Ember

“Must I question your honour and loyalty to your house, Ser Gwayne?”

Cole’s words rang through his head as he stared at the group their men had captured, the Tully sigils embossed and stitched into your clothes and armour. He prayed to the Gods that you weren’t there but Gwayne’s eyes immediately searched for yours, after moons of separation, a marriage fractured by the ties of your houses—a love sullied by the violence of war. Under the camouflage of dirt and grime, he sees the woman he had married under the summer light, his heart pounding through his chest, he could see your face, entirely displeased at the state of the realm and fatigued from what looks like days of no rest. The camp felt suffocating, the days of walking and slaughtering those who were fighting for Rhaenyra’s cause had settled deep within Gwayne, he was skilled, he was trained for it, but it seems that he is in limbo with his own self as he sees the toll of the war on his dear wife. The memory of their fight often replayed in his mind every night he was away from you, the last time you’ve ever spoken, before he had left for King’s Landing to fight for the Green’s cause. 

But he kept his mouth shut as to not egg Cole on with his gruesome tactics, he needed you out of here, alive and well. 

“… or do your beliefs of righteousness draw a line when you are the one in trouble? Do not worry, Ser Gwayne, we will take what we need and we will give those traitors a swift death, in … respect to you, of course,” Cole continued once more, conceitedly prodding at the bone-weary knight beside him. 

Gwayne scoffed and tore his gaze off of you and walked away from Cole, silently devising a plan to leave, and this time, he refuses to leave without you. 

He walked around the campsite, circling your group, you hadn’t noticed his presence yet, Gwayne took note of what Cole was planning and he had to act quickly and accordingly. 

The Hightower soldiers were goading and spurring the your group on, short and snide remarks of feeble attempts to efface you, Gwayne heard all of it and called their behaviour out.

“Do not talk profanities to our captives, we must need information, do we not?” He asks, his tone laced with disappointment and disdain towards the conceited knights, which had eventually left you and your group. Your eyes snap back to his figure, widening as you take him in, you feel a mixture of disbelief and reluctant relief the more you look. A feeling of anger slowly bubbled in you as Gwayne left promptly in order to cause less doubt from the others

Gwayne had a long day ahead of him with Cole’s antics. 

Cole gathers a few of his men to question you and the other soldier, you were both battered by the battlefield and by how they dragged you both back to the camp grounds. Gwayne’s hand held onto the hilt of his sword, lurking in the surroundings. He recognises the man who was beside you, a great uncle and mentor to you ever since you were a babe, he was one of the few people who had blessed your union when everyone in your family had looked over Gwayne’s head with disdain. His heart drops in fear for what was next.

“What of the Rivermen’s business is in the middle of nowhere?” One of the greens slurred out to one of your men, poking his shoulder to provoke him.

“Planning to be caught, killed, and thrown in the river like cowards I reckon,” another jabbed.

You were royally pissed at his words, by that time four of your men were slaughtered before you had even arrived at the camp, the last one next to you snarled at the two knights that had been taking their time toiling away. They laughed, ridiculing you and your last man standing, throwing insults and mindless jabber that coloured your vision red. You loathed Criston Cole and his men, ever since you’ve heard sour and tasteful tales circulating around them all. 

“That is enough, it seems that he refuses to talk.”

Cole had lost his patience with the waiting and refusal from the both of you, ordering one of the soldiers to kill your last man, his throat spilled of blood, hearing his whimpers and gurgles as he dropped to the ground. You recoil at the sight, your eyes closed shut, preparing yourself for what is yet to come. The lesser knight harshly grabbed your jaw, making you witness your man’s last dying breath, you struggle from Cole’s grip while the others roar at the sight before them. He had been your mentor ever since you were a child, he had died loyal to your house, to your cause, and to mostly to you. You couldn’t help but sob helplessly at his lifeless body in front of you, the grip on your jaw bruising and steely. 

“You will be spared but do not mistake this as kindness, fish feed,” Cole spat out scathingly to your face before leaving you there with the body of your soldier. 

The blood of the man they had just killed had stained you and your clothes, mixing into the rest of the other four that had died before. You were frozen, completely angry at everything that led you to this moment, for now, you stay put. You grieve at what is lost, for what waits for you by nightfall—it was a time of war after all, it had no room for mourners. 

The few hours had gone by, the sun had set, the soldiers were now either drunk and asleep as they awaited another day of agony and hopelessness, Gwayne quietly took his things and slings them onto his body, gathering a bit of food and water before heading to where your group was. He walked slowly to not arouse suspicion, making his way to you. 

You were still awake, cautious as to what awaits you next. One of the men that was assigned to watch you had long gone to sleep, you noticed a shadowy figure walking towards you, your heart pounding against your chest as you recoiled, backing up against a tree. Thankfully, the moonlight had revealed your husband to you, a fleeting moment of relief had passed before the sleeping soldier stirred in his sleep, awaking at any moment, Gwayne had to act fast with untying your hands. He helped you stand up, knees shaking from the numbness—shushing you, you both had to be careful with walking, the lingering endangered you in the first place after all. 

Gwayne urged you to follow him, away from the camp and into the clear fields that had exposed you to anyone who happened to be passing by and it was dangerous, you had to run, regardless if you were carrying days of exhaustion, you both run. You run away with Gwayne through the tall grass.

The cool breeze of the night came to your aid, you tried your hardest to catch up to your husband, running for what had felt like an eternity as you reached for a large patch of trees that led to an unassuming river that had spanned miles on each end. You realise that this may be your last hurdle of the night, and you pray to the Gods for safe passage.

The sound of the running water made you sigh in relief.

“I need to feel clean,” you muttered walking towards the weak currents, the water rushing through your clothes. You scoop a handful of water and splashed your face with it, removing the stains of your previous camouflage, along with some bloodstains that had been there for who knows how long—Gwayne does the same. 

A deep settled resentment becomes a wedge between you, you were on opposite sides of the war, you had your own reasons and he had his own, you just established that you were in the right and he was not.

You wet your hair, the mats and knots had been bothering you since you left home, your fingers stubbornly brushed it to separate, to feel … normal, again. Whilst that was happening, Gwayne was … still, he couldn’t believe that you were here, at arm’s length. He kept his distance, respectful to you and your feelings, his love for you still remained strong, even with the disagreements that had plagued your marriage rotten.

He grabs a towel from his satchel and hands it to you, reluctant, you take it from him and wipe your face dry. You both go forward on the other side, your clothes now wet from the waist down. 

“I thought of you,” he says awkwardly.

“The only thing I’d accept from your mouth is an apology.”

He was damned and he knew it. Gwayne becomes defensive and scoffs, “apologise for what, exactly? Defending my house, my family?”

That again. Those words were the beginnings of your rooted hatred with one another, he left you, valiantly believing that he was in the right. It pained Gwayne that the conflicts of the Realm had affected you both greatly, choosing your family had meant walking away from your marriage.

You take the dagger that was hidden in your boot and methodically pressed Gwayne against the tree, the cold steel sitting close to his throat.

“You betrayed me, walked away without a second thought,” you whispered bitterly into his face.

“I was fighting for my family’s cause and as you did too, surely you understand where I am coming from, I still love you, truly,” he replied, not realising that there were tears forming in his eyes as he spoke to you.

“You left me, Gwayne. They gave up on you, your own father gave up on you when I did not … but you gave up on me, on us … on the both of us, you cruel man!” 

The crack in your voice had been genuine, pent up from all of the grief and loss you had felt from everything you had gone through alone. Your body had felt like shutting down on you as you pressed the blade more on his throat. Gwayne’s breath hitched, the guilt in his face prevalent, his grip on your pushing body loosened—if he were to die a traitor tonight, might as well be in the very hands of his own wife.

There was no emotion left for him to convey, all but love that had nowhere to go, to the same woman he had longed to reunite with once this was over. You notice his lack of resistance, his acceptance, you were betrayed, yes, you had every right to be angry but you did not have the courage to lose sight of him, you could not. In bated breaths, you calmed yourself, the adrenaline still stirring in your limbs, the small wounds and bruises still aching to remind you of what you have been through. You remove the dagger from his neck, your forehead falling to his chest as you surrender to your vulnerability. Gwayne held you tightly as you wept, you were back in his arms, his wife. 

“I have thought of you, constantly. I am sorry.”

His confession made you hold on to him even tighter than before, the pressure making Gwayne feel alive more than ever, he needed this, needed you. The pain that burdened you both slowly unhinged its jaws, a lighter feeling in exchange of the betrayal and grief that you both were experiencing.

He notices billowing smoke from a short distance, an inn from a small nearby village. He calls out to you softly, wiping the tears on your face, “I spotted an inn not far from here, we must go.”

You nodded as you followed his lead, your hand in his, walking further away from the embankment you came from and closer towards the warm and welcoming inn. The grass had tickled your calves as you walked along the unclear path, the birds chirped their songs and the leaves had followed the wind. Gwayne guided you in the darkness, his grip firm, real. It would have been cruel if this had been an ill-fated dream you had to wake from, and if it was, you would have begged the Seven to never wake up. The mere thought of it being false had made your hand squeeze his own, grounding you from the silly notions your battle-worn mind had conjured up—Gwayne senses your unease and looks back at you, a small smile on his lips and that on its own had lulled the hostility of your thoughts. 

You make it through the fields. You were met with the huge structure, Gwayne made sure that it was clear of unwanted company before you made your way into the inn. 

It was warm, spacious, and comforting. The old lady that had greeted you by the door was in a state of shock from the looks of you two, thankfully you were both free from the copious amount of dirt and grime that had stuck to your bodies but you were still wet from the river.

Gwayne takes a small pouch of generous coin from his satchel.

“A fine room please, there’s coin left over for a bath and hot water,” he says to the innkeeper, she smiles warily as she takes a small key and hands it to her helper to prepare his requests. 

After a few moments she leads your cold and still wet figures upstairs. Towards the end of the hall you were met by a large room, not grand but better than what soil had kept you from discomfort out in the woods for days on end. You observe a quaint bed, along with a partition which you assumed was where the tub was. Gwayne hands the old lady the pouch and leaves you both to yourselves. 

He takes his satchel off his body, placing it by the small table and taking the kettle that was being warmed by the fireplace. He then goes behind the partition to pour it down along with some frail scents in the tub. Gwayne emerges from the partition once more, an awkwardness found in his gait as he walks up to you by the fire, warming you both back to life, his wet clothes clinging onto his body.

Gwayne was confused at your restlessness, but he digresses and cuts through the tension between you two.

“You may go first,” he suggested carefully.

Your eyes meet. Your walls crumble, the fractures slightly healing, your love almost reigniting.

You turned to him fully and kissed him with fervour.

Your arms circle around his neck, pulling him closer to you, moaning in relief as he melted into the kiss, a clash of teeth and tongue, the savagery of war and survival lingering from the both of you. You had expected Gwayne to lead you to the bed but you had felt the cold surface of the tub which made you strip the rest of the clothes and grime. 

He helped you, skilfully, the movements and rhythm coming back to him all at once as he familiarised himself once again with your body, knowing damn well he had you etched into the crevices of his mind and body. He guided you to the tub, him following suit, your body surrounded by his own as you settled into the scents and warm water. 

You felt him everywhere, it was invigorating. 

You feel his hands on your waist, going up to your shoulders, and then to your hair, doting on you, cleaning you. You had missed moments like these and how you wished for the times that he would come back for you—but you had to make do with what you both have now. From that moment forward, you just needed him alive, with you.

Your fingers venture his body as well, slightly turning around to do the same to him.

Gwayne had so much to say but he wanted to live in this moment with none other than you. He smiles softly as he catches you staring, a small habit of yours, especially when you want something. Finally, the dirt and grime and the burdens are gone, you were both stripped bare, defenceless to each other, trusting each other again. He could feel you opening your heart to him once more, not out of malice but out of pure love. 

The expression you wore was of the time before he left, he still sees the woman who was betrayed and scorned. He deserved her anger, yes, but the amount of times that he had almost died was inexplicable, he wouldn’t have her lose him when all she felt was anger, he was prepared to face the truth and mend their marriage. 

“I … apologise, for everything, for all of the ruin, for leaving you,” he whispers to your ear. 

That weakens you, the tiny rumble of sobs erupted from your chest as the wounds open, fresh and presently, you shook your head slightly and that squeezed Gwayne’s heart. 

He whispers more apologies profusely and genuinely, the emotion not lost on you as you held onto him with everything you had left in you.

“You are my husband, it wasn’t your fault but the war and our loyalties, I … it is cruel, what they’ve done to us both, it pains me so,” you explained, it perfectly defined the cracks in the both of you, the wounds, the bruises, the fractures.

“I do not like the idea that both of our houses criminalise us both. That is not how we built our marriage … it is not fair,” you added, your tone had weakened as you felt the water ripple against your body.

Gwayne hummed at that, holding you closer with the back of your head against his chest. He could not handle any more of the silence and waiting, his curiosity had gotten the best of his abilities.

“I was told that your army had recuperated elsewhere, what was your small group doing near our camp?” 

He asked as his other hand held yours underneath the water.

“I saw you—well, I thought I saw you by the river nearby.” 

Gwayne sighs at the foolishness of your reasoning, which makes you defend yourself before he scolds you, “we were by your camp for a day, if it was not for my men, we would have left and you would not have noticed.”

“Cole’s men caught you, they almost killed you, I could have lost you.” 

You weren’t able to reason against that, so you kept quiet instead, continuing the faint motions of your fingers on his knuckles.

Gwayne notices your peril and your shyness, he comforts you: “none of that, I am still your Gwayne.” 

“You will not abandon me for the gain of your great house? Betray me and leave me dead?” You questioned, he could feel you rebuilding those walls once again, his frantic mind losing its grip from stability. It was his turn to tear up, his chest heaving behind your back, he was at a loss for words—he would have never guessed that you would completely lose your trust in him. It struck a great nerve in him, seeing his beloved wife treat him as a common foe after everything.

“I am not your enemy, I am your husband, I will not desert you nor betray you, Gods above, I will die in peace with you as my last thought.” 

Your heart jumped pathetically at his words and possible deceit, you cursed yourself for being pliable with him but you humoured yourself, even just for this night you acted like everything is normal again. You were adamant, yes, but you had complete faith in him to not turn on you, so you let him oscillate between truths and lies. 

You turned your head, lips reaching for his own, it had stopped the war that was raging within Gwayne, he did not deserve you, he refuses to believe that you are his. 

His hand slithered up your jaw to hold you there as he revelled in your presence and affections. Gwayne moaned as your mouth opened for his tongue that sought entrance, a slow dance between you, the one that you both have been yearning for in days. His free hand went between your legs, fingers reaching for your hardened bud, stroking it with passionate determination, working hard for your pleasure.

Your body went lax against his as your mouths parted to breathe, you moaned wantonly as he continued his efforts, your wet hands gripping the tub. Two fingers entered you, nestling against your warm heat, Gwayne probed and went in and out of your cunt.  You were starved of his affections for weeks. The new feeling of him, the intrusion, the entry had given you a heady mixture of emotions that heightened your senses. He prolonged his movements, reaching for the gummy barrier of your wet cunt that made you see stars. Your thighs squeezed his wrist as you felt yourself close, crying out to him as you came from his fingers alone. 

You straightened your body, reluctantly separating from him as you angled your upper body slightly towards him. 

“I need you, Gwayne.”

That stirred something in his loins, you could feel his hardening length against you. He straightened himself, guiding you slowly from the bath, taking a small towel to dry off your bodies. 

After a few minutes pass, you tug him to the bed, making him sit by the edge as you kneel before him, your gazes locked. You were between his hearty thighs, your hand gripping his hardening cock and stroking him slowly. A faint whimper slipped out of his lips, which in turn had you collecting saliva from your mouth and spitting it onto his cock head. Gwayne’s head was thrown back, attempting to hide the tears from the overwhelming sensation you had brought upon him. His thighs twitch, squeezing your body lightly as you welcome his cock into your mouth, only halfway before you pull him out with a pop and licking him from the base up to his angry tip. 

