gold Rush

“Lies.” You smirked. “Thought I would not insult you and pretend that I do not appreciate the sentiment.” 

“I am glad that my promise suits you.” Gwayne’s hand shot out, pulling you close to him. Your stomach flipped, wrapping your leg around his waist. “How fares the babe?” 

“She is eager, as always.” You grabbed at his wrist, guiding his hand to your stomach. “She wants her father.” 

“Soon, my love.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling when your eyes fluttered shut. “Soon.” 

“My lady.” 

You hummed, your hand shooting out to Gwayne’s side as you attempted to bury your face into the pillow. So he was gone. You frowned, another terribly life-like dream. Your maid, Lila, completely unaware of your melancholic state, laughed before attempting to wake you once more. “I hate to disturb you, but it is urgent. From Lord Hightower.” 

You shot up, heart beating faster than it should. “Gwayne has written?” 

“No, my lady.” Lila frowned. “It is from the Lord Hightower.” 

You huffed, letting yourself fall back into the comfort of your warm bed. “Read it to me then.” 

“He requests your presence in Tumbleton. He says he wants to-” She scoffed, and you pretended not to hear. “He wants to present a united front for the future king, Daeron.” 

You shot up once more. “Daeron? King?” 

“That is what he says, my lady.” 

“Is there anything else?” 

“He- he asks that you arrive as quickly as possible.” 

“I do not see how that will be possible, seeing as the roads are thick with thieves and Hightower enemies.” Your hand gravitated toward your swollen stomach. “I will not put my child in harm’s way for Ormund Hightower’s sake.” 

“He says that Daeron will come fetch you by Dragonback.” 

“Seven hells.” Your heart sank. “How will I bring my things-” 

“I will ensure everything is taken care of, my lady.” Lila rushes to rid you of your worries. “You must rest, and prepare yourself.” 

“Well said, Lila.” You stood, rounding your bed to don Gwayne’s robe. It still smelled ever so slightly of him, bringing you comfort in his absence. “I will break my fast in the gardens today.” 

“An excellent choice, my lady.”

 Daeron had grown since you last saw him.

Since Ormund took him away from the one home he had ever known to risk his life for the sake of glory. When you had last seen him, he had been three and ten, nearly four and ten. 

His voice was deeper, his eyes were sadder.

You wanted to kill Ormund. 

Ever the gentleman, Daeron helped you on and off of the Tessarion, his hand providing proof of you and Gwayne’s guidance, to always be kind, to always stay true to his heart.

You kissed his cheek, smiling brightly when his face turned bright red. “Have I embarrassed you, nephew?” 

“Compared to Uncle Ormund’s actions, it is nothing.” He quipped, linking your arm through his as he escorted you into the Tumbleton estate. “I have missed you.” 

“And I you, sweet boy.” You pulled him closer. “How have you fared since your departure?” 

“Well enough.” His smile was tight, secretive. “Others have it far worse than I. Others in this very city-” 

“I am well aware of other’s troubles, Daeron. We shall remedy that soon enough.” You stopped just before the door you assumed would lead you to Ormund, whispering. “I asked how you fared?” 

“I am fine.” He nodded, straightening his posture as if that would comfort you. It did not. “All is well.” 

“If you insist.” You huffed. “Shall we face the beast?” 

“Aunt!” Daeron’s eyes widened, collecting himself before he motioned to the guards to open the door.

“Cousin!” Ormund stood behind a great oak desk. “How good of you to join us.” 

“My lord.” You curtsied quickly. “How could I refuse such a kind invitation from the Lord of Oldtown?”

“Still…” Ormund had caught your obvious disdain for him the moment you entered the room. You were glad of it, if he had not, he would have been far stupider than you thought him to already be. “Is the babe-” You almost laughed at his attempt to show care. 

“Fine. Thank you.”

“I am sure after such an arduous journey, that you would like to rest.” 

“That would be most appreciated, my lord.” You squinted, wary of his sudden kindness. Ormund was not known for his consideration of others. 

“I have had the maids fix the finest room they could find. Daeron shall escort you.” He sat at the table, plopping a grape into his mouth casually. “And I shall see you in the morrow.” 

You curtsied once more before bidding him goodbye. “Good evening.” 

“Good evening.” 

Had Ormund broken? 

Yes, he had. 

This very morning, he, in the same breath, denied Lord and Lady Footling their bedchambers, threatened to end their lives, and swore that his men would be on their best behavior, all whilst bare as the day he was born.

Now, he asks that you come along to deal with a diplomacy issue. 

Lady Footling is as fierce as she is proud, stepping forward to confront the intruder of her home once more. “You said your men were honorable. This one-” She pointed to the Hightower knight standing to her right, his face bloodied and beaten. “Has sinned.”

“I was billeted at the smithy, my lord. But the smith didn’t like it. Mayhaps he resents the imposition or mayhaps he is loyal to Rhaenyra. But he struck me.”

“My lord.” The smith stepped forward. “Now, if it please you, we bear you no ill will. But this man went to ravish my sister and then broke my wife’s arm when she tried to stop him. She is a weaver. We need what little she earns.”

“Is this true?” Ormund looked at the Hightower knight with a look of neutrality. You do not trust him for a moment.

“No, my lord.” The knight replies.

Cries break out as a result. The women look utterly fearful, on the verge of tears when Ormund raises his hand. “I will have calm. What is your name?” 

“Garrick, my lord, of Whitegrove.” 

“Garrick of Whitegrove. You have violated guest right. You have debauched yourself upon a woman and injured another. Your punishment will fit your crime. You will be gelded, and you will have your own arm broken. You may remain in my service, but trespass again, and you will hang.”

The knight’s face was white. “My lord. I have a wife.” 

“You should have thought of that then,” You stepped forward. “Before you attempted to defile a woman’s virtue. The House of Hightower will not allow this dishonorable act to go unpunished.”

Ormund said nothing, simply signaling the knights to take him away. “See them home. Have a maester tend to their wounds.” He waited until their ears were out of reach to address Daeron. “We must keep a firm grip, tensions are high. Lawlessness and disorder claw at our gates.”

“Yes, sire.” 

“And your aunt is right.” He smiled firmly. “House Hightower will not allow its honor to be questioned.” 

“She is quite beautiful.” You whisper, caressing Tessarion’s snout sweetly. “Sweet too.” 

“Is she much different from the dragons you have known in the past?” Daeron pressed his forehead against her scales. “I have none to compare her to, it would seem.” 

“In stature, no. She is very similar to your-” You gulped, wondering how you might rephrase your answer. “To your sister’s dragon.” 

“Dreamfyre?” Daeron’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I have heard she is of a similar color. Kind too.” 

“Yes.” You pursed your lips. Thank the gods you did not mention Syrax. “Has she been out since you escorted me here?” 

“No.” He frowned. “She longs to fly. We hardly ever have the chance as of late.”

“She will feel the wind beneath her wings once more, I am sure of it.” 

Tessarion purred from the loss of his touch. He smiled, leaning his forehead against her once more.  “Patience, my girl. It won’t be long.”  

A high screech left the dragon’s mouth, startling you. “I have warned you against indulging in affection for that beast.” 

