top of the stairs was caught by you, and after taking on the few more who were stationed upstairs, a silence filled the air. No more came. You had killed all that were guarding your path up to the main corridor and room. Your gaze turns from the bloodstained ground to the large wooden door ahead, where you felt Ormund and young Daeron must be biding their time. Surely the occupants of the room had heard at least the tail end of that scrummage, which means you must act in haste. This was the task your sister, the rightful queen, had given you- capture Daeron and smite down Ormund, as well as any who stand in your way.

The deeply colored wooden door makes little sound as you push it open, thankfully finding no one there to jump you, and you sheath your sword to appear more... comely. With a step around the corner, however... eight men various lengths away face you, all with fingers wrapped in waiting around the grip of their swords, all eyes turned to you in alarm.

A silver-haired, sharp eyed woman, blood smeared over her face like battle paint, wrist resting casually over over the pommel of her sword like she didn't just slaughter upwards of twenty Hightower guards.

You.

"I have come for the head of Ormund Hightower."

Spoken confidently, stentorian, and quite clear enough to get the point across that you were not announcing it lightly. Your eyes roam over the bewildered men one by one in the tense silence that followed- two guards upfront, one further down the room, a young boy- Daeron, your half-brother- another, burly looking guard, a man dressed in green looking absolutely beside himself- presumably Ormund- yet another guard, and finally... your eyes landed on the man furthest from the others.

A familiar head of auburn hair, bright blue eyes that used to gaze into yours with reverence now locked in pure shock and something akin to fear.

It was Gwayne. Your Gwayne. The knight who stole your heart within a single moon and later broke it by siding with Aegon when the war rose.

You knew you couldn't blame him for staying loyal to his own family, but a naïve part of you always felt burned by how quickly his delicate loyalty to you had dissolved. It was an absolute, final thing when he told you he would fight for the Hightowers; in an unquiet corridor of the castle of all places. You assumed Gwayne had planned it so you'd be in a public space, with you unable to argue, cry out, or cause a scene at the revelation- which you certainly would have. His confident yet sorrowful tone mixed with the guilt in his eyes would've surely broke you on the spot if you were isolated. That was the last time you saw him.

A deep, grating voice cuts through your thoughts- your name is spoken, by who you assume to be Ormund. So they know of you. Your gaze breaks back to the man who is speaking.

"Sent by that bitch of a sister of yours to kill me."

"Sent by the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms." you retort quickly without batting an eye.

Ormund scoffs, a deeply sardonic smile taking over his face, "Rightful queen-" he repeats sarcastically, "Heed my words now- Rhaenyra will not sit the throne for much longer, whether I am dead or alive. That will be made sure of."

Your fingers wrap around your sword before he's even finished speaking, unsheathing it with a sharp scrape.

"Shall we put those words to the test?"

You look formidable even without sword in hand, but clutching the grip- you look deadly. Ready for a fight that will surely end in stained red floors and cries of battle turned to cries of pain. Each guard stands at the ready, prepared to give their lives to the two Hightowers and Targaryen prince.

Your eyes find Gwayne's once more, almost subconsciously- he's already staring back in you, the fear in his expression now loose and unhindered. If you didn't know any better, it'd appear as though he was fearful for you, not of you. As if a sliver of love still remained. But how could he feel anything but rage against the woman who came for bloodshed?

The glittery armored guard closest to you makes the first move, fast approaching with boots clunking heavy over the floor. Your eyes are forced to peel from Gwayne's, though the image of his face remains like a photograph in your head as the sound of two swords clanging breaks through the air.

And you're sent back.

To King's Landing, well over a decade ago. A tourney, hosted in honor of your name-day since you enjoyed them so. A beautifully white steed trotted to you in the stands, it's rider donned in silver armor with deep green embellishments; too nicely crafted for a knight of a lesser house. The man lifted his green-plumed helmet and met your eyes with a kind smile.