You could feel Gwayne’s fingers through your hair, mindful of the grip as his teary eyes were on you. His cock twitched as soon as a pearl of precum oozed from the tip, you licked it slowly before you sucked him properly. You could feel him reach the back of your throat, the endeavour messy yet gratifying as you gagged from his size alone. He moans wantonly as you move your head up and down, his world crashing down once your hand fondled with his spit-slicked balls. 

Gwayne was overcome with pleasure, his hips met your movements, your nose meeting his pelvis as you let him use you, set your pace. He could come alone at the thought of stuffing his cock into your throat but he controls himself, for now. 

You moaned against his length and the vibrations sent a strong wave of pleasure through his body, a whine and a faint sniffle echoed through the room as you sucked him eagerly. His cock twitched against your tongue as you swirled it, he was close, so close.

“Fuck, I’m … I’m close,” he pants, “please.”

He repeats them mindlessly as you sucked the life from him, bobbing your head in the perfect rhythm. Gwayne’s fingers grip your hair harder, pushing your head further down his cock as he came in your mouth as warm spurts of his cum coated your abused throat. You moaned against him as you pulled his length out of your mouth, discreetly swallowing his essence as your husband came down from his high.

You quietly chuckle at the state of him, pressing short kisses on his thighs, worshipping him, teasing him. Gwayne panted as he looked at you and your antics, scoffing at your gloating. His hand cups your jaw, opening your mouth to him as he spits into your mouth. 

“Swallow.” 

And you did exactly what he said, moaning naughtily as he grabbed you by your sides, length still hard and pushed you down the bed on your belly. He mutters a soft apology as he places a pillow beneath you, your hips slightly raised to him as he climbs up the bed, his thighs locked against your own.

His hands were all over your body, tracing the bruises and weary places, massaging it with reverence. Gwayne then went south, your ass presented prettily and opened up to him, his fingers gathering the wetness that had formed in your cunt, spreading it all over, and bringing it up to his mouth to suck clean.

“My wife … my sweet wife, you are so wet,” he praises, adding weight to your body as he prodded your cunt with the tip of his cock. 

You mewled as he prematurely entered you with just the cockhead, then leaving you empty for only a second before filling you up to the brim. His hips gyrate against you, the ridges and girth of his length overwhelmed you completely, your senses heightened as he fucked himself into you. The squelching of your sexes had only egged on your arousals, your cunt squeezing him entirely. 

“Gwayne!” You moaned, gripping the sheets, gripping to anything as he thrust deeply into you. 

Your moans and pants a symphony of noises along with the sound emanating from his hips meeting your behind. It was downright sinful as he took you, took you his wife again and again and again. He groans in your ear as your walls clench around him, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs and transferring to his balls. 

Gwayne’s mouth was on your neck, kissing it, sucking it, biting it, taking what was his from the very start, the notion of duty and loyalty to his house blurring into the lines of love and affection. He was yours to begin with, he only needed that. 

He pulls you back against him, making him go deeper inside you. Gwayne slid almost completely out of you before thrusting back in again, making you gasp in surprise at how deep he was, he soon picked up the pace as he held your waist with one hand and used his other hand to rub the globes of your ass. 

“Cannot believe I finally get to do this. You plague my mind.” He murmured in your ear, his thrusts getting harder as he pulled your body back against him, making him go even deeper inside you. You moaned lazily against the pillow, your hair sticking to you as sheens of sweat and saliva coated your face. His hand lays on your own as his thrusts intensify, fucking you onto the bed. 

You could feel yourself near your peak, as did Gwayne. 

“Gwayne,” you whined, your knees buckling at the sensations brought forth by your husband. He knew exactly what you needed, hips driving into you and your body rhythmically being pulled back to him, meeting his thrusts. His cock reaches the sweetest spot, kissing your womb, you gasp as tears mix in with the sweat and saliva in your pillow. Your walls clamp down on him, your climax triggering his own, his cum coating your walls, pumping into you as you both ride your highs. 

“You did so good, wife, so good,” he whispers, pulling out of you to watch the beautiful scene of his essence and yours dripping from your wet cunt, “but I need more of you. Please, please …” 

He continued the slurry of pleas as he fixed your hair, gently turning you over as he placed himself between your legs. Gwayne kisses you gently, muttering a small plea in between, patiently waiting for your approval. You gave him a small nod and that was enough for him to enter you once more, his body was on top of yours, the friction of it heightening your arousals.

He groaned as he felt your legs locking around his hips, the intimacy of it driving him wild. He shifts, his mouth immediately went to worship you, taking a hardened peak into his mouth while his hand squeezed the other. Gwayne moaned against your skin, the rough stubble of his jaw grazing your skin and making you shiver. His free hand roamed down your body, gripping your thigh and spreading your legs wider around him. He praises you for taking him so well, the soft babbles that were coming from you mixing into his own. 

Your breaths mingled with each other, faces closed enough, bodies completing one another—Gwayne thanks the Gods for this moment and especially you.

He whimpers against your mouth, you could feel him closing in on you with the way his hips stuttered, your tits ripple at his motions. You were overstimulated with pleasure, especially when Gwayne’s movements pick up once more, in strong and emphasised thrusts, he fills you up with him, which in turn, had mixed with the influx of your orgasm from now and the previous. He drives his hips once or twice, just to greedily feel how full you were. 

You feel him soften in you, he pulls out slowly, your body complains about the emptiness he left in you as he rolled over to your side, panting. Both of your bodies are feeling sticky and satiated.

He does it again, he holds you close to him. It left a terrible feeling in you, you resented and yearned it, it was your guilty pleasure, letting him hold you like this again. 

The next few moments were not in your control, the three words slipped past your mind, heart, and lips: I love you.

Gwayne froze. 

You turn to him, to look into his eyes and say them again, really looking at him, the three words were like a blow to his armour, his body betrays him. The shock in his face was evident. You were relearning and retracing your patterns together, you were beginning to trust him again, as his wife. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back earnestly, his gaze was tender upon yours and his hold on you the softest they have ever been. 

His hands venture more of you, craving you, learning your grooves and imperfections, he realised that you were doing the same as you trace the bruises that littered his body, adoring it, adoring him. The intimacy of it melted the both of you as one, the fracture healing itself, your love reigniting the flames of passion—exactly how things used to be. 

Gwayne hears your soft and erotic pleas, “I want to feel you again, husband.”

You were begging him to take you again, he hardened at the mere idea, his hand guiding you by the thigh to open up for him. He enters you once more, his cock fitting snug in your welcoming cunt. Gwayne’s face nestles on your neck, his breaths and sighs stoking the flames within you. 

“More,” you ordered, “please move.”

Who was Gwayne to say no to you? He followed your direction and moved his hips, not as quick as before but more deeper and closer than he ever was before. Inch by inch you became full, so full of him. He sighs in content as he hears your breathy moans of his name and almost prayer-like sentences to the Gods.

He drives his hips into your stuffed cunt, the sounds of it made him livid, the squelching had aroused you both even more. The arm that was slung over your waist had found its way to your clit, rubbing circles on it and flicking it to increase your pleasure. He feels you turn tense as he works to you up to your orgasm, the sheer size of him and his fingers overwhelmed you in every way possible. You felt greedy and he wanted to deliver. 

He continued the momentum as he felt you hold onto his arm, your moans turned into pants as your body faltered, shaking from bliss. The rhythm had plucked his pleasure from limbo and incited his peak as well. 

He had no difficulty trying to catch up with you as your cunt swallowed his length bit by bit, clenching around him like he was made for you and that you were made for him. 

“I’m close,” you sobbed in pleasure, your grip on him tightening. 

He does the same motions over and over again, sending you both over the edge. He does not stop stroking your hardened pearl as you ride both your highs, his cock coating your walls once again, filling you up to the brim. He peppered sloppy and wet kisses by your neck and jaw, lulling you into your sweet slumber. 

Your body went lax against him as he stayed buried in you. Gwayne fucks his cum into you as you whimper softly in a daze.

“I promise my sweet wife, I will stay here come morning,” he promised. 

He strokes you by the hair and closes the remaining distance between you. He heard you hum in agreement and that was all it took for the worry and fear to leave him, your patterns and rhythms were restored. 

The interlocking of your bodies made you lean against his touch. You stir awake at the rumble of his voice and confessions of love.

His words and actions invite a desperate hunger from you: you could finally kiss him without hesitation, seek entry into his mouth, and find more evidence of his devotion to you. You learned his ways again, his body again, his love for you again.

You realise that you were finally loving him again. The distortion of betrayal and hoaxes were long gone and now, the indelible truth has inhabited your long lasting love. All of Gwayne’s soul is laid bare for you to devour—you have it and you take it. You seek shelter within his body, fully knowing that you will be a part of him beyond the grave and slouching toward forever. 

“The sheets do not hold me as you did when you left,” you admit.

“It is an itch I have never longed to erase when I left,” he murmurs, his voice a low vow.

“The desire to see you, to hold you, to kiss you—it was a monstrous feeling that I cannot see myself letting go. I will live for you, sweet wife, like it was the very last thing the Gods will let me. I will breathe for you like I have never known anything else.” 

His silence was consumed by the truth of his words, without even needing to turn, the weight of his words makes you feel as though you are consuming him entirely. 

Then a shaky breath escapes you, melting into the space between his collarbone and your neck, you close your eyes, letting the distant sounds of screams and battle finally fade from your mind, replaced entirely by his heartbeat. You squeeze his hands where they are locked around your waist, pulling his warmth even tighter against your back. “We have spent so long fighting to survive. Let it be monstrous then,” you whisper into the dark, your voice a lovely hymn against his trembling chest.

“But with you, like this ... I finally know what it means to live. Do not ever let me go, let the Gods look down at us and see that I am just as ruined for you. If you breathe for me, Gwayne, I will do the same.”

Your bodies harmonise, the silence of the warm and dimly lit room swallows your words, sealing them into the foundations of a marriage that would carry your story long after you are both gone.

For poets and storytellers to be in awe of, for others to stay envious of—your love has withstood the test of time, misfortune, and maybe even the war.

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

She noted his hesitance and a worried expression came over her face, "Is my husband alright?"

"Yes," he quickly reassured. "He is fine. Just fine."

She nodded and let out a relieved sigh, "That's wonderful. Thank you."

He nodded too, an awkward silence overtaking them. 

She shifted the baby in her arms. "I thank you," she finally said, "For your service to the crown."

Criston moved a step closer to her, "It is worth fighting for."

Her brows furrowed as she noticed his movements. "You've recently been promoted to the Hand of the King, I've overheard."

A smile came across his face, "Indeed. His grace truly blesses me."

Her patience began to turn to annoyance. "My father-by-law should be in Old Town by now. Hopefully with Daeron."

"Lord Hightower is a wise man. The crown shall miss his guidance."

Her head tilted as she studied him, "Indeed, it will." She forced herself to calm down, adjusting the baby against her shoulder once again.

As she did so, Criston took a breath, beginning to enter close proximity to her.

She looked up, his face closer to Criston's than she would've liked. "Ser Criston?"

"My lady."

"You're a loyal man, aren't you, Lord Hand?"

His eyes flickered over her face, "Yes."

She took a large step back and let out an annoyed sigh, "Quite loyal indeed." She looked around, "Where is my husband?"

Criston released a sigh of his own at his failure, "He should be coming back from the stables."

Gwayne did indeed step into the courtyard, a curious look coming to his eyes at the sight of his wife with the knight. The curiosity turned to worry when his wife immediately approached him when he came into her line of sight. 

"Dear husband!"

He reached out and took his son from her arms, wrapping an arm around her waist. He leaned down to her ear, "What did he say to you?"

"I'm glad to see you is all."

He looked past his wife to glare at Cole. "You're sure?"

She reached up and caressed his face, pushing his messy red hair from his forehead and speaking with a soft voice, "Gwayne."

He forced himself to take a breath and calm himself. The baby in his arms let out a soft whine. He looked down at his son, gently rocking him back and forth. "Did you scare the bad man away, my son?"

Y/n smiled, "Well, having him surely helps."

"Not enough," Gwayne smiles. He leans down and kisses her cheek. "Perhaps I need to give you another."

Her cheeks flushed. "Gwayne," she scolded.

A bright smile came over his face. He continued his teasing behavior, "Shall I?"

"This is improper to discuss here."

"I am not offended," he said with his infamous smirk.

She feigned offense, "Give me my son."

She reached out to take him, but Gwayne turned away from her, keeping the baby close. 

His wife giggled lightly, reaching out further, "Gwayne, give me my son."

"He is my son as well."

She playfully huffed. "Then we shall both pray to the Seven that he does not become as teasing as his father."

"Keeping a son from his mother, Lord Hightower?" 

Gwayne lifted his head up, seeing Criston Cole walking to them. He cursed under his breath, "Lord Hand."

"You didn't answer my question."

Y/n sighed, stepping next to her husband and resting a hand on the baby in his arms.

Gwayne shook his head with a clenched jaw, "I wouldn't dare, Lord Hand." A satisfied smirk came over his face, "She knows I would never break apart a family."

Criston smiled in slight offense as he tried to laugh off the man's digs. "Yes, you're a perfect man. Aren't you, Lord Hightower?"

The two stared at one another for a while as the tension grew.

"Excuse us, Lord Hand," Y/n finally interrupted, "But I'd like to welcome my husband back properly."

Criston forced a fake smile to his face, "Of course, my lady. How rude of me." He looked at the two, then the babe, his eyes studying the child longingly. He let his smile drop as he began to step away.

They watched him leave, a bold smile coming across Gwayne's face at his wive's boldness. He leans down again, "Welcome me properly?"

She grins, "Perhaps after the sun sets."

A shiver of lust ran down his spine, "Why only then?"

"We must wait until our son sleeps, Gwayne."

He wraps his free arm around her waist, placing a soft kiss on her lips, "Perhaps he can find sleep before the sun does."

She giggled lightly, "How so?"

"In the arms of his father," he stated as if obvious, "How else?"

She shook her head, "He wouldn't possibly-"

She froze, seeing that the baby in her husband's arm was already asleep, slumbering peacefully.

He looked up at her with a smirk. "Let us lay him down. I have a reunion to enjoy."

His wife grinned, dragging the man indoors.

your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.

his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.

but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.

all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.

"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."

"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.

"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.

"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"

"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."

"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"

"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.

"is something funny gwayne?"

"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.

"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.

"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.

"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.

"why do i sense a but?" you question.

"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."

"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.

"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.

"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."

there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.

you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.

"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."

you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.

"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.

"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.

"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."

you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.

"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.

"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.

the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.

you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.

you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.

...

you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.

you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.

"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.

"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.

"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.

"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.

"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.

"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.

"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.

"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."

"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.

"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.

"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.

"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.

"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.

"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.

"you jest far too much, daeron."

"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.

"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.

he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.

"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.

"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."

"like you and uncle gwayne?"

"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."

"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.

you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.

he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.

"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.

"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.

"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.

"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"

"no," you confirm, staring ahead.

"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.

"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."

daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"

"nothing."

"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.

"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.

"you are my baby-"

"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.

"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.

"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.

"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.

you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.

he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"

"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."

"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."

and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.

"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.

if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.

...

gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.

"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.

"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.

"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.

"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.

you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.

"no?"

"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"

"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.

"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.

a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.

"you still didn't say how you knew?"

"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.

"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."

"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.

"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.

"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.

"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"

"gwayne!" you gasp louder.

"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.

the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."

"thank you-"

"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,

"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?

but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.

"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.

"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.

"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.

it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.

in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.

"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.

"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.

"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.

"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"

the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.

"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"

he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.