Tessarion grew restless, bellowing at the Hightower lord. You fought the smirk that was forming on your lips: even the dragon could sense how dismal his presence was. “Lykiri.” 

“Have you come down here to try and dull his longing to ride?” Ormund addressed you.

“Quite the opposite.” You smiled tightly. “He is a Targaryen, he should want to bond with his dragon.” You stepped forward, pulling your robes closer. “Or would you deny him his birthright?” 

Ormund chose not to respond, simply ignoring your act of defiance. “You are a good boy. You speak kindly, and you say your prayers. I have raised you in the light of the Seven, and the Father smiles upon you. But there is a taint in your blood. The Targaryens are a savage race, poor in intellect, but rich in cunning. With dark spells, they created abominations to subdue what was rightly ours. We are the superior men. But against that, we could not stand.” Tessarion growled as Ormund placed, or at least tried to, his hand on Daeron's shoulder. “The gods have put you to divine purpose, my boy.” 

“What purpose, sire?” 

“The brutes raise a woman to the Iron Throne. A desecration!” You held your tongue, deciding not to remind the man that Alicent had sat the throne for years in Viserys stead. “It was a blessing that you came to ward in Oldtown. Your brothers are lost, but you remain a Hightower, raised in the shadow of the Citadel, in the light of the Starry Sept. Now, you must be king.” 

Amongst other unfortunate virtues, your cousin (by marriage) was overbearing and intense. He could not lose, and he could not admit any wrongdoing. When his mind was set on a path, there was no changing it. You had witnessed many a passionate speech from the man, and this was shaping up to be one that you wanted to leave. 

And you would have, if not for Daeron’s sake. 

“You would not wish, surely, for me to turn cloak against my brothers.”

You stepped forward, grabbing Daeron’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze as Ormund walked up the stairs and motioned towards the door.

Your eyes widened as Ormund’s right hand man dragged in the smith from earlier, whose wife had been assaulted. A hand subconsciously fell to your stomach, fear coursing through your veins. “I thought you let him go.” 

“A righteous king must demonstrate he upholds many virtues. Honor, wisdom, justice.” 

“He only acted when our man attacked a woman.” 

“He laid hands on a Hightower.” 

“You speak of justice yet you punish this man for something you yourself condemned.” You stepped forward, putting yourself between Daeron and the madman. “You are committing a grave mistake.” 

“Quiet, woman. That soldier is an extension of you, of the crown. Justice must be done.” “Is not mercy a kingly virtue?” Your heart swelled with pride at Daeron’s argument. 

“That sounds like something your father would say.”

You pushed Daeron back, glaring as Ormund took a step closer, and drew his sword. “He is a boy, Ormund.” 

“He is the king.” 

“He is not the king!” You yelled. “He is sweet, and he is kind. You cannot force him to carry out your ventures. It is not right.” 

“What is not right is you speaking out of turn-” 

“I beg your pardon?” You clenched your hands into tight fists. “He will not do it.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron whispered. “It is alright, truly.” 

“I will do it in his stead-” Your eyes welled up. “He’s just a boy. My boy.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron stepped around you, grabbing the sword from his uncle’s hands. “It must be done.” 

“Daeron, please-” 

He stood tall, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he stared at the smith. “Do not look. It will only upset you more.”

Your sleep was plagued with visions of Gwayne, both real memories and falsified. Your longing for your husband had gotten to the point where you considered sleeping forever so you could at least see him there.

You laid on your lounge chair, staring out the window of your chambers. If you could not sleep, perhaps you could daydream. Tumbleton was loud, louder than Oldtown ever was, even on its busiest day. You could not leave the estate, courtesy of Ormund’s lockdown. Not leaving the estate ruined your plans of exploring the city, handing out food to those less fortunate, and roaming the woods. 

All things you could do freely in Oldtown. All things you could be doing with Gwayne if his cousin had simply bent the knee and left this mess alone.

Instead, you were stuck here, like a prisoner in a dank cell.

A cell that had its own maid and delicious food, courtesy of the Footly’s chef, Mrs. Allen.

You were much more well off than most, you reminded yourself.

That didn’t stop you, however, from storming out of your room, your skirts swishing side to side, as you prepared to confront your cousin. Ormund sat behind his obnoxiously large desk, staring at a paper like it had personally offended him. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Daydreaming would have to wait for another day. “I’ve been awake for hours, thank you.” You scoffed. “If you must know, I have been avoiding your presence.” 

“What have I done to upset you this time?” He sat back in his chair, smug as ever. 

“Other than refusing to let me return home and be at peace?” 

“Yes.” 

“You treat that boy-” You pointed to Daeron, who was dead silent, most likely in fear of being punished by his tyrant of an uncle. “Like a prize to be won. Not like the child that he is-” 

“He is six and ten.” 

“I believe you yourself were nine and ten when your father finally let you enter a tourney. Interesting, how you are permitted to shy away from the complexities of court, yet Daeron is forced to entertain your kingly notions.” 

He glared. “Get to the point.” 

“You must see reason and relinquish this city. Go back to Oldtown in good faith, and try to reach an agreement with the Queen.” 

“The Queen?” Ormund smirked. “Are you implying that Aegon, and by association, his younger brothers, are not the true line?” 

“I am implying that she is currently the Queen. Aegon and Aemond have fled.” You crossed your arms. “Do not twist my words. Surely, you see that-” 

“Darling?” Your breath catches as you whip around. Perhaps, you reason with yourself, this is all part of another of your terrifyingly realistic dreams. You pray that the auburn haired knight in front of you is not a trick of the light. “Are you alright, my love?”

Stalking forward, you grab his face in your hands, squeezing his cheeks lightly. “Are you real?” 

“Oh, my girl.” His hands grab at your hips, pulling you close. “I have missed you so-”

You pull your hands from his face, shoving at his chest between each word. “You left me!” 

“What is the meaning of this?” A deep frown forms on his weary face.

“You left me with him!” Tears threaten to fall from your eyes. “Do you have any idea the things-” 

Ormund cannot help but glare. “Watch your tongue, woman-” 

“Shut your mouth, Ormund.” You hiss.

Gwayne grabs your wrists, halting your attack, and perhaps in the process, saving everyone from the wrath of his cousin. “I have craved your touch for two moons now. Surely, you can wait to reprimand me until after I have bathed.” 

“You-” The tears released in steady streams. “I worried you were dead.” 

He pulled you close, kissing your lips gently. “Do not cry, my love, please.” 

“I cannot help it.” You huffed. “You did this to me.” 

“Did what exactly?” He laughs. You stepped back, motioning to your stomach. He raised an eyebrow, visibly confused. “I-” 

You turned to the side, letting the shape of your gown give him an indication as to what you could be implying. “Gwayne-” 

“Are you-” He grinned, stepping forward. “Are you with child?” 

“As much as I hate to interrupt this touching reunion-” Ormund cleared his throat. “You must tell me why you are here. I believed you to be in the woods with Criston Cole.”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, and you frowned, caressing his cheek gently. “Are you alright, my love?”

 “Ser Criston stayed to fight the Tully army with our remaining men.” 

“And so, he fights on, and yet you have returned. Because…” 

“Because fighting on is madness.” When you really look at your husband, you see sadness, a broken man whose values had been proven extinct long ago.