"I'd like to graciously ask for the princess's favor."

Gwayne Hightower, the queen's brother. A memory struck you then, at the tourney for your deceased brother Baelon's birth a few years prior- Ser Gwayne was the knight Daemon had quite eagerly dismounted from his horse. You were very pleased to see the fall hadn't left any lingering imperfections on his handsome face.

With a grin, you grab the ring of woven daisies and ferns and lean over the rail to drop it gracefully over his lance.

"I wish great luck to you Ser, you have my favor." You hold his gaze, watching the way his eyes lit up with a sort of relief, almost as if he was nervous. You find it adorable.

"Thank you, princess."

His horse gallops away, leaving you stuck with a stupid smile that Rhaenyra instantly teases about. You risk a glance at Alicent, considering Gwayne is her brother, and she send you an approving smile back.

He won his joust, causing you to stand and applaud with a wide grin on your face- needless to say, you were already smitten.

Alicent had formally introduced you after, though displeasure racked you once it was known Gwayne wasn't staying and had to return to Oldtown. He left you with a gentle, respectful kiss to your knuckles, holding your gaze all the while which practically melted you into a puddle- which also heightened your displeasure at his leave even more.

You blink, blocking his swing once more with your sword, clattering until it's driven through the man's side. You stalk towards the next one, dodging a swing-

It would be years until you saw him again. You had grown into a beautiful young woman, highly desired by many lords of young and old and yet remaining unwed. You had no taste for marriage, especially when the choice would not be yours. Being second born had it's perks, even more so since your father and the court were far more focused on your little brother Aegon- meaning your marriage was no one's priority, and you quite enjoyed it.

You were one of the firsts to the courtyard for Gwayne's reception at the castle. You had been counting down the days since you heard wind of him coming to visit his sister. And it was beautiful, seeing his face again, the knight who charmed you so, after so long. He placed a kiss to your knuckles just as he had before, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a simper.

From that point on, you were practically inseparable. One always trailed beside the other, talking of everything under the sun from your reasons for not marrying to which animal would be most desirable to be trapped in the body of. Anything worked, really, between the two of you. He'd stroll with you through the gardens as you picked flowers, and you'd sit in as he trained with other knights residing in the castle. He refused to train with you however, despite knowing you were very well capable with a sword, he didn't want to risk hurting you.

You loved how knightly and honorable Gwayne was... until it became a hinderance. Naturally, your affection and attraction towards him grew. Your eyes lingered on his and would trail to his lips, wanting nothing more than to lean in an kiss them, but he'd always pull away before you got the chance. He'd allow you to loop your arms together and lace your fingers, but kept you just unable to press your side against his. Gwayne even let you play with his hair, smooth your hand through it as you were seated together away from prying eyes, but turned away every time you leaned closer. Always sporting a knowing smirk, aware of exactly what you were doing- his eyes held a sort of reluctance, like he wanted to give in just as much as you but wouldn't allow himself. Gwayne was honorable, respectful through and through almost to a fault. He was the best of them, is what you truly believed.

Your sword easily slashed across the man's neck, spraying your cheek with blood. The movements are almost mindless now, lost in your head as your body moves fluidly as though it were made for this. The next guard manages a kick to your side as you're distracted with the other piece of armor raising his sword to you, and in the zone of battle, your mind drifts again.

Late one starry night in your chambers, Gwayne's spent body draped over yours like a shield.

With much persistence and a few more 'almost' moments, he had finally followed you into your bed.

Your arms rested around his damp back and smoothed over the expanse of nearly pristine skin. Head tucked under your chin with auburn strands of hair tickling your neck pleasantly. It was perfect. Peaceful, buzzing, you felt utterly complete.

You'd learn the next morning of his guilt over taking your maidenhood unmarried- he quieted immediately however at your assurance and comfort. That began, in the final month of his stay, a whirlwind of passion and loyal dalliance to your sweet knight.