"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."

"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.

"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.

"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.

"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.

"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."

"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.

"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.

"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.

"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.

"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."

///

i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)

your head shakes in defiance, a petty silence shifting between the two of you and gwayne almost smiles at your stubbornness. almost. but he doesn't, he knows it'll rattle you further and thats the last thing he'd rather do right now. he'd rather die, if that's an option.

his trailing touch is too welcome of a distraction and you stare hard at the little map of your skin he's following and knows all too well. you refuse to bend, you need time to sit in this heat to brace yourself, to find the right words to say and the best way to say them.

but gwayne would take all your words no matter bark or bite, with sense or without, just anything is better than this weighted silence between you. so he struggles a little, one hand stays firmly wrapped around your leg as the other tries to engage in a small game of tug and war as he wiggles the book from your grasp. he ignores your grumbles and successfully lays it flat at the far edge of the table, furthest from your reach. his slender finger reaches out and tilts your chin up to him, brows raised with that patient fondness and he just waits.

all he has to do now is wait, and it doesn't take long at all because one look to gwayne and all your thoughts tangle on your tongue and slip so messily.

"if you cannot tell me what has happened then tell me who," he murmurs, sterness laced into his features, "give me a name, darling that is all i need."

"ormund," you finally break and its bitter on your tongue. you feel your husband tense instantly, the beat of his heart slowing to a halt and he lets out a long exhale.

"of course it is him, what has he done now?" he rolls his eyes but there's a fierceness still harbouring. ormund has been a constant topic of conversation during your years of marriage and raising daeron, the same circle you find yourself trapped in where ormund pushes too hard. he mistakes the gentleness and kindness the two of you have brought daeron up to value as weakness and it irks you to the bone.

"i don't like the way he speaks to him gwayne, he's frightening the poor child," you exasperate and gwayne's listening but he's watching more with concern on the way your hands are flying around with great agitation. "filling him with notions of being king and getting angry with small inconsistencies in history and i'm sorry," you bite out, "having been beaten by a child in a game? and you're in a fit?" the shock and disgust is laced in your tone and you're far into your rant that you look over at your lover and seethe, "seven hells, gwayne would you at least look at me when i'm speaking?"

"i am looking!" his palms shoot up in defence, "and i am listening," he levels his tone, "it is not acceptable you are correct."

"of course i am correct, ormund is deranged,"

"yes, well i think his nightmarish tendencies have been festering since he first laid in his mother's womb," gwayne tries to joke, earn a giggle from you, an easy breath, a temporary truce but all he can see is a sliver of teeth breaking through from your frown. womb. he has no idea which of his words have settled on your skin, making home with the nerves and annoyance.

"is something funny gwayne?"

"my love," he starts and then stops, you've swung your legs off his lap and he misses the heat instantly. he tries to think, what could best diffuse this situation right now and bring you back to him. "i agree and i'll talk to him," he places a comforting hand on your shoulder but you're staring at him and he starts to shift under your scrutiny.

"has daeron said anything?" he feels a wave of protectiveness surge through his body. he knows ormund is harmless, but daeron is gwayne's more than anyone. he and you have raised that babe from young and when you look at daeron, sweet kind daeron, all gwayne can see is you. all the love you've ever poured into him. you and gwayne hadn't been so lucky in your marriage to be blessed with children but daeron has made up for it. he is your son and you'd be damned if anything were to ever happen to him.

"no but," and immediately gwayne sends you a look, "he doesn't need to! the maids speak and they speak of ormund's cruelty," you stress and he nods in understanding.

"you didn't need a maid i could've told you that," he shrugs his shoulders, "i will talk to him," he repeats, trying to catch your eyes, laser in on your focus and bring it to calmness.

"why do i sense a but?" you question.

"but i do think you're too soft on the boy," gwayne speaks. "he's ten and six, my love. he's incredible at his sword play and a novice in his text, i have no doubt ormund's ways are peculiar and i will raise that but he is growing, ormund may be cruel but the world will be harsher."

"he is a boy," you don't even have to shout for gwayne to feel the outrage in your tone.

"he is heir to the throne," gwayne's hand steadies on the table, his body looming over yours. he tries to reach out to you but you stand, guarded and tense. one wrong move from him and you'll shatter the brave stance he's holding up. his hands find the sides of your empty chair now instead, gripping it tensely till his knuckles break through an icy white.

"he is our boy," you voice finally breaks at the edge, you don't even let gwayne finish his sentence before youre shooting daggers and cutting at his hearts edge. "and i will not have the weight of the house's responsibilities and his brother's failures crush him whole," you try and create distance between you, heading to the windows and focusing on the way your small breaths lace the condensation on the glass. you reach out and feel the coolness against your fingertips and close your eyes, "you were not there when it's happened gwayne," you speak slowly, "he tries so hard with everyone, to be what they expect of him, he shouldn't have to with us."

there's an emptiness in the metres that hold you apart. from the silence and from the exhaustion that you know this familiar fight always brings. ormund inflicts his pain, daeron suffers, you and gwayne squabble, gwayne turns to ormund. ormund will never apologise you know this, he becomes a little softer the next weeks before he's back to his usual tirade and the damage will always be done. it'll always linger and haunt you and fail you when you catch the small slip of daeron's smile. the subtle flinch he tries to mask when the tiniest of mistakes have been made.

you think of the weight resting in your body, the heightened need for safety and it almost brings a tear to your eyes. your family is growing and you need to protect them. when you think of daeron, you think of the babe. you think of a life that could be more than just a political piece and your heart lurches, this can't go on. it takes everything in you to not reach out for the little fetus now, you find yourself often just mindlessly checking its still there. as though this could be a dream, as if something so precious could disappear so quickly.

"i know, sweetheart. i will speak to him," gwayne promises with determination, "i will make this right."

you open and eye to sneak a peek at him and see the way he looks back at you, with a longing desperation and you heave out a sigh.

"i would rather he die," you moan and gwayne snorts. its not a resolution to your disagreement but it lightens the mood for a minute. you feel his presence coming behind you and he stops short. he knows you want the space and he grants it to you.

"should i challenge him at the sword, lady hightower?" he mumbles with a tease, breath warm on your neck. and it'd be so easy for you to just give in, turn to your husband and melt back into the safety net of his love. but you're not only sick of this cycle, your heart breaking for your son and unborn child. you're also scared. so you press your forehead against the glass shaking it softly.

"i think poison should be fine," the condensation rises with a small fatigue and the lack of humour in your tone. "quicker, even. though i'm not sure he should be granted the mercy of a swift death."

you can feel the weight of his gaze shift from you to the gardens outside. the way your eyes track the different flowers in bloom and he stands quietly.

"i'd like some time alone, i think," you break the silence and gwayne pauses. you wait for him to say something, to fight you on this, fight for you on this but he clears his throat and nods tightly.

"as you wish, my heart. but rest assured, i will sort this for us. " he slowly presses a kiss to your hair and stares at you a minute more. he wants to tell you it'll all be okay, he will sort this for you and daeron, he will take charge of his household and make things right but you demand action, there's only so far that words can take him right now.

the stress pounds on the forefront of your mind. youre scared for daeron, but youre also scared for yourself. for what youre holding and what will soon be brought to life. its a heavy secret and you want nothing more than to just tell gwayne. but you've already bitten off more than you can chew for today and it settles in your bones.

you don't turn back to watch him leave, his footsteps are sound enough to know you're alone. and when there's absolute stillness do you let your back slide down the window and sink to your knees. your palms rub your eyes gently and then catch your face as you weaken for a moment. your fingers drum along your abdomen, three little knocks to say hello and you sigh, shifting the focus on your breathing. four inhales and six exhales. four inhales and six exhales. four times more before making a move to stand and continue with your day.

you know it's unfair to pin your annoyance on gwayne, your husband is your rock and ormund is the target. you just can't help but feel the tug of his words around your heart. daeron is your son, more of your son that alicent and ormund's combined and with what the future may bring, you've got to protect yours.

...

you make it your mission to be scarce today, to clear your head and simmer down the anger till it floats to a pensive sadness. you weren't hungry enough for lunch, though your defensiveness had stolen a large portion of your energy so you settled for a tea outside in the gardens. alone, save for the same book from earlier perched in your lap. except now when you hold it you can feel your husband's fingertips burn with each page.

you sigh and stretch your neck, the muscles sore from craning and sit patiently, trying to feel the breeze against your skin and listen for the small chirping from the trees above. what does catch your ear however is the small stalling of breaths and you don't need to see the flash of auburn to know who's hiding behind the pillars.

"come out, daeron," you call softly, "you need not hide from me," and the young boy emerges slowly and you make space on your bench for him to join. he attempts to greet you properly until he's met with the gentle sterness of your stare and smiles sheepishly instead.

"i haven't seen you today," he speaks to the flowers and your gaze follows. you shoot him an easy smile and let his comforting aura relax the tension in your shoulders. he leans his head on your shoulder as an invitation and you rest your head on top of his.

"forgive me sweetheart, it's been a heavy morning," he toys with your fingers and you let him stretch each one out, playing with them mindlessly. you watch him for a few minutes, fluctuating between a small frown and a cautious smile and like a sixth sense, your free hand closes on top of your joined ones. "what's the matter?" you ask so tenderly, it warms the cracks of his demeanour and allows him to melt in your ambience entirely.

"nothing," he mumbles and you click your tongue, shaking your head knowingly.

"tell me," its a soft command and it has his eyes lifting to yours with encouragement.

"did..." he starts and hesitates, your brows furrow at the stutter before he lets out a sigh and continues unwillingly, "are you upset with uncle gwayne because of me? did i make things troublesome?" you catch the stretch of glassiness swirling in his orbs and tuck him into your side firmly.

"no, my love," you rebute instantly, "and i am not upset with your uncle gwayne." you rub his shoulder comfortingly. he leans into your touch like a cat seeking refuge and looks back down to his lap.

"i heard him shout at uncle ormund," he lets it slip and your lips purse in thought, "and he hardly raises his voice."

"you shouldn't be eavesdropping my little dragon, some conversations are not meant for us," and you pour him a cup of tea, it's not as hot as it had been when you first sat down but the temperature is perfect for daeron to drink and not burn. he accepts it gingerly, the warmth of the cup welcome on his grip and he takes a sip.

"they mentioned your name," he mumbles in a slurp and you have half a mind to scold him on his table etiquette but seeing him so unguarded and carefree reaches down to the cusp of your soul and tightens.

"did they?" a small amount of interest grows at the claim and you wait for him to continue. daeron stares back at you, a mischievious grin plastered on his face as he shrugs so casually.

"i cannot say more, i shouldn't have been eavesdropping," and you nudge his shoulder playfully.

"oh come now, little prince. you cannot tease and then stop, that is just cruel," and he leans in closer, voice dropping to a murmur.

"uncle gwayne said that if he ever sees even just a wrinkle in your brow because of uncle ormund he was," and his eyes dart around carefully before whispering behind the palm of his hand, "he was going to send him to the seven hells himself." and he giggles so loud at your violent blush. you can't fight the smile that grows on your face and you shove him ever so lightly.

"you jest far too much, daeron."

"no! i swear it!" he defends and you know it to be true. "i'm sorry, aunt. i know this is because of me. uncle ormund isn't that bad, you just have to catch him at the right time and he makes me a better man. i have been difficult" and the shame that leaks off of him is so heart-rending you're overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him into your arms and hold him in safe refuge for eternity. far away from ormund, from the weight of his future and from the name that he carries.

"you shouldn't have to catch him at a right time, he should be a good role model all the time," you feel yourself getting riled again all over, "and what good is he doing making you a better man when you are the better person in all of this. everything is for you, daeron because we love you. you are not difficult in the slightest, in fact it's rather easy to love you daeron. though we do not share direct blood, you are ours, and nothing could change that " you soften. and when you catch him looking at you, its not daeron the prince in your eyes, its your daeron. the small babe alicent left you for what feels forever ago, the same child who tugged at your skirts, who ran with lemon cakes tucked at his sides away from his maestars, who cried when gwayne had first left you for battle and slept with you till the nightmares ran out of fuel.

he's your daeron more than anyone's and your heart stretches to think that the little babe sitting below your diaphragm will come to know, love and call him brother.

"i love you too," he mumbles into your side and you catch his stray tears.

"and when you love someone, you stick with them through everything."

"like you and uncle gwayne?"

"yeah," you pause, "though i don't think i could get rid of uncle gwayne even if i tried."

"he's a persistent man," daeron agrees, "but that's what is important right? he shows up, he always shows up," and the beam of admiration that lights in daeron's eyes sways you off balance. you must've been quiet for a while, listening to your heart beat pulse in your ears and your hands cradle the bottom of your stomach, the most softest of touches. soon it'll expand and you'll probably find more to moan about but at this time you marvel at how precious the life growing in you is. it's selfish you know, but you imagine a girl. with his deep sea eyes and auburn hair, or maybe they'll have your nose, the crinkles of your smile and your blended laughter.

you imagine gwayne to be just as he was with daeron. soft, patient, kind, stern when forced to be but never unjust. maybe a daughter will relax him to a new level, or stress his undoubtedly so. whatever may come, you know gwayne and you know how he loves, completely and all consuming.

he's gwayne. your gwayne. and your pregnant with his baby after what seems to be a miracle from the heavens.

"have i said something wrong?" daeron breaks the silence tentatively and you look up so suddenly, caught and unsure. you clear your throat and let go of your stomach and rest a hand on his. but daeron's quick and he's clever and he's noticed it from the first glance downwards. a small knowing grin works its way onto his face and he bites back the giggles.

"am i?" he drawls out in a tease, "to have a sibling?" and you freeze. no one other than you and the maestar knows. you had hoped gwayne would be the first to be told but after this morning, with your thoughts and emotions clouding your every move, daeron has been too quick.

"do not tell your uncle," your throat grows dry.

"uncle gwayne doesn't know?"

"no," you confirm, staring ahead.

"are you going to tell him?" and you feel his curious stare burning holes into his face.

"of course i will, silly," you blow into the air in frustration, "i was a little bit agitated at your uncle earlier," you admit and and daeron waits patiently. "he wasn't necessarily at fault but he also was not right and you know, this," you gesture down at the small bump hidden under your gown, "has occupied my mind greatly, i have not been fair."

daeron rests his head back onto your shoulder and doesn't say much more. "what?" you question, "what is it?"

"nothing."

"daeron targaryen," the sterness in your voice causes him to press his lips together in a fine line.

"you shouldn't have matters adding to your stress, its not good for the baby," and you roll your eyes.

"you are my baby-"

"i am a grown man," he hisses in embarrassment. he watches you look around in mischief before clearing your throat and raising it to the highest level known to man. he's sure that even the neighbouring galaxies have heard your boo.

"you are my baby!" and just like he did when he was five, he hides in your hold.

"stop this," he mumbles, "i beg of you, please stop." you laugh and feel the sunshine warms your backs as you stroke his hair affectionately. "but?" comes his tiny voice, "you won't forget about me right?" and you melt.

"my love, i could never," and you press a kiss to his hair. he closes his eyes at the touch and then sighs out in relief. for the first time today you've finally had the chance to relax and it feels so blissful you never want to leave the garden. daeron makes a notion for you to pass your book over to him and let him read aloud which you do.

you correct his pronounciation, pause to assess his analytical skills and ask him questions about the text, except when you do it it doesnt feel like a test or challenge as ormund does. it feels like an interest to his thoughts, a learning curve and he is grateful for it immensely.

he makes it through a chapter before turning to you with seriousness you purse your lips in thought, "so who has to apologise then? you or uncle gwayne?"

"daeron," you roll your eyes with a huff but the child doesn't deter, "gwayne obviously," you scoff. "i am pregnant the least he could do is grant me some mercy."