“Do you think me mad, Your Grace?” Ormund looks at Daeron expectantly. 

“No, sire.” 

“You mean to fight on?” Gwayne scoffs. “With what? There’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us, and five more not thirty leagues away.” 

“Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, squeamish.”

“If your host leaves these walls, they burn.” Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “Aemond has fled, and Rhaenyra holds my sister hostage. The River army draws closer by the day. You have put these countless peoples lives in jeopardy, my wife and unborn child’s lives in jeopardy. What possible course is there to remedy this?” 

“Your uncle lacks imagination as well as courage.” Gwayne squeezes your hand, noticing when your eyes ignite with a dangerous look. Daeron smiles at the quip, and you can’t help it when your heart breaks just a little. “I would take one Hightower sword over three Tully mudmen. When the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our terms, our grounds. We have the clear advantage. The great houses cannot help but come to our side.” 

“Have any yet come?” A laugh leaves your lips, and you slap a hand over your mouth, looking away. 

“The patient hunter gets the kill. Something our most craven must learn.” 

“I have marched a long road, fought and killed, and suffered my comrades to be killed about me.” 

“Yes, you have endured much.” Ormund leans against his desk, a sly smirk etched on his lips. “I’m sure you found solace in your brothers at arms.” 

“I am fatigued.” Gwayne does not give way to his cousin’s taunts. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a feather bed, and months since I’ve held my wife. By your leave.” 

“You might escort your Aunt and Uncle to their quarters, Your Grace. Make sure he bathes.” He laughs, calling out after you. “Oh, and mind yourself. Keep your back to the wall.” 

You see red as you reach out, gripping Daeron’s wrist. “We’re leaving. Do not listen to that craven man.”

Gwayne waits until they’ve turned the corner to speak. “He calls you Your Grace?” 

“I’m sorry, I had to get through it.” 

“And this is your way? Fawning?” 

You whisper, wary of being watched. “Daeron knows how to deal with the man. Ormund has reached a new height of madness, one you and I have never seen.”

“He has styled you the bloody king,” Gwayne grumbles.

“Well, you left me alone with him. You know what he is. I do what I can.” 

“You have done as well as anyone can, my boy.” You kiss the back of his hand. “But you know as well as I that your Uncle had no choice but to leave.” 

“It certainly didn’t grieve him to ride away.” Daeron ripped his hand from your hold, standing in the middle of the hall. 

Gwayne scoffed. “Mind yourself, Daeron.” 

“Gwayne-” 

“I hate who I am with him, and you- you don’t understand. He wants me to be the king. It is his greatest ambition.” 

“Then tell him you won’t do it.” 

“Who will protect me then?”

“You could cast him down.” Gwayne smiled. “If you were king.” 

“A merciful and noble king. You would be even better than your father.” You reassured. “I know it.” 

“I will never be king, Aunt.” 

“I must-” Gwayne groaned. “I must bathe. Bath and lie down.” 

“You will stay?” The boy sounded hopeful for the first time in months.

“And do what? Bear witness as Ormund marches our house to its doom? I’m second in line. I shall return to Oldtown and prepare to pick up the pieces.” 

“Don’t leave me again.” Daeron cried. “Please.” 

“You would be more than welcome to come with us, my sweet.” You look at Gwayne, whose face is blank. 

“He’s Ormund’s treasure now. He’ll be safer here.” 

You scoffed. “Surely, you do not mean that. Daeron, do not listen to-” But Daeron had left, and all the joy you’d felt when you’d seen your husband turned to anger. “Why would you say that to him?” 

“Darling-” 

“I cannot begin to describe the anger I feel towards you at this very moment.” You hissed, stalking around him. 

“You must understand-” 

You whipped around, your eyes fiery as you spoke. “I understand nothing. And seeing as you refuse to talk to me about the hardships you have faced-” 

“I have not had the chance.” He stepped forward. “If you recall, I’ve only just arrived.” 

“And what an impact you have made.” You scoffed. “Destroying what was left of that boy’s happiness.” 

“You cannot meant to imply-” 

“And yet I have.” You shoved past him. “Do not speak to me for the rest of the evening.” 

Gwayne’s eyes had not left you since your disagreement, bearing into your soul. You hated him for it: he had found the loophole in your request. 

You never said he couldn’t look at you. 

It didn’t help you in the slightest that, as angry as you were with him at the moment, your heart screamed for him, your skin craved his touch. Still, you glared. “Could you look elsewhere?” 

“I seem to recall a time when you begged for me to look upon you.” 

You stared at the ceiling. “Do you think me vain?” 

“Not at all.” The water splashed as he sat up in the bath. “I find you to be a perfectly well-balanced lady.” 

You squinted, wary of his kindness. “Do not try to blind me with your false niceties.” 

“You know as well as I that the things I tell you are not false.” He pauses for a moment, trying to catch your eyes. When you refuse to look at him, he continues. “Do you know how miserable it truly is to be fighting, to be away from one's home?"

You shake your head, and he nods. "I thought as such."

"That does not serve as an excuse to- to act a villain."

"Is that what you think of me?" When you do not respond, he looks away, eyes dark. "What a sad revelation."

"Gwayne-"

"Do you know what I thought of when I was away?” You shrug, your heart pumping wildly. “I thought of you. Only you-” 

“I cannot-” Your voice gave out, and so you stood, leaving his side to give yourself some respite. 

“I thought of-” His voice broke. “You in the morning,  when I’d wake before you and watch as you laid there, not a care in the world. The peace you had, the soft smile your lips carried. You turned your back to him, staring out the window as silent tears fell down your cheeks. “I would remind myself of that image, of your image, every time we went into battle. I love you so intensely that it hurts my soul.” In the middle of all the emotion, he had left the bath, appearing behind you with the stealth of an assassin. 

You leaned your back against his chest, eyes shut as his hands wrapped gently around your waist. “You are my whole world, my whole life. Do not think for a moment that I too did not want you by my side every waking moment you were gone. When I learned I was with child, I sobbed for days. All I did was wail for you from our bed, wishing that you would survive this bloody war.” You turn in his hold. “Never doubt my love for you. Never.” His forehead fell to lay against yours, his eyes falling to your lips with every breath. “I am upset with you because I know the man you are. And the man you are would never address that darling boy the way you have today.” 

“I am sorry-” 

“It is not I that you must apologize to.” Your hands shamelessly drifted up his bare chest, heat rising to your cheeks. “Please talk to him. Before it is too late. Before we-” You gulped. “Before we inevitably-” 

“I swear on the old gods and the new, that nothing will happen to you or the babe. You will be safe from whatever we face here.” His chest heaved as his hands drifted up and down the side of you. “I made a vow to protect, and I will die before I see you breathe your last breath.” 

“You are terribly dutiful.” You stretched your neck, delicately kissing the corner of his mouth. “But you do admit that you were callous with Daeron.” 

“I will apologize to him on the morrow, this I swear to you.” He nudged his nose against your jaw, tilting your head to make way for his affection. Slowly, his lips leave feathery kisses down your jaw and neck, stealing your very breath from out of your lungs. 