He'd hold your wrists to the bed and drive into you with lewd moans and whines during the night, and hand-pick a bouquet of flowers for you in the morning. He'd leave dark love-bites and bruises over your chest mid-fuck only to worry greatly if he hurt you once noticing their remains as the sun rose. The man would spend an hour between your legs worshipping your cunt and carry on worshipping your whole existence the following day. Gwayne was enthralled with you, and you with him.

Many kisses were stolen in private corridors, many bites driven into his skin, many times he had to cover your mouth in the dead of night with a large hand in fear of the remaining guards outside overhearing your sounds.

One night, lying in his chambers with your head upon his chest and his fingers trailing up and down your waist, Gwayne spoke up of Daeron. Your half brother, the only one of your siblings you'd only spent very little time with. He'd been living with Gwayne in Oldtown for a few years then, doing his little kid duties and just beginning to learn how to use a play sword. Gwayne spoke so highly of him that night, and you found yourself curious about the boy... and plotting a plan.

On the day that your sweet knight finally took his leave back to Oldtown, you went along with him. You claimed it was for Daeron, a desire to spend time with the brother you virtually know nothing of. The request wasn't too strange, Alicent and the council were aware of your relative closeness with her children- why bat an eye at you wanting to visit the youngest? So off you went, for Daeron, but mostly because you simply couldn't be parted from Gwayne.

Steel drives through the hip of the man that kicked you, quickly slipping it out to swing into the face of the other. More blood drains onto the floor. Past the final remaining guard charging in your direction, your brother's face becomes visible to you- appalled and plain scared in a way that tugs on your heart. He looks utterly helpless, like a child again.

He was thrilled to see you. In all his five year old glory, Daeron was so excited to have another member of his family with him. The boy was more mellow than his brothers for sure, but spirited in his own right. You took to eachother immediately.

Gwayne used to joke about how Daeron was stealing you from him, to which you'd always giggle and place a kiss to his cheek. It was wonderful, having him unabashedly without needing to sneak off to show affection or strive so hard to be discreet. You were far from the Red Keep, with absolutely no one to tell on you both, especially not a five year old.

Your days were spent with your boys, teaching Daeron all about dragons and his own, Tessarion, as well as teaching him how to hold a wooden sword- while trying your best not to wince when he gleefully hit your knee point plank with it. Gwayne would 'spar' would him, pretending they were rival knights from faraway kingdoms, always letting the little boy win. He'd make a big show of it, collapsing to the ground-

"Ugh, Ser Daeron, you have struck me!"

"I GOT you!" he would cheer.

Gwayne rolled dramatically over the ground, grass and twigs getting caught in his hair. He put a hand up-

"I yield! I yield, great knight!"

At which point the boy would hear your stifled laughter and bound over to you, striking you as well. Of course, you had to continue to show.

"Oh, you've wounded me so! I was unarmed!" you'd fall to the ground, feigning great pain, making Daeron double over in laughter.

Rolling yourself over to Gwayne, you groan in false agony and throw an arm over him playfully.

"Why have you struck the maiden, Ser? Whatever had she done to you?" he gasps, playing along.

Daeron circles around the pile of you two on the ground-

"Because... she was an assassin! Working for you!" he mispronounces assassin, making you laugh and turning your face into Gwayne for a moment.

"What?! How'd you know?" Gwayne exclaims, reaching out to playfully grab at the boy, much to his delight, making him squirm away and run off giggling.

You remained on the ground together, Gwayne shifting to drape an arm behind your shoulders and pulling you into him. You realized in that moment that it was the happiest you'd ever been. Lying on the dirt, a blue sky with drifting clouds overhead, tucked into the man you've been gradually falling in love with. It was perfect.

And your nights were spent exclusively with Gwayne, wide awake in his chambers into the wee hours. Neither of you had to sneak out before the morn, neither had to worry about a sudden royal matter that would interrupt and risk your secrecy- it was pure freedom, something you'd known very little of your whole life. God, you could kiss this man forever for what he'd given you. True happiness, and above all, himself. He gave you himself, despite his apprehension and desire to stay as honorable as possible. He remained with the utmost respectability, and had gained you in the process.