"but he doesn't know you're pregnant yet," daeron counters, "i think you should just apologise and be done with it, don't let your ego ruin your happiness."

and he is true, making so much sense that it irks you. "when did you get so wise?" it lands without a bite, a fondness carrying the question.

"well if you must know then i had some really good parents," its a tease but you recognise the truth behind it, guarding that sentence as if it was gold. daeron shuffles off the bench almost bouncing away with his boyish laughter ringing in the spring breeze, unaware of how that one sentence has brought you to a flood of overwhelming tears.

if you truly did right by daeron and his upbringing, then just maybe you'll be okay with this next one. the thought definitely eases a little pressure from your mind, you can't wait for this little one to meet the rest of your family and come home.

...

gwayne finds you in your chambers, ready with a tray in his hands as he kickes open and close the door. he has a spread of your favourite foods made after finding your absence at the dinner hall. the thud of the door doesn't even so much as shift your glance from your book and he waltzes over in your direction.

"what?" you mumble and he kisses his teeth in disapproval.

"my, is that any way to treat your husband?" he grins.

"what, lord husband?" comes your immediate reply and you feel a chuckle of breath hot and heavy at your ear. you half expect his lips at your cheek but you're met with the smell of grassiness and a tickle of pollen.

"your favourite flower, for my favourite flower," he beams at the daisy gently tucked behind your ear and tangled in the tendrils of your messy hair. the humour doesn't disappear completely from his face, just settles into a quiet simmer as he crouches down for a second. the food tray abandoned to his left on the bed as he places a warm weighted hand over your knee. "i know we argued earlier but please wife, i am sorry and let us not go to bed angry with each other." he speaks with such sincerity and honesty that more than anything you're thankful he's waved the white flag of peace and you send him a small smile of appreciation.

you lean close and press your forehead to his, you nose gently knocking into his and you nod. "i am not angry," you relax into his embrace.

"no?"

"no," you repeat softly, "though i hear you've talked with ormund?"

"and who did you hear that from?" he shoots a knowing grin. he pulls apart from your hold reluctantly to play around with your tray, rearranging your food and attacking the meat with such precise motions from your cutlery. the smell of it is off putting and you shake your head childishly. you should be more cautious of the things you're eating but lord, is the nausea intense.

"darling," he raises his brow, the fork hangs in the air between you and you press your lips shut in a thin closed line. he doesn't even look disappointed, he just makes a different move with his slender fingers plucking a strawberry from a dish and holds it up instead. and when it takes you a moment longer than necessary to react, he reaches out with his free hand and uses his thumb to drag open your bottom lip, "open," he whispers, "now chew," and the bite is so sweet, you feel a buzz of delight rush through you. its the first proper thing you're able to actually stomach and hopefully keep down. "good girl," he murmurs and feeds you another. he mindlessly licks away the drip of the strawberry juice from this thumb before stealing a kiss from your lips. he tastes the sweetness, the stickiness but more dear to him, he can taste you.

a satisfied groan slips between your lips and he grins, working his way through the tray and trying to differentiate between what he thinks you would like and what you wouldn't be able to stomach right now with this wave of nausea.

"you still didn't say how you knew?"

"our son, obviously." as if there could be no possible other who would deliver the news so fresh and quick.

"god, you're so much alike, it's terrifying," he rolls his eyes playfully, "and yes, though this time it is different my love. i get the feeling it's more final, ormund will be seeing things in a different light now."

"what do you mean? how did ormund take it?" you're half expecting gwayne to list boring details, an adult discussion, talks of ruling the realm and false promises of brotherhood but the tease in his tone is alarming and now when you look at him so up close, barely inches away you see why he's awfully smug.

"gwayne!" you exclaim, taking a stand and hovering over at him. your hands find the side of his jaw, painted with the tiniest of green splotch and a few nails ran at the surface.

"who did this?" you demand and he relishes at how you fuss over at him now, the stark contrast of your earlier conversation. it's only been a few hours but in your absence it feels like years have been missed and he drinks you after a long tiresome drought. you're tender around the bruises but there's haste in how you squash his face in his hands and inspect him all over, tossing him left and right with rapid assessment. he can still feel the stickiness of the strawberries against his skin but pays it no mind.

"i told you," and he leans back onto the bed on his forearms, his biceps pulsing in his shirt. his posture is both lazy and inviting as he shrugs once more "ormund will be seeing things differently now, or rather at least he won't be sniffing those ridiculous salts for a week or so,"

"gwayne!" you gasp louder.

"give or take," and the creases at the corner of his eyes fold with pure pride.

the length of his arms reach out and tug you closer as you fall into his lap. you try and brace yourself, cautious of the weight inside you but gwayne's welcomed you with such ease and pulls you firm in his hold, "i told you," he tucks the free flowing of strands back behind your ear and into the makeshift flower hair clip. "things will be different, ormund knows his ways are unlikeable and unacceptable. that change is greatly encouraged and what matters most is daeron. his tutors will stay the same but ormund will no longer be required to test his recitations or squabble over losses at a wooden game" you hum in agreement, kissing his cheek softly. "ormund may be a fool but he's wise to not lay a hand on our boy. that is final. should they need repeating to him then he shall hear them from his casket."

"thank you-"

"it needed to be done," his voice is firm. his hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he pulls you against him till he's laying flat on the bed, your form sprawled on top of him. it's not exactly rough but it's swift and a little unexpectant that you try and brace yourself with your hands to his chest. your body still collides with his, at solid contact, a tight tangle of your limbs and then it just slips from your lips carelessly,

"gwayne- shit the baby-" and you freeze, eyes blown wide at the admission. it's too late for you to take them back, you clear your throat, try and think of what else to say, maybe a distraction?

but there's nothing distracting about the way he's looking at you now. his hold on you tightens, mouth dropping open as he takes in your words. like you, it's like someone's put his brain through slow motion, the world around him seems to fade. blurs into a streak of messiness but you stand at the core of it, so clear and so beautifully his.

"a baby?" his voice breaks, "our baby?" the heat of his gaze melts your heart and brain to mush, you feel the weakness in your limbs as he sits up. your body in tandem as he holds you in his lap. his movements are snail-like now, soft, careful. every second he pours into you fills him whole in return.

"sweetheart?" he calls out to you, the tenderness is so all-consuming on his tongue and you look at him. really look at him. inches away you can see the freckles that dance his cheeks, the lines of the age from all the years youve known and loved him, the dimple that breaks through the surface whenever he pronounces a word so distinctly even when he's not smiling. the earnest in his eyes is what brings you back home, to him and you try to establish an easy breathing pattern.

"our baby," you whisper, the tears already starting to pool at the corners of your eyes. his breath halts, your confirmation shattering any efforts he has of forming a thought and then he reaches out tentatively, eyes searching for your permission first. his hands brace each side of your body, splashed wide against your stomach and he closes his eyes.

it's an odd angle where he cranes his neck lower but he presses a careful kiss there and buries his head into your abdomen. a baby. your baby. and he feels himself lightweight and soaring, ascending to the heavens already.

in the years of your marriage, you and gwayne have tried many times for a child before. it just had never been the right time and though it was hard the two of you had slowly come to accept it. there were tears, silent struggles you carried though no blame was ever directed, and slowly but surely daeron began to fill the gaps in your and gwayne's heart and loving him was far more than you could've ever wished for.

"the maestars say it's early and i didn't want to get our hopes up, i didn't want to let you down," you admit shamefully and his heart tugs. he raises his head to lean his forehead against yours. he turns his head to side and you can feel the slope of his nose against your cheek as he murmurs so tenderly, softly for your ears alone.

"you," his breath his hot and heavy with determination. its the most outrageous thing he's ever heard and he stamps out any doubt in your mind, his words tickling the shell of your ear, "could never let me down, my love," and he returns to your lips. its slow, its gentle and poured with every ounce of intention and love he is capable of delivering. his heart has already stretched and made room for the next addition to the family and he presses that thought into your lips.

"gwayne," you manage to mumble before he's captured you again, swallowing you and your sure right now, your souls are morphing into one.

"a babe," he laughs against your lips, the delight dancing between your tongues and he scrunches his nose, dimples beaming loud. "we truly have been blessed haven't we?"

the excitement doesn't fade, it settles into something easier and lighter. into a faint sense of longing to meet the little one that is moons away from existing.

"i'm sorry," you apologise to him, "i'm sorry, i wanted to tell you earlier but i just, it's been hard carrying this secret, i've had a lot on my mind with daeron and ormund and researching on successful pregnancies and-"

he listens to you ramble and it all makes sense to him. you spending most of your days in the library, the iron grip on the books hes caught you with. your concerns about ormund, your protective affection with daeron and the understanding washes over him. he picks up your hand and places it on his heart, letting you feel the pulses beneath it and its so warm.

"my darling wife," he starts, "whatever burdens you carry are mine to deal with," his fingers trace your cheekbones, the most intimate of caresses and you lean into his touch, "whatever we do, we do it together."

"i'm scared gwayne, i'm afraid that if this babe is to be born, i don't want them to be subjected to what we have, the sacrifices we have made. i know they won't be in line for the throne like daeron, but with everything to come? i can't let anything happen to them- we can't," you stress.

"hey," he tries to shush your quiet sobbing, "i will not let anything happen to daeron, to this babe and more importantly to you, my heart. nothing will get in the way between our family, not war, not household politics, nothing," the intensity of his promise heals the wounds before they've fully bled and you believe him. gwayne hightower is not just one of the noblest but fiercest of knights, he's a man in love and loves to death. and he most certainly would die in the attempt at protecting who he loves.

"i'm serious," he presses a slow kiss to your lips, lingering in the milimetres of air as he takes his time to pull away. he keeps you in his orbit, swirling as he rotates around your being. "nothing matters more to me than your safety, our family's safety," and when he smiles its as if its the very first time you met him across the courtyard and your stomach flutters an army of butterflies.

"yes well," you muse, speaking down at your stomach, "daddy's doing a fine job of beating people up isn't he?" and he laughs, throwing his head into the nook of your neck. your body vibrates under his shaking chuckles and your laughter joins in a sweet melody, the tune of your love.

"and daddy," he throws you a mischievous look before turning his attention down to your abdomen and drums along your skin, "will fight a million more to keep you, your brother and your mother safe."

"a child," he sighs dreamily, he pulls you down to the bed so you're laying side by side. your gazes shift from the ceiling to each other and the fondness in his eyes is world altering. you're sure galaxies have been moved by the focus of his stare.

"what are you thinking of, dearest?" you ask as gwayne's interlocks your hands in a tight promise of forever and brings them to his lips, and then leaving them to rest over his chest. your voice soothes the flowing waters of his thoughts and he breathes slowly, thinking of the future and whats yet to come for your family.

"what i must have done in my past life to accumulate all these blessings, to have been blessed with you," your breath halts. you don't think you'll ever grow accustomed to gwayne's declarations and love, your ears are blessed with sweet nothings every single day, but each time it feels like the very first time all over. gwayne's easy to love, it's natural, you're so sure you were made solely to exist for each other, you can't imagine to be by anyone elses side.

"you really know how to make a girl swoon, ser hightower" you tease.

"my girl," and he makes a move closer to you, hovering over you slightly, careful. "my wife," his head dips, "my love" and just before he closes his lips over yours, you feel yourself fall entirely into the safety net of his arms and his love for the rest of his life, "mine, all mine."

///

i have rewritten this fic a million times and i am never satisfied with how it ends or how it flows but im glad to get it out of the drafts it has been consuming my mind all week. (just in time for tonights episode too!) i think when you think too long and hard about it, you're bound to never be happy with something but yeah, hope you enjoy! let me know what you think! (positive comments only i strictly take NO criticisms sorry x)

            The memory was not yours, but in this moment, it felt like it was. Gwayne had only told you the story once, with hushed words and averted eyes. You had asked, and he could never find it in himself to keep anything from you, even if it made his chest seize with shame. He told you that the whole ordeal had been a result of foolishness on his part, something he would admit only to you. He said that he recalled the memory with great embarrassment now. But you felt nothing but terror.

            You stood on a large, grassy plain ringed with trees, a few wispy clouds scuddling across the blue sky above you. This was a place you had never seen, never been – but one thing was familiar. As you struggled to gain your bearings in the strange location, you saw a group of men on horseback just a short distance ahead. You recognized your lord husband instantly: the delicate silver interlace of his steed’s armor and the auburn glow of his hair in the sunlight were as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.

            You called out to him, but he didn’t respond; he seemed to be in conversation with one of the other men. You ran toward the small group and cried his name again, but even at close range he appeared not to hear you. Panic grew in your chest by the moment as you hurried closer still, coming near enough that you could almost reach out and touch Gwayne’s mount. You stretched out your hand to do just that when your arm was stopped by some invisible force. There was nothing in front of you, just empty air that you should have been able to move through with no difficulty. But you were trapped mere feet from your beloved, unable to reach him.

            Something was terribly wrong. You screamed his name this time, desperation compressing your lungs with the force of your yell. But it was clear that he could not hear you, since neither he nor any of the gathered men so much as turned toward the sound of your cries. Real fear gripped you now, shooting ice through your veins as you cast about you for something – anything – that you could do. And that was when a new kind of fear crept over you, one so old and visceral you could feel it down to your very bones. Shudders wracked your body as you turned your eyes toward the sky, suddenly certain that you were being watched. But not just watched – no, you were being hunted.

            At a loss for what else you could do, you renewed your efforts to alert Gwayne to the danger that you could feel but not yet see. You screamed until your voice was hoarse, but you were forced to watch in horror as Gwayne continued his conversation as though nothing was wrong, even flashing that charming smile that you knew and loved so well. It was just then that the other man finally noticed that something was wrong. He cast his eyes toward the sky as you had mere moments before, saying something to the gathered men. A wave of fear seemed to run through the horses, as there was a flurry of shifting hooves and nervous snorts. You could only watch in terror as realization washed over Gwayne’s face, twisting his handsome features into a terrifying expression of horror.

            You screamed at him to run just as everything burst into motion, the horses tearing off across the plain toward the cover of the trees. You found yourself moving along with them, though you had no mount of your own. Instead, it was the same terrible invisible force, dragging you along, forcing you to watch as the scene unfolded before you.

            And then you saw it: the dragon. It swooped down from the sky as though it had erupted into existence from nothing, filling the empty air with huge grey wings that seemed to blot out the sun. You screamed again, but this time without the intention of forming any coherent words – the noise that escaped your throat was an expression of the fear that was buried deep in your bones upon the sight of the creature. Its lean body shot across the plain toward the fleeing men with a kind of focus and intention that proved what you had thought from the beginning: the dragon was hunting. And worse than that, it was hunting Gwayne.

            Voice rubbed raw from screaming, and realizing your cries to him did nothing anyway, you watched in terrible silence as his steed thundered across the ground, its legs eating up the distance as fast as it could. And yet the dragon gained. If this was some cruel trick played by the gods, you couldn’t think what you could possibly have done to deserve this kind of torment. You could do nothing but watch, utterly powerless, as Gwayne – your Gwayne – fled for his life, his beautiful face contorted into an expression of fear that cut you to the core like a knife to the stomach. You held your breath, fearing each moment would be the one when you were forced to watch your love be consumed by dragonfire, ending both his life and yours in one swift blow of unimaginable anguish and heartbreak from which you knew you would never recover. Just as you had resolved to try calling to him one last time – if nothing else, to assure him of your love – the treeline broke around you and the horses cantered to a stop beneath the cover of the forest.

            The world was still again, but the fear lingered. You could sense the dragon above you, even hear its thin, unearthly cries as it searched for its hidden quarry. Your eyes instantly found Gwayne, needing to make sure he had survived the ordeal. Indeed, he still sat upon his steed, and you watched his chest heave as he attempted to steady his breathing. The fear that still permeated the forest remained etched on his face as well, changing his features from those of the man you had courted and married to those of a young boy, trembling and horror-struck and so helpless and small.