“Gwayne-” You gasp. “I- you-” 

“What?” He teased, knowing that your mind was finding it extremely difficult to form coherent thoughts. He knew this, because he had reacted the same. “I cannot begin to decipher what you are thinking if you cannot tell me-” 

“You are cruel.” Your voice sounded utterly wrecked. “So terribly cruel.”

“I would hope my wife would never utter those words.” He laughed. “But under these circumstances, I will allow it.”

The sun shone through the curtains, and you hummed. Your hands rose to your eyes, rubbing the sleep away. They slowly opened, an immediate sense of dread settling over you, the worst racing through your mind.

Had Gwayne truly returned, or had you dreamt it in order to deal with the pain that came with being apart? Your head whipped to the other side of the bed, a soft laugh leaving your lips.

Gwayne looked utterly exhausted. His mouth was open ever so slightly, his hair a mess from tossing and turning. You clung to his side, planting sweet kisses on his chest, still in disbelief that he was really, truly with you.

His hand wrapped around your waist, his eyes still closed as he pressed a kiss to your temple, grumbling a quiet good morning.

Thank the gods this is not a dream.

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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.

but you, his lady wife, find in him an eager learner. where other men might scoff, he possesses only curiosity. he’ll watch you embroidering, eyes narrowed, puzzling over how you can create so many different shapes just with needle and thread. and what’s this one called? he’ll ask each time he sees a new stitch. whip stitch, chain stitch, back stitch, he’ll learn them all and file them away in his mind so that when he looks over your shoulder and says blanket stitch? you’ll give him a proud smile and a yes! that makes his chest swell.

there are some assumptions that need undoing, of course. he quickly finds that what he did think he knew of women are mere generalizations. perhaps his confusion is too obvious when he finds you deep in the pages of a book on the flora and fauna of the reach. detailed anatomical drawings and measurements adorn the pages. do you think ladies only read poetry and romances? you’ll tease (and perhaps, indeed, he had not expected you to have such scholarly interests).

then there is your daily routine: hair, jewels, perfume, layers upon layers of skirts. what is this made of, valyrian steel? he mutters whilst attempting to undo the clasp of your necklace. it takes him several evenings before he masters the art of unlacing your corset (a skill which, he insists, any good husband ought to have). does this not pain you? he asks, genuine worry etched onto his forehead. it’s the price one pays to be shapely, you reply, though that does not seem to ease his concern. the only shape i wish to see you in is this one, he’ll murmur, smoothing his hands down to your hips once your corset has been discarded to the floor. he’ll show you exactly how much he venerates your bare body when it’s free of all the vestiges of daily life.

not to mention the matter of your moonblood. he’ll find you abed with a cool cloth on your forehead or a hearth-warmed stone pressed to your back. when you teach him that there’s far more to your cycle than merely bleeding, it’s as if you’ve unveiled a dark secret. but gods be damned if he doesn’t see to it that every month hence, you’re brought warm compresses and teas to soothe an aching head before you even need to ask.

At first, when Gwayne regained the scraps of his own consciousness, he wasn’t sure if he should chuckle at his luck, thank the gods or cry out from the pain. He wished to do it all at once, and yet it seemed too difficult in his dreamy state. He was dizzy from blood loss and the herby scent in his bedroom.

All that occupied his mind, no matter if he was awake or fell into the grasp of suffering and delusion, was the memory of you. It was strangely comforting. Even as a little boy he imagined it to be the grand order of things in the world – a wounded or dying knight was bid to dream about his lady wife. Or a future one, that is.

Back then he imagined the woman of his life to be his friend as well. A trustee that he could lay his heart out for without worry. Someone who would listen and share. He thought about being gifted a bow made of lace that belonged to her when he left for one of his brave, knightly adventures…

But then he grew up, matured, and the ‘adventures’ turned into handling a pack of deathly outlaws that rummaged the nearby lands and the lady of his heart was a betrothed that he had only seen twice during one day.

The first one was in the dim morning before his departure. He watched you from afar, didn’t dare to speak or approach, but his eyes seemed to be glued to your figure. He wished that he would be able to turn and walk away, not wanting to stare at  a lady who wasn’t aware of being watched, but he simply couldn’t.

He wasn’t exactly enamoured, not in love at first sight as some said he should be, but he stood there at the top of the hill and his body refused to move. It was an awe of some kind, that for sure.

It has been barely a day after you traveled to Oldtown – sadly he couldn’t welcome you himself, leaving that job to his father – and the walls were apparently already choking you. That’s at least what he saw on your face when you strolled down the glade. Relief and calmness as if you were allowed to take a deep breath after a time of suffocating inside.

When the expedition that he was about to lead to take care of the rogues once for good was decided, he didn’t mind leaving at all. The order was given by his cousin just a few days before your announced arrival in the city and Gwayne felt a pinch of disappointment about that, but he did nothing to change the matter.

Not because he didn’t care about you as a future spouse, but because it was necessary. Someone had to put an end to the suffering of the smallfolk and attacks upon the Hightower caravans and the gods wanted it to be him. Simple as that. He didn’t think too much about it, but the idea of your possible approval made him bolder.

Perhaps you would feel safe knowing he was a man who could manage the lands of his family, his people. His thieves and murderers as well… It could be naive to think you even cared, he deduced, but there was a chance, right? You certainly deserved to feel safe. His mind was very strictly set on that and for a long while there was no hesitation in him.

And yet when he saw you there in the morning he truly wished that he could stay.

It was an ethereal sight in a way that he could not put into words exactly. Something chaste and pure that at the same time made him feel warm all over his body. He set his eyes on the silks, the light nightgown, not see-through at all but still delicate. The material shone in the pale sun in a way that made him want to touch it. Its ends got wet from the morning dew as it almost danced around you when you walked through the high grass.

He could clearly see when you stopped in worry and looked around, certainly feeling watched. He took a deep breath and straightened his back before moving into the castle. He had no business here, after all, scaring his dear lady. His wife-to-be…

You grimaced and pulled your cloak more over your shoulders. You thought that it was a mistake, even if the anxious feeling didn’t appear again.

You were indulging in your silly wants too much probably and too early after getting here. You could allow such things at home, even if you were always met with a punishment, but here? “Someone could think that you’re out of your mind”, said your father once during your travel here, lecturing about your customs that he called fussy and not suitable for a lady.

Well, even if it was indeed a mistake, it was a sweet one for Gwayne.

The sight stayed with him. Warmed him during the lonesome nights that he spent on the ground in his poorly made tent with his company. Usually he cared for his own comfort but now there was no time for making a better camp or finding an inn. Now he didn't care.

He wanted to go back as quickly as possible.

It was also the last thing that moved in front of his eyes before a mace crashed into his side and he let out a scowl worthy of a wounded animal.

You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of worry that settled under your skin or the thunder that roared in the distance that kept you awake. You didn’t peek in the mirror in the dim light of the candles but you could already feel how puffed your eyes were from the lack of sleep.

You weren’t the only one who felt deeply disturbed. Your dear, loyal servant joined you in your chamber somewhere around midnight with a hushed apology and begged so you would let her stay by your side. There’s something eerie about this night, milady, she said, something very wrong about it, I tell you. Even if you wished to scold her for her superstition, you felt it too.