Your gaze shifts back to the guard suddenly right in the center of your sight, easily blocking and on defense to allow you to slip back into memory-

The trips to Oldtown carried on for years, and with them a quiet domesticity that racked you almost violently. You were able to taste family life, true family life, not the royal, political nonsense you'd been brought up in. Of course you always had to travel back to the Red Keep eventually, which only meant it would be Gwayne's turn to travel to you in the coming months. His arrival was always under the guise of visiting his sister, and you departure was under the guise of visiting your brother. Sometimes, you'd all travel together to King's Landing for a name day, or galas your presence was requested at. All occasions were met with great enjoyment, secret affections kept between you and Gwayne, and a certain warmth you felt every time Daeron was able to reunite with his mother. It all worked, really.

However, your importance to your family lied mainly from military tours, having rejected the dull womanly lifestyle that was originally expected of you in favor of battle- they labeled you Visenya reborn, which you certainly didn't mind, but it gave you notoriety and responsibility to leave when called. Your returns to Oldtown were always graced by the wide smile of your ever-growing brother and a relieved sigh from Gwayne. Your sweet knight worried himself sick during your long absences, always taking your face gently in his hands and looking you over for any fresh injuries. He'd look a bit more thoroughly later in the night after Daeron and the servants were fast asleep, and kiss every single inch of your skin that was even slightly marred.

A few years into this arrangement, you learned Daeron was being sent to the lord of Oldtown, Gwayne's cousin Ormund, to act as his ward. The bubble of a peaceful family life that surrounded you three had finally burst. You worried endlessly for the boy, having heard rather unsavory stories about this cousin, but Gwayne assured you he'd take care of your brother.

Then it remained the two of you. Your reason given to the council on visiting Oldtown for months on end had quite literally left, meaning it was more often in the hands of Gwayne now to exercise his desire to see 'Alicent' and visit the Red Keep. It mattered not that shuffling around in secret was what your relationship had come to almost permanently, you were still able to be together with the man you loved. All between your absences to fare with the army, his own knightly leaves, and just barely enough time passing betwixt visits to 'Alicent' to not be considered strange, your love never creased. A strong yet weightless love that felt as if the gods had entwined your very souls. But it couldn't last forever.

A sharp sting of pain envelops your arm, thrusting you back into the present- you must have been slipping too far and lost focus. Your forearm is sliced through the sleeve, the first of your blood that has been spilt. It couldn't last forever. With renewed fervor, you go at the man, easily taking the upper hand.

"Gwayne, what are you doing? " Ormund seethes, looking to his cousin who's been frozen solid since your arrival.

Not that you could see, but Gwayne had flinched hard as you were cut, the only stiff movement he's been able to muster. Now he looks to Ormund, a wildly reluctant gleam in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink it away.

Ormund motions to you, then turns to Daeron and snaps his fingers in your direction as well. He'll use everyone he can, even a sixteen year old, before he steps into a fight himself. Anyone can see it's a move that screams cowardice.

Gwayne and Daeron glance at eachother, a silent conversation passing between them. This was you- neither had forgotten. But neither can resist, not to Ormund. Fighting was their only option.

Just as the final guard falls to a heap on the ground, Gwayne draws his sword; enough obvious hesitation in his posture that would make one think he was about to drop it. But he doesn't, and takes a cautious step towards you. Every nerve and cell are screaming at him to lay down his weapon and adamantly refuse this- he can't fight you. Not the woman he spent so many years looking at like she hung the stars. His eyes stay locked on yours.