            You longed with every fiber of your being to run up to him and pull him into your arms, to feel his warm breath on your neck as he folded into your embrace. You ached to hold his face in your hands and wipe away the single lingering tear he likely didn’t even know was still glistening on his cheek. You yearned to kiss the terror away from his brow and his nose and his lips, to tell him he was safe – to tell him that you were here. 

            But you were trapped just feet from him, all these longings locked into your body as you pressed toward him as far as the strange invisible barrier would allow. You watched as the fear slowly faded from his face, his features once again becoming warm and familiar. You couldn’t help but smile as he seemed to return to himself somewhat. Turning to one of his companions, he opened his mouth to say something when both of their eyes snapped up to the sky, reacting to some sound you must not have heard. You followed their gaze, and didn’t even have a chance to scream as a column of fire descended from above, ready to devour you all.

            You woke with a gasp. Your heart was pounding loudly enough that you could hear it in your ears, and you pushed yourself up into a sitting position as you struggled to calm your ragged breathing. The darkness in the room was soft, and your eyes adjusted slowly to your surroundings, only to find them all comforting and familiar – this was your room, your home. Instantly, you turned to your side, and let out a small sigh of relief when you saw Gwayne sleeping peacefully next to you. He was here, he was home, he was safe – you both were.

            When your breathing had calmed back to a normal rate, you eased yourself back down under the covers, burrowing into his arms as he sleepily adjusted his position to accommodate you.

            “Hmmm—is everything… alright?” he muttered, blinking his eyes open.

            “Everything’s fine,” you assured him, “I just had a nightmare.”

            He seemed to waken a little more at your words, propping himself up slightly on one arm as he reached the other hand out to stroke your cheek.

            “Are you alright? Do you want to talk about it?” his voice was still thick with sleep, but you knew the questions were genuine.

            “It was about you,” you reached up to cup his hand that still rested on your cheek, intertwining his fingers with yours. “And the dragon,” you added, your words barely above a whisper. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, you were certain he was reliving the memory himself, and instantly regretted your words.

            “But it was nothing,” you hurried to assure him, “I just—I just wish I had been there. Or that I could have helped or—” you were distinctly aware that your jumbled words made very little sense, even to you. “I just felt so helpless,” you ended with a sigh. Gwayne watched you with soft eyes, his fingers squeezing yours in reassurance.

            “You were there, though,” he responded, smiling gently, “and you did help.” You just stared at him incredulously, wondering if he was the one who was dreaming now. He read the question in your eyes with a small chuckle and disentangled his hand from yours, pushing himself up to sit. 

            Pressing a hand to his chest, his fingers found the chain of the necklace that he always wore. The charm was a delicate circle of beaten metal hanging from a simple coppery chain. You had bought it in the market one day when the two of you were still courting. The rich auburn sheen of the metal had reminded you of Gwayne’s hair, and you were determined to have it. The seller assured you that the little ring symbolized unending love and devotion – a never-ending cycle, an unbroken vow. You were doubtful that had been the original intention of the maker, but rather a ploy on the seller’s part to drive up the price after he realized you intended it as a gift for your beloved. Had it been that obvious how love-struck you were? 

            Regardless of whether it was intended or not, you liked the idea of the simple circle as a token of promise and loyalty, as well as a celebration of one of Gwayne’s most striking features. You had given it to him wrapped in a carefully-embroidered handkerchief when he had gallantly asked for your favor before a tourney. You cherished the memory of him asking you to help him put it on, and the fleeting touch of his skin and flaming hair you were able to steal as you clasped it around his neck. He won the tourney, and insisted that his victory was due at least in part to the precious charm you had given him, imbued with your affection and devotion. To your knowledge, he had never taken it off since.

            Now, in the dim light of your shared chambers, he held the little ring out for you to see. It was slightly more battered now than it had been, and though its original shine was gone, it still seemed to glow with a warm coppery light. Reaching out, you took the small circle in your fingers, feeling all the tiny knicks and ridges it had acquired over time, each one of them proof of Gwayne’s promise to always return to you – an unbroken vow.

            “See, you’re always with me, right here,” he gestured to the charm in your fingers. The feeling of the metal against your skin and the sweet memories that swirled through your mind caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes, chasing away the lingering cobwebs of fear that the nightmare had spun. Gently, you released the ring and Gwayne’s fingers replaced yours on the circle, guiding it back to where it always sat on his chest, just above his heart. He pressed it there, emphasizing his words: “right here, right where you always have been – and always will be.”

            Ducking your head away, you tried to hide the tears that were now threatening to slide down your cheeks as his words. But before you could wipe them on the sheets, Gwayne’s hand caught your chin, gently pulling him back to you, the rough pad of his thumb banishing the tears from your face. His eyes sparkled with affection and mirth, and you found yourself unable to stop yourself from echoing his smile.

            “Hmmm… it’s more serious than I thought,” he said with mock-concern, tilting your face as though he was examining it, “you appear to be desperately and madly in love with me – a very serious condition indeed.”

            You couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out of your mouth as you nudged him playfully, causing him to break into bright chuckles of his own. Your chest, which just moments ago had been compressed with terror, was now so full of love and happiness you were certain it might burst.

            “And tell me, Ser Gwayne, what is the cure for this most dire of conditions?” you matched his tone of feigned worry as your laughter subsided.

            “Hmmm,” he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, unable to hide the dimples forming on his cheeks, proof of his barely-suppressed smile, “perhaps marriage? I have heard many esteemed lords claim that the institution of matrimony is bound to cure an ailment such as yours.”

            “Oh, but I fear I’ve tried that,” you exclaimed, “and it has only made my condition worse.”

            “Then this is indeed one of the most serious cases I’ve ever seen.” He pondered for a moment, then his eyes lit up: “There is one more cure, but it’s risky. You could try true love’s kiss. One does read about those sorts of things working miracles after all.”

            “What’s the risk?”

            “The risk is that the kiss renders your condition utterly uncurable by any other means.” Gwayne’s lips tilted up into your favorite lopsided smile as he grinned at you, dimples glowing like twin suns, sending the delicate freckles on his face colliding into each other like falling stars.

            “That’s a risk I’m more than willing to take,” you breathed as he reached out to cup your face and bring it close to his. You closed your eyes as your lips met in a burst of warm sunlight that seemed to fill your whole body with its radiance. You weren’t sure how long you remained pressed against him, feeling his heartbeat against your skin, his auburn locks twisted in your fingers, his necklace hanging between your entwined forms. 

            “Did it work?” he whispered when he finally pulled away, his forehead still resting against yours.

            “No,” you responded happily, your fingers once again finding the thin metal of the little circular charm, “I fear I’m even more madly and desperately in love with you than before.” You met his eyes, finding them bright and soft and just as madly and desperately in love as you were certain yours were.

            “Well, I like to think of myself as chivalrous, but I don’t think I can find it in myself to regret your condition,” he whispered, a teasing smile on his face as he reached a hand up to run his fingers through your hair.

            “Nor can I,” you whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

            He pulled you fully into his grasp then, maneuvering you both back under the covers without relinquishing his hold on you. You rested on his chest, head tucked under his chin as he wrapped both arms around you. Your fingers found his necklace, and you clasped it in your hand. He echoed your motion until both of your hands were intertwined around the metal circle, resting just above his heart. You could feel it beating against your skin, and you snuggled yourself even closer to him.

            “This is what I imagine,” Gwayne said softly to the darkness, “when I’m on the road without you, and all I have is this small charm to remind me of what it feels like to rest in your embrace. This is what I dream of.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead and squeezed your hand where it entwined with his on the necklace. “You’re always right here.”

            “I’m always right here,” you echo, your words a promise, a vow.

            “But thank the gods I don’t have to imagine right now,” you felt his words as his lips moved against your forehead, “because I am right here.” Gwayne wrapped his arms even more tightly around you, and you gladly tucked yourself further into his warm embrace. You felt yourself drifting back into a pleasant sleep in the comfort and safety of his arms. You heard his words echo softly in the gentle quiet of the room:

You expect the quiet, shuffling steps of a maester or a line of anxious handmaidens carrying herbal teas. Instead, the doors flung open, and in strides your husband.

Gwayne is still wearing his polished riding boots and a green velvet doublet, his usual posture taut with uncontained panic. His eyes sweep the room until they lock onto your frail form.

“Out,” he commands, voice cutting through the quiet room as he pins the lingering servants with a stern gaze. “All of you. Leave us.”

“Gwayne…” you croak, your throat feeling dry as sand. “You shouldn’t be here… it could be contagious. I know you have duties elsewhere.”

“Let them manage without me for a day,” your husband scoffs, marching straight to the side of the mattress. He drags a wooden chair right to your bedside, the legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. “And do not speak of contagions. I took vows to protect you, sweet wife. I certainly did not swear them just to abandon you to a few trembling handmaidens the moment you catch a chill.”

Without waiting for a response, he leans over you, his cool palm pressing firmly against your burning forehead. A defeated sigh escapes his lips as he measures the heat of your skin.

“Seven hells.” He stares down at you, eyes softening with worry. “You are baking.”

For the rest of the day, Gwayne flatly refused to let anyone else tend to you. His knuckles are red and damp from hours of wringing out wet cloths, his fine doublet lies discarded on the floor, leaving him in his linen shirt. Though he has no choice but to comply when the grand maester sends up a specific remedy meant to break the fever.

It looked to be a thick grey sludge in a small vial of clay, and the moment Gwayne uncorks it, a pungent odor engulfs your senses, passing through your stuffy nostrils.

He pours it into a shallow cup and holds it out to you. You take one look at the murky liquid—the wretched smell amplifying, and you gag, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as you recoil into the pillows.

“Absolutely not!” you choke out, shaking your head violently. “I would rather let the fever take me than put that thing anywhere near my mouth.”

Gwayne chuckles, his free hand immediately moving to support the back of your head, fingers gently cradling you. “Don’t be dramatic, wife. They are merely herbs. A true Hightower doesn’t shrink from a bit of bark and leaf.”

“Then you drink it,” you challenge blindly, your voice thick with revulsion, trying to push the cup away.

Gwayne simply looks at you, his gaze dropping to your shivering lips. Without a word, he tilts his head. “Fine. Watch and learn how a knight handles a simple remedy.”

He brings the cup to his own lips and takes a swift, deep sip. For a beat, his expression remains unchanged. Then, a violent shudder racks his broad shoulders. His eyes widen, his jaw tightening instantly as he fights his own reflexes. He swallows hard, throat bobbing painfully, before his face twists to one of pure disgust.

“Gods,” he coughs, his voice cracking as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “That tastes like a stagnant pond.”

Despite your misery, a weak, breathless laugh bubbles up from your chest. The sight of him willingly ruining his own palate just to ease your fear warms you far more than the heavy furs.

You reach out from under the blankets, your fingers sliding over his hand to take the cup. “Give it here,” you murmur, a fond smile touching your lips. Closing your eyes, you throw your head back and swallow the rest of the bitter liquid in one agonizing gulp. Gwayne can’t help but laugh at your reaction and immediately leans closer, his palm rubbing comforting circles into your back as you shudder from the aftertaste.

Deep into the grueling hours of the night, the room grows quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth. The medicine is working its way through you, and you stir against the pillows to find him hovering close over you, adjusting the blankets.

His face draws near enough that you can feel the cool contrast of his breath against your burning cheek. His eyes soften, heavy with fatigue yet burning with determination. His gaze drifts down to your lips in a silent, instinctual pull.

Sensing his intent, you weakly lift a hand, pressing two fingers against his shoulder to halt his advance. You turn your face slightly into the pillows, hiding your mouth from him.

“No, Gwayne,” you protest faintly, your voice a whisper. “You’re going to fall ill.”

Gwayne pauses, his face just inches from yours. A slow, offended curl lifts the corner of his mouth. “So you deprive me of your affection, wife?”

“I am trying to protect you, you idiot,” you grumble, weakly swatting at his chest.

Gwayne catches your wrist. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, his gaze never breaking from yours. “I have no use for protection from you,” he whispers against your skin, chest heaving with a quiet sigh. “I would gladly take your fever if it meant easing a single moment of your suffering.”

By the following evening, the hold of the fever finally breaks. The relentless sweating stops, your vision clears, and a welcome strength returns to your limbs.

You’re sitting up in bed, propped comfortably against a mountain of plush pillows, a faint, healthy colour returning to your cheeks at last.

Gwayne remains right beside you. His gaze hasn’t left your face for hours. Leaning over the mattress, his hands come up to move the hair away from your forehead for the hundredth time.

“Hold still,” Gwayne tuts, his eyes scanning every line of your face. “You’re still sick.”

You look up at his face, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “Gwayne, I’m certain the fever is gone.”

“I am the judge of when the fever is gone,” he counters flatly. His thumb traces a lingering path across your cheekbone, his touch so incredibly gentle. “I didn't spend time in this miserable chair just for you to decide you’re cured the moment you feel a spark of life.”

You let out a bright giggle, the sound echoing warmly against the walls. You reach out, your fingers sliding up his forearm to grip his wrist. You slowly pull his hand away from your face without letting go of his wrist.

“I am perfectly well, husband,” you whisper, voice dropping as you lean slightly forward, tilting your head up to challenge his gaze.

Gwayne’s pupils dilate. It was great pleasure to watch him lose his composure. A breath or relief escapes him as he realises the steady strength of your fingers. His gaze drifts slowly down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, holding you trapped in his stare.

A wave of warmth rushes to your cheeks under the intensity of his look, your lips parting slightly.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, the concern on his face shattering, leaving nothing but adoration in its wake. He lets his hand slide from your grip, only to cup your jaw fully, his fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your face back. “No more shivers?”

“None.” You slide your hand up his chest, fingers gripping the wrinkled linen of his shirt. You close the remaining distance between you, tilting your face up in a silent invitation.

template by: magical-warlock

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

Honestly anything. I feel like if it was something you enjoyed, Gwayne would find himself enjoying it too, just because you were happy. But I think like he would really like going on leisurely walks or horse rides together. It’s an activity that allows you to talk and get to know one another, but where you can also explore the beauty of a garden or forest together. I could totally see him bringing a book along and reading it aloud to you under a tree.

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

Everything lmao. But your eyes stand out to him, especially when he can read all the things you don’t say out loud in them. I feel like he would also appreciate intellect, common sense, and wit. He is clearly sooooo done with Criston’s weird dumb bullshit, and I think someone who was rational and level-headed but not afraid to crack a joke or two (especially at Criston’s expense lmaooooo) would be really appealing to him.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

My mans would not be much help at first because he’s freaking out too. He wouldn’t want to see you in any kind of distress, especially if he’s not sure where it came from or what’s causing it. I think if it happened more than once and you talked about it and expressed what you needed, he would be more than willing to do whatever you needed from him. My sense is that his first reaction (after the initial freak out) would just be to hold you really tightly and whisper reassurances to you until you were feeling better.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Given the society that Gwayne lives in, his expectations have kind of been set for him in the sense that his future is pretty much expected to involve marriage and children. And honestly, I get the sense that this isn’t something he’s necessarily opposed to. Especially since he found you and realizes he gets to marry someone he actually loves, he’d be pretty thrilled about the whole prospect. It just doesn’t seem like life on miliary campaign is something he’s super jazzed about, so his ideal future would likely be just settling down with you in Oldtown. 