So you spent the night together, calming each other by soft conversations and hushed laughter. 

Finally when the colour of the sky turned from deep black into grim blue, you could hear someone run through the corridor. You were unused to the sounds of the High Tower; the echoes often morphed into the sounds coming from the port, never failing to make you shiver or look over your shoulder. And yet still you could recognize that something was wrong now.

There was surely some confusion downstairs from the chamber that was given to you and you could even tell apart a few familiar voices.

Your servant scoffed and told you not to eavesdrop under the door as it’s ‘unladylike’.

“And being uninformed isn’t?” You muttered back, causing the good girl to roll her eyes.

“Fine,” she said and bowed in an unserious manner, “fine, my dearest lady. I will go check it for you.”

And she did, even though you could tell that she was even more anxious than in the night. Perhaps there was really something bad in the air…

Waiting for her to come back you moved to the window and watched the first light and last drops of the night’s rain.

She ran back inside as if something was burning behind her. She almost tripped into a nearby cabinet, barely managing to close the door before raising her voice.

“Otto Hightower wants to see you. It's about the young ser, m'lady!” She made a dramatic pause to take a breath.

“Ser Gwayne?”

“Aye! Some say he's dead,” she reported.

It almost made you drop the gown that you tried to wrap around your shoulders. You gulped hardly, feeling a knot growing in your throat. 

Gods. Over the day you have spent in Oldtown you rushed your thoughts away from him, always indulging in too much worry. You found it impossible to approach the matter with calmness, so you simply decided that it will all solve itself when you finally face him for longer. Why panic about the things you cannot change, after all?

You pitted the poor knight deeply when you heard about his condition, but you kept your hopes. You weren’t given any details about his injury anyway upon the request of your father and the ‘good will’ from Lord Otto.

But if the young Hightower was gone, or at least in critical state, then what would happen to you? You got used to being a lady in a strange town, waiting for her future husband, even if the title grew bitter on your tongue, but now? Not even married properly and already tied to a dead man…

Your maid noticed your trembling look, almost sick. She was pale herself but she moved to help you with your cloak and rubbed your shoulders.

“We have to rush, m'lady,” she instructed gently

You breathed the morning air, trying to calm yourself. “Yes… As you say.”

Moving through the staircases of the Tower you could spot how unfamiliar it was in comparison to its looks during the day. Night still lingered in the corridors, despite the first rays of the sun. You understood the seriousness of the situation – at least you thought so – and yet you regretted not taking the time to put on your gown. You shivered from the cold, wearing only your nightwear under the cloak that at least protected your dignity.

There was something pleased in the eyes of your lord father when you finally joined him and Lord Otto Hightower. As if he was glad you look a bit disheveled. A look of a woman who truly tried to rush. You weren’t sure if it was a display of your devotion to the marriage, but if so, then so be it. Faked one, surely, but only you would know. You and your servant, that is.

“You took your time, girl,” he greeted grimly. Apparently it was his rule to always scold you, always say you could do better even if he knew it was impossible.

“I–” your voice died in your throat when you spotted the worried looks of people around. You decided to merely bow to your father before turning to Lord Hightower. “I offer my apologies if I made you wait too long, my lord.”

You knew it was better to pretend you were absolutely oblivious. Jumping in with questions about Gwayne’s health would surely be improper.

He welcomed your words with a calm half-smile, but you could tell he was deathly worried. His typical compostured face stayed the same and yet there was fear in his eyes.

“It is about my son,” he said slowly, as if it pained him to use his voice. “His condition turned worse, my lady, and he asked for–”

“He's not dead then?” It broke out of your mouth before you could bite your tongue. Gods, you cringed at the awful silence your words caused and could almost hear your father’s jaw clenching. “I–I feared the worst, forgive me…” you tried to explain.

Lord Otto shook his head and offered a comforting expression.

“He is not dead, no,” he assured. “He wishes to see you.”

Your breath hitched and you caved under the need to look at your father.

“Me?” You repeated.

“You are his betrothed, after all.”

You nodded in obedience, certainly not willing to argue in such a position. Fair, you were his betrothed but he only saw you once… You were sure you could never forget the way he looked sitting on his horse, bowing his head when he spotted you. Well, you never imagined he could be as impressed by your presence as you were with his.

Your father was deeply offended when he first heard that Gwayne was to depart from the city just a day after your arrival. You were much more dull about it, listening to the stories of a band of murderers, rapists and thieves who deserved to be banished or hanged with little interest.

From what you've been told the young Ser Hightower made it all about his dignity and skills, tracking them for many days that you spent in an unfamiliar city. You wished you could detest him in the depth of your heart. It would somehow be comforting if you were allowed to hate him for showing so little interest in you, and yet your own nature didn’t let you.

It was flattering when someone said he left to impress you, wanting to prove that he could not out protect his city but also you, as a wife. But it meant nothing in the face of the facts. If all the careful plans went well, you would already be his… And here you were. Not yet a wife, still with your father and with a husband-to-be on the edge of death.

Your hopes and dreams weren’t grand, not unreachable. Just that he would be a friendly soul… Apparently the gods decided it was too bold anyway. Like you were being punished for ever wanting a good fate for yourself.

You followed the men that led you to Ser Gwayne’s bedroom that you have avoided during the last days. You were too afraid of being spotted and too afraid to hear groans of pain coming from inside.

“My lady,” Otto approached you again. “Please, keep it in your mind that my son is…” He didn’t finish, clearly troubled by his own thoughts. With a shake of his head he placed a hand on your shoulder. “We shall pray for his recovery and that's all we can do. Do not take the things he might say to your heart and don't treat his promises seriously.”

What a strange thing to come out of a worried father’s mouth. Whatever he might have meant by that, you nodded.

“As you say, Lord Otto.”

“Please,” he said, opening the door for you and letting you pass.

You almost jumped in place when the heavy oak wood shut behind you with a whack. It was nothing, you told yourself, just facing a wounded man, but it sure felt like walking into lion’s jaws.

The place was dark for many days now due to the thick drapes. It carried this specific aura of a tomb, if you were honest with yourself. Something half-dead, a bit forgotten and worrying. You allowed yourself to breathe in the scent of herbs, candles and something unfamiliar. Something… manly, perhaps.

You wanted to speak up, greet the resting man, but the first thing you noticed when you looked at the bed was how evenly his chest raised and fell. His face was pale beyond comprehension but calm, with his eyes closed.

Gods be merciful…

You heard the whispers that even when he was conscious his mind wasn't really here and now they have sent you to him. He was no dragon and you were no sheep on a slaughter but you felt equally out of place.

Even if it was the truth that he had asked for you, he fell asleep again, so what were you supposed to do? What if he's scared by waking up to the sight of an almost unfamiliar face? What if it would harm his fragile health now?

But you couldn't walk out like that. What would you say to his father? That the sight of his almost vulnerable figure on the bed scared you too much?

That would be a lie too pathetic that could set a bad light on you. You weren’t scared of him, anyway. He looked in that peculiar way that makes others want to care for the sick and poor. It crossed your mind that you would feel humiliated if the roles were turned. If it was you on the big bed, covered in damp, bloody dressings and only a linen shirt, and him standing over you.