And you hold his gaze. A dull, hopeless feeling claws its way into you, that this is what it's come to. A moment away before fighting the man who wouldn't even spar with you out of reverence. You're well aware that you won't be able to kill him. Never, no matter what awful situation it was would you be able to kill Gwayne. You only hope that the remaining love still resides in him too, as he takes another step and deals the first unwilling swing, meeting your steel. And as your eyes keep hold of his glassy blue ones, you think back on your final trip to Oldtown- nearly a year before the war.

Your reflection stared back at you in the vanity mirror, brushing through the silvery-white strands of hair mindlessly as Gwayne sat on the edge of the bed behind. Your gaze flits to him- seemingly lost in thought, one foot propped on the bed frame with an elbow over that knee, resting his chin in his hand. His drifty gaze finds yours through the mirror, strands of red hair falling over into his sight. Gwayne pushed them away and sat up straighter as you fixed him with a curious look.

"Are you alright, darling?" the sound of your soft voice visibly relaxes him, yet he still appeared to be grappling with an unknown thought.

His eyes narrow just the slightest, a small, unsure smile appearing on his pretty face.

"...have you given any further thought to... marriage, in these last couple years?"

Your hand falters mid-brush, a subtle look of surprise crossing your features. The last time marriage was discussed was... well, years ago, the first time he arrived in King's Landing after that fateful tourney. You learned of eachother's feelings on the matter and from then on another discussion had never developed.

The brush lowers slowly from your hair, "Well... not especially." you reply slowly.

Gwayne pauses with his gaze fixed to yours, before a quiet chuckle escapes him. A noise you would've claimed sounded vaguely disappointed if you didn't know any better. At least, you believed you knew better.

"Please, do not stop on my account, Princess." he must've noticed the neglect of your half-brushed hair, and motioned for you to come to him.

Your lips curl into a bashful smile. He always called you princess when he wished to tease.

You meander over, handing him the gilded brush before turning and taking a seat atop his thighs. Gwayne rests a hand over your hip to balance your position before sinking both into your hair, one running the brush lightly through the strands and the other raking through it's trail to ensure no tangles remain. His hands... calloused from swordplay but somehow so incredibly soft against you. You often found yourself unknowingly reaching for one, or drawing lingering barely-there patterns over it after he drifted off to sleep with you tucked against him. They never failed to feel incredible in your hair.

"Well, I have thought about marriage since we last conversed about it," he admits quietly, his breath fanning against the back of your neck, "quite a few times."

Your heart stutters, hearing him speak so plainly. It's easy enough to guess what he's implying, and you'd be lying to yourself greatly if you said it had no effect.

You consider for a few moments, letting a slow, honest smile grow on your face, "I have not pondered marriage itself, however... a life with you has certainly crossed my mind."

"Has it?" he replied with a knowing, satisfied expression.

"Indeed."

Gwayne didn't say anything more, continuing to brush through your hair as a comfortable silence ensued. Occasionally, you could catch glimpses of his face in the mirror across, a look of wholly content upon it. Your thumbs twiddle in the same content.

Once your hair is thoroughly brushed, he sets it aside and leans into your neck, breath warm against your smooth skin, "We already have a life together, do you not think?"

"I suppose we do..."

You tilt your neck to bare more of it to him as he plants his lips there, peppering little kisses over its plane, slow and gentle as if only to get a taste of you. One of his hands brush your hair aside, the other trailing down your side and further down the hip to rest against the side of your thigh- holding you there with him.

Bathed in candlelight with the whole of Gwayne surrounding you, disregarding your deep-set feelings on marriage seemed like the most splendid idea in the world.

He lifts his mouth off, voice nearly a whisper by your ear, "Then what's the harm in... making that life true?"

There it is- splendid. The feeling of everything being right within the world. You turn slightly, enough to see his clear blue eyes shimmering in a certain hope.

"Are you asking me to wed you?" a grin is forcing its way onto your face, unable to help it.

Gwayne only smiles back with a closed mouth, knowing exactly what he asked without confirming it.