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

I think it’s pretty mixed, especially depending on the context. Again, given the societal expectations placed on him, I do think he might tend to be a little more dominant (especially if he thinks/knows that he’s right about something) but I also don’t think he would ever force you to do something you didn’t want to. He’d also back off on just about any subject if he noticed you were getting upset about it. I also think it really depends on your temperament, since I think he could really go either way depending on what energy you brought to the relationship.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

It would be really hard for him to stay mad at you (and vice versa). Unless it was something truly awful, I just don’t think he could stay upset with you for very long. As we’ve already established, he’s a pretty rational person who seems to value clear communication, so I think “fights” with him would be more like difficult discussions about hard issues rather than an actual fight. This is really nice because then you both get to speak your mind and actually come out with a better understanding of the other person and a stronger relationship because of it.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

I do tend to think that he’s a pretty grateful person, but I think he’s better at showing it than saying it sometimes. Not that he can’t verbalize his gratitude – he totally can – I just think that gestures come more naturally to him (like winning a tourney in your honor, buying you something extravagant, taking you on a nice trip, etc.)

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Yes and no. If there was something he knew that would put you in danger if you knew it, he would not tell you. He would never forgive himself if something happened as a result. Pretty much anything else though, he’ll tell you. He won’t always offer everything, but I think he would have a hard time lying to you or keeping things from you if you asked about them. Depending on what it was, he might tell you a sanitized version of the story because he doesn’t want you to worry, but he’d be as honest as he felt he could be in the moment.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helping them overcome personal problems?

I think in any good relationship (romantic, platonic, or otherwise) people change each other for the better. Gwayne is no exception to this, and I think it’s likely that he picks up habits from you (just as you do from him). I can definitely see that if he had you as a confidante to rant about Criston or just to express his worries and doubts about politics, his family, etc. that he might be a little less overtly antagonistic and instead might just smile and nod a little more but internally be like “wait til my s/o hears about this fucking bullshit.” He’d definitely still give Critston attitude tho

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Yes and no. Gwayne is a fairly confident person, and I think he feels pretty comfortable with himself and with his relationship with you for the most part. However, I don’t think he’s immune to jealously, especially if it were to seem like another person was paying you a bit too much attention. In that scenario, I’m sure he’d have some quip at that person’s expense and whisk you away or be very obvious about using your title as his spouse. The one thing that might make him feel truly insecure is if it seemed like you were becoming interested in someone else. But let’s be real, if you get to marry Ser Gwayne Hightower, that’s not fucking happening 

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

Oh, he’s definitely a good kisser. I don’t think he was one to have a lot of trysts prior to meeting you (despite his bravado, I think he really values an emotional or intellectual connection to the person he’s with, meaning I don’t think many of the flings he might have had made it all the way to the hook-up stage). But he’s a handsome man who likely had a lot of admirers, and I do think he got a bit of practice with kissing in his youth. He’s absolutely very attentive to what you like, so I think he’s only gotten to be an even better kisser over the course of your relationship. In terms of your first kiss with him, these lyrics from “All My Love” by Noah Kahan are very applicable here: “I leaned in for a kiss thirty feet from where your parents slept / and I looked so confident, babe / I swear, I was scared to death.” Especially early on, I think he really wanted to project this confident and suave vibe that he totally knew what he was doing, but as soon as he realized he was in love with you, he was actually a nervous wreck and desperately did not want to mess it up. 

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

re: Gwayne’s penchant for gestures, I have a feeling he had a whole well-written speech planned out (he based it on the dramatic love confessions he read in old ballads). However, despite all his preparation, I think the confession actually ended up just slipping out one time when you were together and he couldn’t keep it in any longer. He probably stumbled over his words and was very embarrassed about it and his face turned bright pink, but it was so adorable and endearing that you actually preferred it to whatever speech he might have had planned.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the wedding be like?

As I mentioned above, I think that marriage is pretty much a given for Gwayne considering the realities of the culture in which he lives. He also probably didn’t propose in the traditional sense, since the marriage was likely arranged, but I can absolutely envision him proposing to you privately after the betrothal has been officially announced and after he’s spent enough time with you to realize that he is genuinely in love with you. It would be sort of a love confession/proposal where he basically says “I know you were chosen by others to be my spouse, but I also personally choose you because I love you.” The wedding would be fairly large and befitting of his rank and station, and it’s likely that neither of you would have much choice in how it was conducted. Gwayne definitely likes the idea of a large and fairly public wedding because it’s a way for him to show his pride for both his house and his betrothed.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

Very sweet things! Mostly “my dear,” “my love,” and “dearheart,” with a sprinkle of “my darling” mixed in on occasion.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious to others? How do they express their feelings?

He gets very love-struck, especially when he’s with you. Spending time with you is like spending time in another world for him, and I do think he becomes a little more uninhibited when he’s around you. If people watch the two of you together, his lovesickness is pretty obvious to anyone who knows him. Even if they speak to just him, they might notice slight changes, like the fact that he talks about you a lot and always finds a way to bring you into the conversation. He’s careful though, and would never reveal the depths of his affection for you to someone who might you it against him or hurt you to get back at him. In terms of expressing feelings, as I mentioned above, I get the sense that he’s one for gestures that demonstrate his feelings. He gets nervous and stumbles over his words more than usual when he tries to verbalize things to you, and that’s an unusual and uncomfortable experience for him at first. The longer you’re together though, the better he gets at it.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag about their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

Because your betrothal and marriage are pretty much public knowledge, Gwayne definitely feels comfortable being upfront about the relationship. And oh he totally brags. He’s very proud to call you his spouse and is not afraid to make sure everyone knows about it. Based on societal and cultural expectations, I don’t think there would be a lot of open PDA (like hugs, kisses on the lips, etc.). But hand kisses?????????? All the fucking time babeyyyyyyy!!!!!!!! So many kisses on the knuckles wherever and whenever – it’s his favorite little gesture of affection

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

Mans is a killer shit talker. We know this. He can and will throw shade with the best of them. He wants to know all the drama in your friend circle and will happily judge everyone with you for hours. That one “friend” of yours who turned out to be wildly toxic and conniving? Well he never liked them anyway and he’s got a bulletpointed list of reasons why. You start a conversation with “can I be mean for a moment?” or “you know I love this person, but…” and he is SAT. He’s always on your side and ready to talk absolute shit about anyone who caused you even a minor inconvenience. 

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

At the end of the day, he’s something of a hopeless romantic and would do whatever he could to make you happy. There are a lot of times when the cultural and societal realities of the world he lives in prevent him from doing everything he might want, but if it came down to it, he would do almost anything for you. A lot of his romantic gestures are a little cliché, but in the best, most endearing way possible. As he gets to know you though, and as your relationship matures, he’ll probably get a little more creative and do things that are more specific to the two of you.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Believes in you and supports you 100000% no question. Again though, I think this impulse can be a bit hampered by the social structures in which he lives. He’ll do whatever he can to help you achieve your goals, but there are limits based on birth, status, etc. that you are both cognizant of and which might influence what those goals look like and how far either of you would go to achieve them.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice up your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

We’re talking about Ser “I’d rather stay at a comfy inn than camp out” Gwayne Hightower here – I think he appreciates a level of routine and comfort. There’s so much in his world that is chaotic and out of his control that I think he would really relish having that consistency and stability in his relationship. Not that he would never try anything new – especially if you asked him to – I just think his natural inclination would be to have a comforting routine that works for both of you.

U nderstanding - How well do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Considering he picked up on Alicent and Criston’s weird vibes in like 5 seconds, I’d say he’s pretty good at reading people. He definitely makes an effort to get to know you, and can confidently say that he knows you very well at this point. Especially since you’re someone he cares about and spends a lot of time with, he’s quite good at reading your moods and guessing how you’re feeling.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is its worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Very important. Again though, there are cultural expectations placed on both of you that may necessitate you and Gwayne placing your relationship further down your list of priorities than you normally would choose to. If it were completely up to him though, his relationship with you would be right up there at the top with his loyalty to his house and his family.

W ild Card - A random fluff headcanon

I talked about this much more extensively in this fic, but the necklace you gave him? He. Does. Not. Take. It. Off. EVER. It’s his little piece of you that he gets to carry everywhere, and he could never ever bear to part with it.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

In private, abso-fucking-lutely! As I mentioned in the PDA section, he’s more retrained in public, but still likes to demonstrate his affection for you via hand kisses. In private though, he loves to cuddle. And honestly, he doesn’t really care where or in what position – curled up in bed, sprawled on a couch, his head in your lap, you tucked against his chest – he just likes to be touching you and knowing that you’re right there next to him, that you’re safe, and that you love him.

Y earning - How do they cope when they’re missing their partner?

It’s a reality he has to face more than he would like, given the exterior expectations placed on him. If he had his way, he would live quietly with you at his family’s property near Oldtown forever. When he has to leave though, he always asks for your favor to take with him, regardless of how long you’ve been together or how many times you’ve bestowed it. As mentioned above, he also always wears the necklace you gave him. Definitely a top tier professional yearner though – he misses you and thinks of you the whole time he’s gone.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐚.

The smell was akin to a perfumed dowager, the air thick with roses and honey, petals drifting along in the evening breeze. It was a stark contrast to the pungent scent of the rest of the city — perhaps that is why you favored the gardens.

Orange tendrils of a waning sun spread across the leaves, verdant and bright, turning the gardens all sorts of colors — shades of emerald and gold, intermingling with the many flowers there.

Most souls that had occupied the gardens had made themselves scarce, turning it into a paradise that only you shared with another. You often admired the general splendor even when it was crowded, but now, it gave you a rather unobstructed view.

The various palette of the gardens, particularly any deeper shades of forest-green, matched that of your husband’s doublet, embroidered with golden thread. It was strange to see Gwayne removed from his armor, his silvery vassal that kept him well-protected.

In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, there were days spent in respite, much to your delight. Though, war would steal him away from you again — you intended on making the most out of each moment, beseeching him to remain by your side. He obliged you, fortunately, and you never objected to it.

A golden hour, brightest before dusk, painted you in shades that Gwayne had committed to memory, your features bathed in dying light. You were swathed in gowns of cerulean, a deeper shade of azure that had brought him to heel when you emerged with it on.

Merrily, he often touted that he had the most beautiful wife in all of the realm, and such a sentiment didn’t change nor waver. It was resolute, done with a fondness that made its way to you.

“Perhaps, once this conflict comes to a close, you and I shall return to Oldtown,” Gwayne’s gallant resonance cut through the contented silence, his timbre often filled with regality, the elegant poise of a well-learned Knight. “I’ve grown surfeited by this grisly place.”

If Gwayne had not been so proficient with a blade, you suspected that a quill and his sharp tongue would’ve done him a world of good in another lifetime. His flowery speech had charmed you time and time again, and you were left captivated.

Oldtown had become your home, a sanctuary of which you and Gwayne had built a peaceful life together. With Prince Daeron in your care, it was something of a family — one that you suspected would grow in the near future.

“As have I,” With a gentle sigh, your fingers danced along his velvet-clad forearm, your arm interlaced with his as he led you through the teeming labyrinth. At twilight, it had become wonderfully quiet, a place of solace away from the bustling hum of the Red Keep. “It is a dour place.”

Dour was a mere understatement — Gwayne knew what harm this city could do, crushed beneath the oppressive weight of the Red Keep. Even in its architectural splendor, it remained a shadow, haunting your every step as it loomed above the both of you.

Even in the sanctuary of the Gardens, one could not escape it. He did not envy his sister for being sequestered here for most of her lifetime — he imagined that it likely led to a path of misfortune and frustration. Being in Oldtown, he could afford many liberties, freedoms that weren’t permitted in King’s Landing.

As you continued on your path, a stone terrace opened before you, a comely overlook with a sizable gazebo, marked by dimly-lit torches. Save for the picturesque view of Blackwater Bay, it was surrounded by foliage and flora on all sides.

Gwayne felt your concern in waves, an unspoken sentiment, knowing that he would be called to leave again. Cole’s armies were rallying to march to Harrenhal, and he was summoned to ride alongside him, the second-in-command. You had made your disdain for this known, and Gwayne couldn’t fault you for it.

“I would sorely dislike it if our time together was to be spent in silence,” He watched you through cerulean hues as you rounded the gazebo, moving toward the overlook. Waves gently lapped at the outcropping of rock, breaking upon it, saltwater kisses peppering your cheeks. “I have a duty, dearest.”

A begrudging sigh tore past your lips, and you staved off the sudden onslaught of turmoil. You had come to-terms with the inevitability of his departure — you had dealt with it once before, but the sting never lessened. “I understand. I loathe you and love you for it.” You murmured, your smile threadbare.

Your answer retained a twinge of lightheartedness to it, in the face of a bleak future. Gwayne couldn’t help but scoff, visage dancing with amusement as he stepped toward one of the massive walls of gardenias. Plucking a pale blossom from its stem, he crossed the stone to you, a gesture of affection.

“Loathe me, is that it?” Gwayne wouldn’t have your last moments together spent in melancholy — and you seemed to be in agreement. He placed the blossom behind your ear, carefully tucking it into place. “Have I vexed you so easily?”

Planting a palm against his chest, you allowed your fingertips to trace across plated velvet, dancing toward the Hightower sigil, embroidered into the collar. He was resplendent in noblemen’s garb, painfully handsome and fresh-faced, save for the healing cut upon his lip and bruised brow.

A taut, muscled arm moved to snake around your waist, effortlessly caging you in against him. Your saccharine scent invaded his senses, swarming around his head like a thick haze, one that he delighted in. Beneath the evening sky, he made his ardor for you known, a real and living thing.

“You are swift to credit yourself, husband. I may resort to knocking you from your pedestal.” You teased, tender voice growing softer, a mere purr to his ears. Gods, you were wonderfully divine — Gwayne brazenly squeezed your hip through your gowns, auburn brows lifting in amusement.

Instead of puffing his chest with a playful retort, Gwayne could no longer resist the tempting curve of your lips, craning down to kiss you. It was a sweet mingling of mouths, slow and exploratory, happy to take their time with one another.

The first inklings of an amorous heat crackled between the both of you, a rapturous hunger that hadn’t been sated since he returned from Rook’s Rest. You simply could not get enough of your beloved husband, hands clamoring from his plush doublet to his mane of copper tresses, gripping them tightly.

Even with the thicker material of your dress, Gwayne greedily grasped at your curves, able to feel the pliant swell of your physique beneath. You had already seduced him with your steep necklace and ample bosom — sometimes, you were more of a salacious minx than you were a maiden. He enjoyed you both ways.

Your chambers in the Red Keep seemed so far away, and neediness began to take root, desire flourishing where propriety could not. As you insistently tugged upon his auburn locks, Gwayne felt his cock stir to life within his trousers, twitching as if to remind him of his carnal need for you.

“Incomparable, I must confess,” Gwayne exhaled, hot breath fluttering across your visage. Hints of wine retained their presence upon his tongue, skin smelling of woodland musk and fine soaps. “Not a single wandering eye to find us here.” His timbre dropped into a delectable purr, lips pressing themselves to the curve of your jaw.

Exhilaration struck at the pit of your stomach, coupled with the familiar wave of arousal, its inklings slick and warm between your legs. “What are you implying, husband?” You asked, breathy and wanton, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

A low, teasing hum slipped betwixt his lips, mouth molding to your flesh, gliding across the slender column of your throat. One hand dropped to cup your derrière through the thicker material of your dress, longing to see it around your feet, instead.

A sheepish moan tore past your mouth, unabashedly stoking the fire that simmered between the both of you. Gwayne greedily lapped at your sweet skin, like a thick honey upon his tongue. “It is just you and I, sweetling. Might you indulge me?” He hummed, desperate to have you now that desire had taken hold.

Gods, you wanted him terribly.

It was a fascinating twist, with Gwayne wanting to have you here, given the publicity of the locale. He was often a man to take you to your chambers in the name of chivalry, but this daring, yearning side to him — you quite enjoyed it, his change of heart.

“Gods, I love you.” You sighed, feeling him relocate the both of you towards one of the thick, stone columns that held the gazebo aloft. It was rough against your back, but you cared little for it, hastily unlacing the bodice of your dress. The silken smallclothes you wore beneath would suffice.