You sat next to him on the bed slowly, clearing your throat in hopes he would wake up. He reacted with a small grimace, but that was it. With a deep sigh you released some of your nerves and looked around before your eyes returned to him.

You noticed that his hand laid on the sheets, close to you. Not sure what possessed you, you decided to brush it gently at first. His skin wasn’t as cold as you imagined it to be. Quite the opposite, actually. Emboldened by how it felt against your touch you moved to pick it up and lay on your palm. With a gentle squeeze you looked up at his face.

“You cannot die,” you whispered at first, testing the sound of your own voice in the overwhelmingly silent room. Then you spoke up firmly. “You can't die, my lord, because I refuse to go back home and remain by my father's side. That is simply not happening, so you must–”

His hand seemed to turn even warmer in your hold and twitched. Before you could realize that his fingers wrapped around your wrist you heard a snarl. Then the man fell into a fit of laughter, making you stand up in shock, but his grip kept you close.

The laugh turned into cough rather quickly and you consider it his punishment for scaring you. Even though he was fighting to take a deep breath in his weak state, he never dropped his hand from yours. He brushed it in curious affection, like he was testing the feeling of your skin, just like you did with his, just less boldly.

“You've fooled me,” you muttered, still shaken up. “I thought you were asleep.”

It was an instinct when you moved to fix the pillow Gwayne was resting on. He offered you a grateful smile and tried to sit up a little when the cough left. His deep blue eyes met you. With utter seriousness, for the first time. They were bleaker, much more tired than when you saw them for the last time in the courtyard as he sat on his horse proudly.

His voice was different too, but you weren’t about to lie and say that the husky undertone didn’t make you shiver.

“And you almost fooled me into thinking that you don't care about my health, just your own comfort,” he said slowly.

You weren’t sure if he was mocking you or naming his true accusations.

“I… my lord, that is–” you tried to explain, but he smiled again, brighter this time and squeezed your hand again.

“I'm jesting, my lady,” he cut in to end your internal panic.

His jaw clenched and he let out a grunt when he tried to shift and make himself more comfortable. He looked over his body in the bed under the covers with the sight of a man truly tired of his own disposition. “I pray you can forgive me for making you wait so long,” he spoke up a bit quieter. Bitter, like he was angry with himself. “I never imagined it to go that way.”

“There is nothing to be forgiven, my lord,” you assured.

If you weren’t convinced about it before and harboured some harm, then it disappeared the moment you saw how sorry he looked.

“I hurt you, though, with my recklessness–"

“It is not your fault, my lord. I just hope that the man who did it to you was punished.”

He smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes. He paid for it, you have my word.” He shook the cold look off of his face quickly and moved your touching hands closer to his lap. “And please, my lady, call me by my name.”

“Well, Gwayne.” You nodded slowly and tested it on your tongue.. “You sound…”

“Not as out of my mind as they say?” He offered when you struggled to find the right words. You read some mischief from his face. One corner of his lips twitched up. “Did they scare you by telling you that I can't control my drooling or forgot how to speak the common tongue?”

You shook your head. It was hard to understand his good mood in such a weird position but you guessed it couldn’t go better than that.

“They just said you are unwell,” you explained. “In body and mind.”

“In body and mind,” he repeated, almost giggling. “Well, I won't bore you with how rugged my body feels, but my mind is quite alright. Even if my head feels like it crashed with the grand bell in the sept.”

You stared at him for a while, tormenting him with silence and cracked a smile eventually. “Aren't you cheeky?” You muttered, rather pleased with what a man Gwayne seemed to be.

You didn’t imagine him too much, but you would never guess he would be so… serene.

“Cheeky?” He laughed again. “You not only offend your future husband but also a suffering man. Anyway, it is better to be cheeky than cruel, my lady, even if you might find it similar.”

You felt too troubled to answer that immediately. 

“Your father worries a lot,” you informed, lightly hinting that it could be his share of cruelty.

Clearly he spotted it because he rolled his eyes, still with a smile.

“Yes, I can tell,” he said.

“He truly thinks you might die.”

“But I might die, indeed,” he argued. “He’s right to worry.

Oh, you saw dying men before and he wasn't one of them, that was sure. Not now when he spoke to you, joked and mocked.

“Can you keep a secret, my lady?” He asked and his eyes brightened when you nodded even if he wasn’t really waiting for that. “The maesters… They ask many dull questions that I don't wish to answer. They make me feel like I’m going mad, so naturally that slows the recovery, am I not right?”

“I suppose,” you mumbled unconvinced.

“See? It's easier to pretend I’m a little worse than I truly am and not have to speak.”

You blinked, looking at him in silence for a while. Gods, what a menace… You were going to absolutely adore that man.

“People are frightened for your life,” you tried to reason, keeping your composter despite the wish to actually burst out laughing.

“As am I,” he said stubbornly. “Or was, at least…  Well, do not think I take it lightly.”

“I guess… I guess what matters is that you are better now, Gwayne. It makes me happy.”

“And it makes me happy to finally be able to speak to you. I can’t name the anger I feel for how wrong the arrangement turned out.”

“It’s not so tragic,” you disagreed. “It is merely postponed, I imagine.”

“Yes, I hope so. Could you open the drapes, perhaps? I would like to see you, my lady, if you don’t mind,” he asked with gentleness that offered you the chance to refuse if you wanted.

You grew nervous nonetheless. “It is barely bright outside.”

He heard the anxiety in your voice.

“No worries, my lady,” he spoke up and you could hear him joking again, “I don't have my father's judging eyes, you have my word.”

“Won't the light bother you?” You asked to make sure before pulling on the heavy material that covered the windows.

“Not if you do it slowly. Please.”

You could spot the carefulness that he watched you with. He didn’t study nor rate you, no. He simply took you in, noticing all the small differences that he couldn’t see when he watched you that day on the glade.

You were growing restless under his gaze but it was him who turned away first. He looked down rather unexpectedly, his cheeks painted with a blush.

“Do you…” You cleared your throat. “Well, do you like what you see, Gwayne?”

He wanted to say that he did and knew it for a long time now. But wouldn’t that be too bold? Wouldn’t you think that your looks were all that he cared about?

“Naturally,” he finally answered, something terribly bashful in his voice. “I don’t want to show lack of respect by saying how unbearably beautiful you are to me…”

Unbearably beautiful? You almost smile to yourself at how weird it sounded. He realized it to.

“That might not be the luckiest choice of words, I’m afraid. Forgive me. I’m still just a wounded fool in the presence of a lady, after all,” he said to distract you from his embarrassment. “Would you sit with me for a while longer, my lady?”

“Of course,” you agreed. “And you should know that I see no fool in here.”

“Aren’t all men fools?”

You would agree if your throat was used to such declarations. You were raised to be a good woman; good daughter, and a lady. You would blush at admitting something so true.

You occupied the place next to him, and Gwayne slowly reached for your hand again. “If it’s alright?”

“It is,” you assured and offered it to him.

He cleared his throat. “Do you know why I wanted to speak to you?”

“I have no idea. Except for making me laugh, it seems…”

He cracked a smile before turning serious once more.