You shift over him the rest of the way, swinging your leg over to straddle him, with less of an effort wearing only a shift now. Your hands rest between your bodies, thumbs continuing to twiddle. Your expression is expectant.

His smile subtly grows, and you swear you noticed his breath hitch just slightly as his eyes move between your own. He gazes with such reverence in the softly shared silence encompassing the moment.

"Gwayne?" you question, voice quiet and hopeful.

His eyes shift to your hair, hands lifting in turn to sift through the framing locks and push them back. He repeats the motion gently a few times, smile widening even more so all the while. He's always admired your hair, the pale, ethereal strands only added to Gwayne's idea that the gods took great care in creating you.

"My pretty girl..." he coos as his hands move to rest upon the sides of your neck, thumbs making little circles just above your jaw.

"Breathtaking." he breaths, absolutely devout.

You blush. Even after years, you still weren't immune to his charms. Especially when they were as sincere as this.

"Gwayne... my love..." the words come out quiet and bashful, gazing back at him from under your lashes.

Finally, his smile breaks into an open one.

"I suppose I am." he decides, using your phrasing from a minute ago, "Asking to wed you, that is. I'd very much like to."

Your heart skips a beat. This was really happening. A question you had once dreaded hearing, knowing the words betrothal, political, and uniting would follow. But now, in this moment, nothing followed but... love. A real love, a true match, not one made for political gain. One made between lovers. Your heart soared in a way it never had before.

"How could I refuse?"

With a mile-wide grin, you lean forward and capture his lips with yours.

And after you pulled away, foreheads resting together in awe, you said yes. Securing it.

However... the next morning gave you an utter punch to the gut. A raven had arrived, carrying news of your father's rapidly failing health- you were to return to the castle at once. The wedding would have to wait.

And with that, the gods were no longer on your side. A month into your stay for the foreseeable future at the Red Keep, you received a letter from Gwayne reading that he was to be shipped around Westeros for 'knightly duties'- a tour of sorts, if you will. But with Gwayne away for gods know how long, and yourself stuck in King's Landing until your father kicked the bucket, all plans of marriage slowly began to dissipate.

The better half of a year passed in a whirlwind, with little communication passed between you both, and the normalcy of your life ceased with your father's passing. Everything descended into chaos, and yet your thoughts continued to be occupied by your knight.

The day you finally received your great wish of seeing his face was the same day you realized you may never get the privilege again. It was over, a short, un-intimate end to what was once a flourishing love. It hadn't faded in the time apart... not at all. And now you had to throw it up out of your system. An impossible feat.

You don't notice the tears pricking your eyes as your swords clash, or maybe you just refuse to acknowledge them. The memories feel suffocating, but being in this moment, fighting the person whom you loved dearly, brings a feeling you imagine is akin to being flayed alive. Facing dragon fire would be more forgiving than this.

Your bodies move in tandem, a dance of blades. You can sense the subtle hesitance in his swings, even as he uses full force, his eyes focused on the movements of the swords. A constant clang and clang, over and over as neither you gained the upper hand; on purpose. Just swings, pushes, and steps disguised as a fight to the death.

Gwayne trips backwards as you fight against his drive, just as a new pristine, very much unused steel collides with yours- Daeron joining the fray. Your chest tightens, unable to bring yourself to truly fight the boy, so instead you block and shift before he has time to react- shoving your shoulder into his just barely rough enough to send him to the ground.

He grunts softly, eyes meeting yours briefly in surprise- you can only hope he understands the gist of your expression, which is stay out of this, please. Gwayne surges forward, having regained his balance, continuing this cruel cat and mouse game. Shouts of 'get up, get up!' echo distantly about the room, but you pay no attention, slipping into a rhythm. Body betraying mind, your movements shift into sharp offense- the shouts dissipating as you pummel your blade into his.

He loses his footing once more at the onslaught, stumbling straight to the floor with his weapon clattering away somewhere nearby. Your movements are automatic. Towering over him, your sword hovers just above the delicate skin of his neck.