A low, stifled groan escaped Gwayne’s mouth, cerulean hues sharp and amatory, roving over you with a thinly-veiled desire. “Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, wife.” He murmured, swiftly relieving you of that mound of azure velvet.

The simple slip you wore beneath clung to your curves, accentuating your physique in pale shades of ivory, nipples peeking through the thin material. His hand slithered beneath, seeking to find the slick heat of your cunt, pushing your legs apart with his thigh.

Gathering your slip within your hands, you tugged the material up, until it pooled around the swell of your hips, giving him unhindered access. Gwayne careened forward, mouth colliding with yours, lips desperately craving every fiber of your being.

His other hand moved to cup your breast through your gown, thumb languidly swiping over your pebbled nipple, teasing the bud as he rolled it between his fingers. A sharp, noisy gasp escaped you, followed by the unrestrained sound of a moan.

Your hands clamored to perch atop his shoulders, sinking down into the velvet, longing to see him naked. If you closed your eyes, it was easy to imagine, but you desired the real thing. With haste, your digits slipped toward the line of golden clasps along the front, aiming to get it unbuttoned.

“You minx.” Gwayne panted into your mouth, digits beginning to stroke along your slit. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. Lips twined in hot clashes, and he never allowed it to devolve into something sloppy. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you.

As you unclasped his doublet, he moved his arms enough to relinquish the stuffy weight of the fabric, musculature lean and taut, his skin pale and glittering in the gentle twilight. It let you squeeze his shoulders, tracing over the freckles there, reveling in his bare flesh.

Gwayne released a few breathy ‘I love you’s’ into your lips, before he relocated to the sensitive column of your throat. He spoke with reverence, as if he had come to worship his goddess, lay himself down at your feet. Your fingers wove themselves against the nape of his neck, tugging on his copper locks.

Practiced, dexterous digits continued to caress along your cunt, before pushing past your folds. He grazed your clit, sending a rush of goosebumps cascading down the length of your spine. “Gwayne,” You moaned, the sweetest melody to his ears as you rocked forward, desperate for any shred of friction. “Please!”

His cock twitched again within his breeches, aching with something powerful, needing to be inside of you. Patience was his virtue and his agony — he still wanted to taste your first. He continued to knead into your breast, evoking another blissful whine from you.

Despite wearing his honor and chivalry like a coat of armor, he cared little for the consequences of potentially being caught. He would ravish his beloved wife here in these gardens — there was no sin in such an act. Kissing along your jugular, he felt you grip and pull on his hair, filling him with an excitable fire.

“Gods, I must taste you,” Gwayne groaned, voice tinged with an alluring husk, palm continuing to caress the plush swell of your breast. The thin, silken strap of your slip began to sag, and he did not fix it, exposed to the unblemished plane of your collarbone. “If you will permit me to do so.”

“You needn’t ask, husband,” A wanton whimper left you when Gwayne’s digits abandoned your cunt, though it would soon be replaced with the fine heat of his greedy tongue. Through a lovesick gaze, you observed in rapturous silence as Gwayne sank to his knees, as if he were preparing to pray. “I belong to you.”

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Molten heat surged within your belly, churning with a violent anticipation as you braced one hand atop his shoulder.

A sight to die for, to kill for — Gwayne would’ve fought a thousand battles if it meant that you were the reward at the very end, a resplendent maiden in all of your glory. He would’ve endured torture unimaginable for you, razed down armies, destroyed cities all for you.

The first lap of his tongue caused your knees to buckle, raking hot embers across your cunt. He wedged his way in between your legs, shoulders keeping you apart just enough. Gwayne was quite candid about his enjoyment of tasting you — thoroughly cunt-struck.

A groan stirred within his chest as your fingers grazed through his copper tresses, finding their purchase near the base of his skull. He did not relent, tongue carefully splitting past your folds, greeted by the saccharine onslaught of your arousal.

“Gwayne.” A breathy sigh tore past your parted lips, lulled into subservience from the steady, exploratory laps of his tongue. He was sluggish, allowing the anticipation to mount, nose brushing along your mound.

Your taste was ambrosial, thick and heady, like a haze that he had no desire to escape from. There were many moments where he’d dreamed of this, on the march to Rook’s Rest, sprawled across his cot, fantasizing of you again and again.

He quite enjoyed the way in which you sighed his name, passion bubbling forth from your chest, head rolled back against the stone column. Careworn palms reached for your haunches, delighted to take their fill of you, caressing along the backs of your thighs.

“Exquisite,” Gwayne exhaled, catching his breath to press a string of kisses all along the inside of your thighs. “By the Seven, you taste divine.” He groaned, drunk and dizzy from your cunt. A soft moan escaped you as you coaxed him back, and he willingly obliged.

With another hot, eager lap of his tongue over your core, your knees rattled like leaves in the breeze, feeling his shoulders bully their way between your legs. A brusque, warm breeze fluttered throughout the gazebo, bathed in the waning light of the sunset. Stars began to glisten overhead, unhindered by the clouds.

Gwayne’s eagerness was palpable, able to be felt as he buried his face into your cunt, cerulean eyes fluttering shut in an expression of bliss. A groan stirred within his throat, fluttering throughout his chest as you fisted his auburn tresses, soft beneath your palms.

You could not get enough of him, keeping your hands on him in whatever way you could, chest heaving with wanton sighs. Carnality and desire permeated the air, the atmosphere thick with desperation. You always treated each moment as if it would be your last.

His mouth fervently worked against your slick cunt, sending pleasant shockwaves into the pit of your stomach. Goosebumps danced along your spine, followed by a shiver that made you moan. Your hips rolled forward, shamelessly grinding yourself into your husband’s waiting lips.

With a flick of his tongue, Gwayne sought the pearl of your cunt, lips eagerly kissing their way to your clit. He planted feather-light kisses around that sensitive clutch of nerves, causing you to tremble, digits tightening within his hair. Your grip was ironclad, but it was pleasurable for him, knowing you were enjoying yourself.

“Gods, Gwayne,” You whined, listening to the lewd noises of your chivalrous paramour suckling on your clit. Another onslaught of molten heat swirled within your stomach, seeping into your bones, manifesting as arousal between your thighs. “Do — Do not stop!” The urgency in your voice had increased exponentially.

If there were any evening stragglers in the Royal Gardens, you prayed to the Seven that they would not stumble upon the both of you.

The sight itself was inherently sinful, with you haplessly pressed against the stone column, gallant dress strewn across the ground, slip sagging along your physique. Gwayne’s emerald doublet had joined your garments below. You reveled in the sight of his head between your thighs, causing you to whimper.

Gwayne could detect when you were accelerating towards your release, able to feel the twitches and tremors in your thighs. He soothingly stroked along your silky flesh, interchanging between the greedy suckling of your clit, to long, broad strokes of his tongue.

His lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. Gwayne worshiped you, kissed the ground you walked upon, and he did not feel an ounce of shame in it.

His cock throbbed with a desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of depravity. You hadn’t a clue of the things you did to him.

In a brazen maneuver, his tongue prodded against your entrance, gingerly thrusting inside of you. You gasped, biting at the inside of your cheek, digits raking through his auburn locks. You let your grip loosen, hips careening forward into his mouth again.

Gwayne ravished you, with the ravenous appetite of a starving dog. He moved back just enough to lap at your cunt, making a blazing trail from your entrance to your clit. “I’m close,” You huffed, issuing some warning to him before the dam had burst altogether. “Gwayne!”

It was the only word you knew in the present, his name — it rolled from your tongue in a delighted cry, laced with ardor and reverence. You reached your peak, shamelessly spilling yourself upon his tongue, and he was enamored with you.

With careful, sluggish strokes of his tongue, he delicately cleaned the mess he made of you, allowing you to bring yourself down from your peak. Even if the intensity had made you burn at a fever pitch, you were far from finished, tugging on Gwayne’s tresses to get his attention.

“Take me, husband,” It wasn’t a request — it was a demand, a command made upon a yearning wife. Desire glistened like a thick sheen within his cerulean eyes, which happened to widen at the sight of you. “Please.” You didn’t have to beg — Gwayne wanted you just as terribly.

He swiftly rose from between your legs, pupils dilated with lust as he steered you toward the stone bannister of the overlook, wide enough to support you. You sat down, hastily fumbling with the leather ties of his trousers. Gwayne parted your legs again, bending over you as he sought your mouth.

The taste of arousal — yours — fell heavy upon your tongue, lips clashing together as you desperately sought to free his cock from its confines. “I need you,” Gwayne husked against your mouth, pearlescent teeth briefly snagging on your lower lip. “Gods, how I’ve missed this, missed you.”

“Gwayne,” A moan escaped you, intermingling with his husky pants and sonorous groans. His forehead nudged against yours, lips hot and needy, and you were more than happy to reciprocate. “I need you, I …” Your voice tapered off when his cock slid against your folds.

He kept you steady, hands caging you against the bannister, the stone biting into your back as he kept you at an angle. Silk gathered around your hips, friction wafting between the both of you as he thrust forward, cock sinking into you.

Hitching a leg around his waist as best as you could, your hands roamed to his chest, nails digging into his collarbone as he began to find an erratic pace. He was loving and passionate, even still, but there was something inherently quick about his rhythm.

Perspiration glittered along his brow from the warm evening, yet it did not stop him from pounding away at you. His cock filled you perfectly, providing a delectable stretch that made your toes curl. It wasn’t an intimidating thing, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him.

Through his clenched teeth, Gwayne sang your praises, savoring the way in which your cunt constricted around him, as if drawing him in. “Seven Hells, your cunt is perfection,” Such lewd, crass words sounded so eloquent coming from his lips, as debonair as a Prince. “I cannot get enough of you, sweet wife.” He groaned.

Despite his crudely-spoken compliment, you were lost within the throes of your own pleasure, body rocked into submission by each snap of his hips. His cock bottomed out within you, movements swift yet punctuated, as if every thrust possessed meaning.

You loved Gwayne unconditionally — perhaps too much, if such a thing were possible. Your chest heaved with sweet, passionate sighs and gentle moans, forehead occasionally brushing against his. His hands kept themselves firm along your waist, curling into the silk of your slip.

His cock battered away at your slick cunt, aided by your mounting arousal. Everything felt so feverishly warm, as if you had been set ablaze, nerves feeling like they were steeped in fire. “More,” You moaned, and it effectively caught Gwayne’s attention. “Gwayne, please.” He was weak to your soft pleas.

Your beloved husband lacked harshness when it came to intimacy, something you adored about him. Even when his thrusts became desperate and erratic, chasing after his release, he never resorted to using you. His lips sought the column of your throat, nose brushing along your jugular.

A string of kisses peppered themselves against your sweet flesh, with the occasional suckling of his lips to your neck. A myriad of throaty whines and whimpers continued to leave you in droves, cunt pathetically clenching around him.

Buckling forward, Gwayne planted one palm against the stone bannister, the other caging in around you as he continued to pound away into your needy cunt. He kissed you wherever he could, dwindling into desperation and the innate desire to taste your sweet flesh.

His lips parted slightly, a strained grunt escaping him as he thrust forward again, until there was nowhere left for him to go. Gwayne pulled back just enough, the head of his cock still inside of you before he moved forward again. The friction made you shiver, fingers grasping at the nape of his neck.

His name continued to slip from your mouth, over and over again, like a whispered prayer. Your nails left behind red crescents upon his skin, sharp brands of your lovemaking. Gwayne groaned against your throat, desiring to kiss you once more, lips laying claim to yours with a fervor.

With another snap of his hips, Gwayne shuddered, nearly collapsing into you as he reached his peak. Hot ropes of seed brazenly spilled inside of you, warming your insides as he attempted to catch his breath. You pressed your forehead to his, breathing with him, allowing your hands to slack.

Gwayne politely removed himself from you, mindful of your garments as he fixed your gown back into place. The slip itself was disheveled, but he ensured its tidiness before you got dressed again.

“How divine you are,” Gwayne hummed, planting gentle kisses along the side of your face before it ended at the curve of your jaw. “Beautiful beyond comprehension.” He murmured, using two digits to delicately place the strap of your slip back upon your shoulder.

“You flatter me, husband,” Your smile was warm and amiable, the brightness of springtime, bringing a rosy flush to his features. “I quite enjoyed your brazen streak.” Through a smitten confession, Gwayne kissed your brow, lips twitching into a debonair smirk.

“I am not ashamed of ravishing my wife, be it in our chambers or in the garden,” He replied, reaching for his velveteen doublet and your azure dress. It was easy for him to slip back into the stuffy material, and he was more than happy to assist you. “I cannot get enough of you.”

His words were tantalizing, as if intended to bring about another string of salacious thoughts. Gwayne stood behind you as you stepped back into your dress, helping to lace your bodice up again. He planted a kiss along your exposed shoulder, and then to the crook of your neck.

You reached for his hand, letting it drape across your shoulder as you pressed a delicate kiss against his bruised knuckles. “You shall have me, Gwayne — for as long as you desire me.” You sighed, feeling his nose brush along your cheek, the warmth of his body pressing in behind you.

With a kiss to your temple, one oozing with such fondness and ardor that you feared you might melt, Gwayne’s lips hovered near the shell of your ear. In the twinkling dusk, he held you close. “Forever, then.”

and now, in your married life, he finds his fixation undimmed. every day brings a fresh discovery: how you fiddle with the page of the book you’re perusing. how you fret your thumbs when you are worried or annoyed. how you do not seem to register the pain of a clumsy needle piercing your skin when your attention strays from your embroidery. every evening ends with you rubbing salve onto your palms. even the faintest scent of beeswax and lavender makes him think of you, mindlessly massaging your hands while you recount the trials and tribulations of your day.

if only he could remember such innocent, menial thoughts now. gwayne wishes he could focus on anything but the torturous sensation of your hand stroking his cock. dangerously close to the edge, nose buried in the warm nook of your neck, he lets out a wretched noise from the depths of his throat. you have him undone. spineless. he melts into your sweet touch while you gently trace the veins that run along the length of his shaft. such curiosity in each caress. 

“e-easy, sweetling,” he gasps as you sweep your fingertips around his tip, “i won’t last if you… if you do that…”

“what’s wrong with that?” you murmur, and gods, how can your innocence set such an unholy fire in his veins? “i want to see. show me, please?”

pure song spilling out of your mouth. he cannot resist you. not now, not ever. as a strangled cry echoes throughout your chambers, all he can think about is how much he wants to give you everything. his seed spills over your flexing knuckles. thick pearls of white coat your palm. so ugly, so beautiful.

holding your wrist, he bows his head to lap up the mess that stains your skin. the salt and musk of his cum lights up the inside of his mouth like strong wine. this: a vow he makes without words. all of him, everything, is yours.

"Princess?"

The voice seemed to reach you from very far away.

You blinked slowly, your gaze remaining fixed upon the deep red wine swirling lazily inside your goblet as though the answer to every question you had ever asked might somehow be waiting beneath its surface. The music filling the Great Hall blurred into little more than distant noise, the laughter of lords and ladies melting together until the celebration sounded less like a wedding feast and more like waves breaking endlessly against the shore.

How much had you slept this past week?

You tried to remember. An hour the first night. Perhaps two the next.

You had drifted into exhausted naps whenever your ladies managed to force you into bed, only to wake moments later with your heart racing and smoke still clinging to your lungs from dreams that felt altogether too real.

Ten hours across the entire week, perhaps.

It hardly mattered as you were tired enough that the world no longer felt entirely solid. Ever since your betrothal, the dreams had ceased showing you the man himself. No longer did you wake with the image of emerald cloaks or a familiar smile lingering in your thoughts.

Instead, every night unfolded into the same dreadful vision of a kingdom devouring itself. The dragons screamed as they tore one another from the sky and fire swallowed castles whole. The banners of great houses burned until only ash remained and somewhere within the smoke stood your family. One by one, they disappeared, no matter how desperately you ran toward them, your feet never seemed to move.