“I wanted to make a promise,” he explained. “To end your worries if you have them. I won't die because it would burden you. People would speak, some would say we already married in secret before my death which would make finding another husband difficult if not impossible… I do not wish to make you go through that.”

It sounded funny from the mouth of a man who was clearly not dying now, and still it was incredibly thoughtful. Overwhelmingly so.

“That is kind of you, Gwayne.”

“Not kind, just… Just proper, I imagine,” he corrected.

“Not many men would care about it.”

He shrugged and his face turned even more pink, even if he bore it proudly, not escaping from your eyes anymore.

A knock and the sound of the door opening interrupted you.

You saw an old maester who held some clean water and bandages to change the dressings on Ser Gwayne’s wounds.

“My lady,” he spoke to you in a lecturing tone. “It is time for young Ser Gwayne to rest. He's still very–”

He was interrupted by the ser himself who shifted up a bit and face the man.

“Oh, I feel much better,” he offered with sincerity that made you feel warm inside, “since I was told by my wife that I'm not allowed to die.”

You looked to your feet at the quote of your first words to him and stood up from his bed.

“Your wife, my lord?” Asked the maester with clear trouble on his face.

"You are not coming downstairs," Diana informed you. "You will only embarrass us." 

Ellyn nodded and before you could protest, they pushed you inside your room and turned the key.

You sat on the window seat, staring at the distant fields as the shouting and footsteps came.

The door flew inward and you jumped to your feet.

A young knight stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, a silver tower sewn upon his doublet, handsome enough to belong in a song.

Behind him stumbled your father, red-faced and breathless.

"Ser Gwayne, please," he said. "There has been some misunderstanding."

Gwayne was already crossing the room and dropping to one knee before you, looking up at you as though you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

"My lady," he said, voice slightly shivering with nervousness. "I have come to ask for your hand."

You looked down at him. You knew that face. But from where?

A distant memory emerged.

A year ago, the road south of your father's lands, a man laying beside it. Young, bloodied, face streaked with mud.

"A robber," Diana had declared at once.

"Or a drunkard," Ellyn agreed.

"Leave him."

The stranger had struggled weakly to rise before collapsing again as you climbed down from your horse. 

You had knelt beside him and uncorked your waterskin.

"Can you drink?"

Beautiful blue eyes had blinked open.

You had held the waterskin to his lips while he drank.

When he tried to thank you, the words had dissolved into a cough.

"Do not speak," you had told him.

Then you had risen and turned to the servants.

"Take him to the next village."

"My lady," one had protested, "we do not even know who he is."

"Someone's son,” was your answer, and nobody dared to argue anymore.

You had never learned his name. Never expected to.

Your father made a strangled sound.

"Ser, you must be mistaken. You are certainly mixing up my daughters. May I introduce you to Lady Diana?"

When Otto Hightower handed you to him like a piece of signed parchment, the alliance felt less like a marriage and more like a tactical capture. Your bloodline stood fiercely with Princess Rhaenyra, bound by oaths to the late King's chosen heir.

To you, Gwayne was the very body of the usurpation—the brother to the Queen who coveted the throne, the face of the creeping green shadow slowly overtaking the Red Keep. You were deeply put off by the factional taint of his name, constantly on your guard, waiting for the claws to show beneath his courtly exterior.

Yet weirdly enough, he treated you with a devastatingly polite distance, an immaculate chivalry that left you feeling like a guest in your own life.

He would offer his arm, he would hold doors, he would speak kindly. And yet your heart remained shielded deep inside your chest.

But despite the effort you had put into keeping your walls high, the change from formal to something soft and living occurred without a sudden declaration, almost escaping your notice. It was an accretion of unwritten truths.

It was discovered first in the gradual unraveling of his voice.

That clear instrument he used to command guards and placate lords slowly dropped its courtly register when the armours were cast aside. In the glow of the burning candles, away from the prying eyes, his speech became a gentler, more fragmented thing, meant for your ears alone.

He did not demand your submission, rather, he surrendered his own vigilance. You watched the rigid set of his shoulders slowly relax the moment he crossed the threshold into your chambers. The room ceased to be just a place where he slept, it became a place where he was permitted to bleed off the poison of the court.

There was a profound, unhurried tethering. He would often sit near your window while droplets of rain lashed the stone, his fingers idly tracing the embroidery of your clothes, calmed simply by the sound of your breath across from him.

One evening, he returned from an exhausting meeting with his father, his eyes dark with the weight of Otto’s demands. He sank to the floor beside your chair, burying his face in the fabric of your skirt.

“Gwayne?” you whispered, your fingers threading through his hair. “What did he say?”

“Do not ask me of the world out there,” he grunted, his voice a muffled rasp against your velvet gown. “Let me stay here for an hour. Just an hour where I do not have to be my father’s son. Tell me something ordinary. Tell me about the animals in the garden, or the book you read today. Anything.”

“I saw two lovebirds building a nest on the tree by the wall,” you murmured, your voice instantly soothing the nerves in him. “It reminded me of us.”

He leaned his head back against your knee, looking up at you with burning fondness that made everything else fade into background noise. “Mm, did it now?” he teased, reaching up to press a kiss to the center of your palm. “The gods help me, I am utterly helpless against you.” He let out a sigh.

Then lived those moonlit hours when the pressure of the world dissolved into the linen of your bed.

In the quiet aftermath of your intimacy, when the frantic heat had slowed to a languid warmth, he would hold you in the dark. His hands moved with gentleness across your bare skin, tracing the curve of your collarbone and sweep of your hip as if memorising the boundaries of a world he couldn’t bear to let slip away.

You would be flush against his chest, your head tucked beneath his jaw while his fingers idly brushed strands of your hair. His breathing would slow, heavy with the exhaustion of the days he carried, but his embrace never faltered. He would press his lips softly into the crown of your head, his chest lifting with a content sigh.

In those stolen hours, he belonged entirely to you. There was a night when the two of you refused sleep, consumed in conversation. He laid with his hand resting flat against yours, his eyes fixed on the canopy above as if tracing the map of a life he actually wanted to live.

“When the spring comes, I want to take you away from this place,” he had murmured, “perhaps to your father’s halls. I want to see the cliffs you spoke of, where ‘the wind smells of salt instead of rot,’ if I recall your words correctly?”

A breathless giggle escaped your lips, a spark of incandescent joy warming your chest. You turned in his embrace, your fingers brushing the hair from his eyes, your face alight with excitement.

“Only my father's halls?” you questioned, leaning up on one elbow to look down at him.

“Gwayne, if we manage to escape the jaws of this castle, I am not letting you slip away so easily. We must go to the cliffs, yes, but then you must take me to the Reach. You promised me once that we would walk through the bed of roses in the summer. We can pack nothing but wine and bread, and forget that the city ever existed.”

Gwayne watched you, his gaze tracking the curve of your smile, a look of helpless adoration softening every hard line of his face. A laugh rumbled in his chest as he reached up, wrapping his hand around the nape of your neck to pull you down into a sweet, lingering kiss.

“The Reach, the ruins, the edge of the world,” he whispered against your lips, his arms tightening around you as if you were going to disappear if he let go. “Wherever you wish, my love. A hundred different places, if only to keep that look in your eyes.”