Gwayne's eyes are wide, pure shock written deep within his gaze as his chest heaves from exertion. He searches your expression, noticing something that nearly undoes him- it's not anger, not the smug satisfaction of having him at your mercy, no... cold realization. Fear. So much fear.

Your breath trembles. Time seems to stand still, both of you staring down your sword into the other's eyes. What are your choices? Lift the blade and let him go? Drop it completely? The only truly reasonable action to take is to end it. He's at your mercy, yet showing such mercy at a moment like this is simply unheard of.

In his eyes flash before you the entirety of your relationship- the sweet beginning, the bitter end. The only moment he can see in yours is the last, sickening image of your face after he hastily informed you of his position in the war. And the reason, the true reason he did as such- yes, Gwayne knew you would cry if his admission was spoken in private. But he also knew that if you broke down in front of him, he couldn't possibly carry through on what was expected of him. He'd have sunk to his knees right there, apologizing for being the cause of your tears, and vow to fight for whoever you wished him to. Or to simply run away, become nameless and wedded and never part again.

And to the destruction of his very soul, he knew he couldn't do that. At his core, above all, he was an honorable, respectable, and loyal Hightower knight. Always.

But even still, it didn't prevent your devastated, tear-stained face from penetrating his thoughts and dreams.

Now here you are once more, pale strands stuck to your skin wild and ruined with blood. Fearful in the purest way. An image just as haunting as the last.

Then, a shadow. Gwayne's blood runs cold as he looks just past your head, the shadow being his fucking cousin; sword held tight, not bothering to mask the quiet rage in his expression, taking careful steps to loom behind you.

Shit.

Ormund's decided to take matters into his own hands.

Shit.

Gwayne makes a split second decision. He holds his breath and lands a fast kick to your calf, forcing you knees to buckle and wobble down just enough for him to grab your arms. You have zero time to escape his hold, being pulled down and rolled over roughly to where his body rests over yours.

"Stay down, stay down-" he whispers sharply, yet not unkindly.

That's when you notice the block of a man that is Ormund shifting a few feet behind where you lie- sword hanging loosely in his grip, an audible sigh of annoyance drifting through the stale air.

He was going to end you right there, behind your back... and Gwayne hadn't let him.

Your gaze flits back to the man hovering over you, stuck still and not attempting to make any move at all. You're safe here under him. It almost reminds you of the past. He lets out the breath he forgot was being held upon realizing you weren't going to struggle, fingers loosening but remaining tense around your arms. You wonder if the digits are as soft as they once were.

What was to happen now? Has Ormund realized Gwayne's move was one of protection, or has he assumed his cousin simply hadn't seen him?

Your eyes continued to hold eachother's, the air shifting; still fearful, but... clearing. Lips parted, quick breaths escaping from you both, and yet... clarity. Knowing. An unsaid understanding that you weren't swinging another blade at eachother, not today and not ever.

You blink away tears that attempt to prick at your eyes again. Another silent pass of understanding that the love you shared absolutely remains, and it was in no way a love that was to be escapable. No, this was it. You were it for eachother.

It doesn't matter that Ormund is fuming in frustration mere feet away, doesn't matter that you have no idea whatsoever of how to get out of this situation, and it certainly doesn't matter that you know the consequences your next actions will have- whatever those actions may be. Abandoning your respective missions, at the very, very least. But hells, you may take Daeron with you anyway, a family reunited.

All you know is that you're right where you're supposed to be, surrounded by Gwayne, your sweet knight, together again through war and fire. That's all that matters.

The dust clears in your head, the clearest you've felt in many moons. Rightness settled. Gwayne's eyes flicked over your face, your beautiful, bloody face. His lips quirk into a smile.

"Run with me."

a/n2: can another fic writer please tell me how to make the text ombre 😭 if you know what im talking about lmao. (nevermind, thank you!!) anyway thanks for reading pookie

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