And always you woke before discovering who had survived.

"Princess."

You startled violently at the gentle nudge against your arm, blinking several times before the Great Hall finally returned to focus.

"...The princess," Gwayne was saying smoothly to the elderly lord and lady standing before the two of you, "...has had very little rest these past several days. Wedding preparations have rather exhausted her. She was terribly eager for today."

You nearly laughed, the only wedding preparation you had been a part of was making sure there was enough wine. You bit the inside of your cheek as the old couple smiled knowingly.

"Entirely understandable," the lady replied warmly. "Every bride grows overwhelmed eventually."

You stared politely for a heartbeat, trying desperately to remember who they were. They were from the Riverlands, you were almost certain. Or perhaps the Reach. You could not remember their names.

"...We merely wished to offer our congratulations," the lord continued. "It is good to see House Targaryen and House Hightower joined in friendship once again."

"How fortunate," you murmured before you could stop yourself, "To become a bridge built for everyone else's benefit."

Silence.

The couple exchanged an uncomfortable glance and beside you, Gwayne cleared his throat with practiced ease, "What my wife means," he said gently, "is that we both hope our families enjoy many years of peace together."

The couple accepted the explanation with relieved smiles before offering another round of blessings and finally drifting back into the sea of nobles filling the hall.

Before your thoughts had the chance to drift away again, Gwayne was already steering you elsewhere with a light hand against the small of your back, politely intercepting another lord who looked eager to offer his congratulations.

You hardly noticed where he was leading you. Your mind had wandered back to dragons. To fire. To ash carried across a blackened sky.

Every night the dreams revealed another piece of a future you could not understand, each one ending before you reached the answer you sought, and every morning you awoke feeling as though you had lived through another lifetime. Somewhere within those visions, something terrible was waiting for your family.

You simply did not know when.

"I cannot decide," Gwayne said after watching you in silence for several moments, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement, "whether I ought to be impressed or thoroughly insulted that this is the first conversation we have managed to have since you attempted to climb over the walls of the Red Keep."

That was entirely true. After your failed attempt of fleeing, you had become almost impossible to find on the single week of your betrothal. If he visited the training yard, you wandered the libraries. If someone whispered that Ser Gwayne had been seen crossing the eastern galleries, you slipped into forgotten stairwells known only to servants and children who had spent their lives turning the Red Keep into a playground. You lingered in the dragonpit until dusk, disappeared into abandoned towers, climbed onto rooftops where no lady ought ever to be, and more than once your ladies had distracted curious knights long enough for you to escape through hidden passages behind the old tapestries.

You had convinced yourself it was easier that way. If you never truly knew him, perhaps the dreams would hurt less when they came to pass.

You studied him for a moment before answering with complete seriousness, "You should probably feel insulted."

His mouth twitched, "I suspected as much."

"And your sister certainly is."

You inclined your head toward the royal table where Alicent sat beside your father, regal as ever, though her gaze found the two of you often enough that it was impossible not to notice. Even from across the hall, there remained something watchful in the way she looked at you, as though she expected you to vanish before the evening was through.

Gwayne followed your gaze before smiling with quiet resignation, "She worries."

A dry laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You doubted worry had ever been the proper word.

You knew perfectly well why Alicent had approved of the match. Marriage carried you to Oldtown, away from King's Landing, away from the court, away from the endless disappearances that had become almost expected of Viserys's younger daughter. It solved a problem politely enough that no one could accuse anyone of cruelty.

You kept that thought to yourself and instead chose to stand quietly next to him which in itself, was an odd sort of torment.

There were moments when you forgot you had only met him once before, because your dreams had stolen that unfamiliarity from you years ago. You knew the sound of his voice before he ever spoke, the easy smile that softened his features, the slight crease between his brows whenever he found himself thinking too hard. Every part of him felt strangely familiar.

Yet he looked at you with the curiosity reserved for complete strangers.

What you were not aware of is how desperately he wanted to change that. While you ran from him, he had questioned dragonkeepers, stable boys, guardsmen, maids, cooks, even elderly servants who had watched you grow from infancy, and every one of them had answered him with the same amused smile.

"The princess does that. She'll turn up eventually."

He had begun to wonder whether you intended to appear at your own wedding.

"You are tired." The observation was spoken so softly that it almost disappeared beneath the music.

"It has been a long day."

"It has been a long week."

You offered no reply and Gwayne watched you another moment before quietly rising to his feet.

Without explanation, he crossed the hall toward the royal table.

You followed him with tired eyes, watching as he bent to speak privately with your father. Viserys listened with surprising attentiveness before a warm smile spread slowly across his face, one accompanied by a gentle nod of approval. Beside him, Alicent looked between the two men with obvious skepticism, one elegant brow arching before she sighed in quiet resignation and inclined her head as well.

Only then did Gwayne return.

He extended his hand toward you, "Let us retire."

You looked at him in confusion, "The feast is not over, there are still hours before midnight," then quietly you added, "...and the bedding ceremony."

"There will not be one."

For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face.

The hall continued behind you in laughter and celebration, entirely unaware as your husband led you quietly toward the great doors, leaving the music behind without so much as a backward glance.

-

The silence that greeted your chambers felt almost startling after the endless noise of the feast. Servants slipped inside only long enough to light fresh candles before disappearing as quietly as shadows, leaving the room bathed in warm golden light and blessed stillness.

Almost mechanically, you reached for the jeweled pins woven into your hair, removing them one after another until the intricate braids loosened and silver-white strands spilled heavily over your shoulders. Rings followed. Bracelets. A necklace that had begun to feel unbearably heavy hours ago.

You became aware, little by little, that Gwayne was no longer speaking and the realization surprised you.

Ever since the gardens, he had seemed determined to draw you into conversation whenever circumstance allowed, asking gentle questions you never truly answered, smiling whenever your stubbornness surfaced. Now, he simply let the quiet exist.

He busied himself with small, unnecessary tasks instead, stirring the fire back to life before pouring a modest measure of wine into a silver goblet. When he approached, he offered it without ceremony.

"So you may sleep."

You looked at the goblet, then at him. For the first time since your father had announced the betrothal, uncertainty settled over a different question entirely.

Had you been wrong about him?

Not about the dreams, but about the man standing before you. He had canceled the bedding ceremony without asking anything in return. He had noticed your exhaustion when no one else had cared to. He had remembered the wine not because of gossip, but because he had seen you struggle.

It was a kindness you have not felt from anybody in a long time.

"But, we're meant to...consummate the marriage." The words felt strangely hollow as they left your mouth.

He looked almost bewildered, "You are in no condition for anything except sleep."

"But everyone—"

"I am unconcerned with everyone," his voice softened, "I am only concerned with you."

Something inside your chest tightened unexpectedly. He gestured toward the bed, "You should rest, I'll remain by the fire."

You searched his face for some trace of obligation, some hidden expectation that would reveal this gentleness to be little more than courtesy and found none.

Truthfully, you had no desire to sleep. Not because you lacked the exhaustion, but because you knew what awaited you the moment you surrendered to unconsciousness. Yet the words refused to leave your lips. You found yourself unable to confess such a childish fear aloud, especially to a man you had known for scarcely a fortnight and married only hours before. So, swallowing both your pride and your apprehension, you drank the wine without another word.

When the last drop was gone, you set the silver cup aside and crossed slowly toward the bed, every step carrying the strange feeling that you were walking willingly toward the very thing you feared most. Before climbing beneath the covers, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Gwayne was already watching you.

When your eyes met, he offered the faintest of smiles before inclining his head toward the bed as though gently reminding you that it was all right to rest. Then, true to his word, he turned back toward the fire, giving you the privacy.

-

You did not know how long sleep had held you. It could have been minutes or hours. Time rarely existed within your dreams.

One moment you had been wrapped beneath warm blankets while Gwayne sat closely to the fire, and the next you stood beneath a sky stained black with smoke while dragons screamed somewhere beyond walls you could not see. Syndor's cries cut through the chaos with heartbreaking familiarity, each desperate roar carrying the unmistakable panic of a creature searching for the only person who had ever been able to calm him.

You tried to reach him, but something unseen held you in place while his cries grew louder and louder until they became almost unbearable.

Then, you woke with a violent gasp that burned your lungs.

Your eyes had not yet opened, but your hands were already searching frantically through the darkness, clutching at sheets and blankets as though expecting rough chains instead of soft linen beneath your fingertips.

"Syndor..."

The name escaped you before you had fully returned to yourself.

"My dragon..."

The room remained swallowed in darkness, interrupted only by the faint orange glow of dying embers in the hearth. For one terrifying heartbeat, the dream still felt real. Then came the quiet scrape of a chair against stone.

"Princess."

Gwayne's voice was low enough that it scarcely disturbed the silence, yet it carried through the room with a steadiness that slowly began pulling you back to the present.

He was already crossing the room, then stopped almost immediately when he took a look at you.

You had retreated as far back against the carved headboard as the bed would allow, the blankets gathered tightly against your chest while your breathing came in short, uneven bursts. Your wide violet eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond him, still trapped halfway between nightmare and waking.

Very carefully, he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, "It was only a dream," he said quietly.

Before he had even finished speaking, you shook your head, "No."

"Syndor needs me. He's..." You swallowed hard, struggling against the lingering panic. "...he was calling for me."

"He is safe," The reassurance came without hesitation, "You are in your chambers."

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them as though that alone might banish the images still clinging stubbornly to your mind.

"He is asleep in the Dragonpit," Gwayne continued gently. "Nothing has happened to him."

Neither of you spoke after that and the silence settled over the room like a blanket of its own, broken only by the crackling fire and the gradual slowing of your breath until each inhale no longer felt as though it fought against your ribs.

Only when he was certain the worst of the terror had passed did he speak again, "Are you alright?"

You answered with the smallest nod.

"Would you like to try sleeping again?"

"No." The word came too quickly and sharply.

He rested his forearms loosely against his knees, studying the fire for a long moment before asking, almost conversationally, "What do you usually do when you wake from them?"

You followed his gaze toward the embers, "Anything," your shoulders lifted in a tired shrug and your fingers tightened around the blankets, "I walk, or read."

"And when I was younger..." a wistful smile touched your lips before fading just as quickly, "...I used to sneak into my sister's chambers."

He looked back at you, "Rhaenyra?"

You nodded, "We never spoke about the dreams, we would simply talk until the sun came up."

The confession lingered quietly between you and Gwayne found himself smiling. He could picture it with surprising ease, a much younger princess padding barefoot through dark corridors with tangled silver hair, crawling beneath her elder sister's blankets simply because sleep had become too frightening to face alone.

The image was unexpectedly endearing.

Then he noticed something else. Every time he shifted, however slightly, you shifted too. It was subtle, the smallest instinctive retreat. Enough that the space between you never truly disappeared and his smile faded. He searched his memory for something, anything, that might explain it.

Had he spoken too harshly in the gardens? Had he frightened you that evening without realizing it? Or was it simply the marriage itself?

The thought settled heavily inside him.

After a long silence, he drew a quiet breath, "May I ask you something?"

You looked up cautiously before giving the faintest nod. He hesitated, not because he doubted the question, but because he feared the answer. "When I found you in the gardens..." his voice remained gentle, "...you looked at me as though you already knew who I was."

"And just now when I came to you..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "You looked almost frightened of me."

He searched your face, hoping to find an explanation there before he asked the question aloud, "Have I done something to deserve that?"

For a long moment you simply stared at him as your fingers twisted together beneath the blankets.

"I suppose you have not."

Not yet, the little voice in your head told you.

You stopped, struggling to shape feelings that had lived inside you since childhood into words another person might understand. The admission came little more than a whisper, "It is just that...the first time I dreamt of you, I was only a child."

His brows lifted in quiet surprise.

"I didn't know your name, I don't even think I knew what Oldtown was. I only know it was you because you were a knight wearing green."

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.

"So it is strange," you continued before he could tease you, "Meeting you, I mean."

You looked at him then, "It feels as though I have known you for years. As though, the night in the gardens was not our first meeting."

Gwayne felt something tighten unexpectedly in his chest. The thought was strangely beautiful. Somewhere, years before either of you had known the other's name, a lonely little princess had dreamed of a knight in green armor. And somehow, she had remembered him.

"I confess," he said after a moment, his voice carrying that same quiet warmth that had followed you throughout the evening, "I feel I have been placed at a considerable disadvantage."

You looked at him, your brows drawing together in sleepy confusion.

"You have known my face since you were a child," he continued, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. "You have spent years deciding what sort of man I am."

"And you?" you asked softly.

"I have scarcely had a week."

Despite everything, despite the lingering ache in your chest and the remnants of terror still clinging stubbornly to your mind, a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it, "I suppose that is rather unfair."

"I should think so," he replied. "I have had hardly enough time to convince my own wife that I am tolerable company."

"You have done..." You hesitated, lowering your eyes to your hands. "...better than I expected."

The admission surprised the both of you.

You had not meant to say it aloud. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to truly look at him, not at the knight who appeared in fragments of prophecy, nor at the stranger fate had insisted you marry, but simply at the man seated beside your bed in the middle of the night with sleep still clinging to his own eyes because he had risen the moment he heard you cry out.

He had asked nothing of you. Not obedience, affection, not even an explanation. Only whether you were well. The realization settled quietly somewhere deep inside your chest.

It made everything infinitely more difficult, because the man before you looked nothing like the one your dreams warned you about.

The silence between you was no longer uncomfortable. Outside the windows the castle had surrendered entirely to the night, the laughter from the feast long since faded until all that remained was the gentle crackling of the fire and the distant rush of wind against the towers.

Eventually Gwayne inclined his head toward the bed, "You should try to sleep again."

The answer came almost before he had finished speaking, "I cannot. The dreams will only return."

He considered your words for a long moment before speaking again, "Then they shall wake me as well. I'll remain here."

"You needn't. You have already done more than enough."

"I don't believe I have." His answer was gentle, but there was an unmistakable certainty beneath it. "If you wake frightened, then I shall wake with you."

He said it so simply that, for a moment, you wondered if he understood what he was promising. "You do not know what you are agreeing to."

"No," he admitted honestly, "But I know you should not have to face them alone."

Your throat tightened. You had spent so many years convincing yourself that the dreams belonged to you alone, that they were yours to endure and yours to hide, that hearing someone speak so matter-of-factly about sharing even the smallest part of that burden felt almost foreign. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you shifted beneath the blankets.

It was not an invitation so much as the smallest surrender and Gwayne seemed to understand the difference.

Silently he extinguished the last candle until only the embers in the hearth painted the room in shades of amber, then crossed quietly to the opposite side of the bed. He lay down carefully atop the covers, leaving enough space between the two of you that propriety remained untouched, his hands folded loosely across his chest as though he feared even the slightest movement might disturb you.

"Good night, Princess."

"Good night, Gwayne"

The distance made you smile despite yourself, then you closed your eyes once more. This time, sleep did not feel quite so terrifying even when you knew, with the same dreadful certainty that had followed you since childhood, that the dreams were waiting just beyond consciousness.

You had not told him everything. You had not told him about the dreams where you reached for him and he never reached back. The ones where you awoke every time with the unbearable certainty that, somehow, someday, he would become the source of a grief too great to imagine.

The thought lingered for only a moment before your gaze drifted toward the man lying quietly beside you. His breathing had already begun to deepen, though you suspected he was not truly asleep, listening instead for the slightest sign that another nightmare had found you.

The ache in your chest remained and yet, you chose not to dwell upon the future your dreams insisted awaited you.

That could wait until morning, tonight, you allowed yourself to remember the kinder dreams instead, the ones where a lonely little girl had found comfort in the company of a nameless knight dressed in green, long before she knew the sorrow the future promised.

And with those memories held close, you surrendered once more to sleep, choosing to believe in the dreams that had taught you how to love him before the ones that warned you how you might lose him.