You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the reassuring thud of his heart. You fell asleep weaving those foolish, beautiful dreams into the dark, utterly convinced that the man holding you would sooner slaughter the world before he ever let a single drop of rain fall on your happiness.

Yet the air of King’s Landing grew relentlessly venomous, thickening with the acrid scent of treason.

In those breathless months following Aegon’s coronation, the peace you had inhabited with Gwayne was instantly exposed for what it was. A fragile ornament crushed beneath the heel of his father’s ambitions.

While the capital continued adjusting to the rule of the Greens, your house remained a stubborn holdout. Your father refused to acknowledge the new king, holding fast to his oaths to Rhaenyra. To Otto, your bloodline was no longer an honorable ally, but a defiance blocking the road to the iron throne that could not be suffered to endure.

Then came the ravens from east.

You learned of the coming storm not from a herald, but from the terrifying silence that occupied Gwayne when he returned to your quarters after a council meeting. He stood before the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“The ultimatums were returned unopened,” he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was a hollow sound that seemed to sap heat from the room. “Your father remains loyal to the princess.”

The blood in your veins went solid. You knew the volatile nature of the men who sat at Aegon's right hand.

You knew that if Criston were unleashed upon your childhood home, there would be no mercy, and if Prince Aemond took to the sky, your heritage would be reduced to ash before the week's end.

“What will they do?” you whispered, crossing the room with frantic steps, your fingers catching his sleeve. “Gwayne, please. Speak to your father, or perhaps your sister. Let me send a rider– let me plead with–”

“It is past the point of letters,” Gwayne interrupted softly, finally turning his gaze to meet yours. He reached out, his palms framing your face with a tenderness that felt terribly final. “Cole demanded the vanguard. He wanted to make an example of your house...”

A muscle leaped in his jaw as he swallowed down whatever pride remained in his throat. “I kneeled before the King in front of the council. I begged for the vanguard myself. I told them a Hightower sword must lead the assault to ensure the territory is secured cleanly. I… I gave them my word.”

You stumbled backward, pulling out of his touch as horror bloomed beneath your ribs.

The man who had spent his nights finding solace in your arms had just bartered for the right to destroy your life. “You asked for the command?” you breathed. “You are marching against my blood?”

“It is better this way,” Gwayne insisted fiercely, closing the distance between you and grasping your shoulders desperately. “Do you not see? If Cole goes, he will put every soul bearing your name to the sword. If Aemond flies, your home becomes a sepulcher. But if I go, I can dictate the terms.”

A harsh, broken laugh escaped your throat, tears of raw fury finally spilling over your lashes. “And I am supposed to thank you for that? I am supposed to welcome you back into this bed with the scent of my home’s burning fields on your skin?”

“I have sacrificed my own honour for this!” his righteousness flared, his grip tightening on your shoulders. “I am doing this to shield you! I am doing this because I love you!”

“How dare you call this love?” you yelled, the words tearing from your lungs. “You do not love me, Gwayne. You loved a political knot that grew compliant in your hands. You loved having a place to crawl into when your father’s weight grew too heavy for your perfect shoulders. But the very moment the world demanded you choose between the Hand’s ambition and my survival…” you shook your head, your lower lip quivering. You couldn’t bring yourself to continue.

Gwayne’s face went pale, his hands dropping to his sides as if you had just stabbed him.

“If I do not hold the torch, the fire consumes us all!” he barked back, his voice laced with desperate pain. His eyes flashed with a devastating wildness you had never seen in him before. “Would you prefer Criston and Aemond? Tell me! Would you rather I let them lead?”

“I would rather a husband who did not look at my family’s ruin and call it an immaculate gift,” you spat, backing away from him until the wood of your vanity pressed against your spine.

You looked into his eyes, searching for your husband. Your Gwayne. But you found only a knight. One trapped in the machinery of his father’s war. He truly believed his compromise was a holy mercy. He believed that by becoming the executioner of your past, he was preserving your future.

Three days later, Gwayne rode out through the King’s Gate at the head of a thousand spears, your favour still braided into the hilt of his blade.

He left you alone with your thoughts, left only to count the heartbeats until the sky turned to smoke.

The weeks did not pass. They accumulated, settling over your shared rooms like the fine grey dust that drifted from the lower yards.

Every midnight, you would collapse onto your knees before the small carved altars in the corner of the castle’s shrine, your skin shivering against the cold stone as you pressed your palms together. But the moment you opened your mouth to plead with the heavens, your throat would lock. You discovered, with a sickening horror, that you no longer knew how to pray.

Did you beg the Smith to strengthen your father's walls, knowing it meant Gwayne would be butchered at the gates? Did you beg the Mother to shield your husband, knowing his survival required the destruction of your childhood home? Your words became choked and useless in the dark—a terrible realization that the gods could not bless one half of your heart without utterly destroying the other.

Then came the day when the bells of the sept did not toll for prayer, but clanged with the triumphant roar of victory.

The heralds in the courtyard shouted of a rebellion quelled, of a defiant house brought to its knees by the righteous hand of the King’s vanguard.

They were cheering for the execution of your blood.

When the doors to your bedchamber finally opened, it revealed a man who looked as though he had been dragged out from the deepest pit of seven hells.

Gwayne stood in the entryway. The knight of Oldtown, the man who had meticulously memorised the curves of your skin in the dark, was long gone.

The silver lines of his armour was caked with layers of soot, the plates dented and covered with dried mud. He carried the suffocating stench of charred timber, along with the sickly sweet metallic tang of blood.

His breathing was frantic, chest heaving beneath the metal as his eyes searched for you. He found you sitting by the cold hearth, a ragged sound escaping his throat. He took a reluctant step toward you, hands reaching out blindly.

“It is finished,” he choked out, “Your sisters are in custody, but they are breathing. They are alive. I secured it.”

You didn’t rise to meet him.

“And the cliffs, Gwayne?” you whispered, your voice dangerously level. A hollow timbre of a woman speaking from inside a grave. “How do they look now? Does the wind still smell of salt? or did you choke it with the debris of my father’s halls?”

Gwayne stilled, his outstretched hands hovering in the empty space between you. “Your father would not bend!” he pleaded, dropping heavily to his knees before you, the metal of his armour striking the floor with a mocking clang.

He reached out, filthy fingers desperately clutching at the fabric of your gown, mimicking the exact posture of surrender he had used weeks ago when begging to take the vanguard.

“He wouldn’t look at the terms. If I hadn't swung the blade clean myself, Cole would have left him tortured! I gave him a clean, honourable death!”

“Do not lie to yourself to make your sleep easier,” you muttered, and for the first time, your eyes shifted down to look at him, cold and unblinking. “You didn’t break your soul to save my family, Gwayne. You found it. It looks eerily like your father’s.”

An agonizing sob tore from his throat. He buried his face in your skirts, his shoulders shaking as he wept, pleading for your love, the fingers combing through his hair, the soothing voice.

But you remained frozen. You did not touch him. You could not.

As the sun set, you were not permitted time for mourning. The maids were sent, their trembling hands forcing you into a gown of emerald silk. They pinned your hair back with golden needles, and paraded you down the stone corridors like a prized trophy of war.

The hall was deafening. Lords and ladies drank from their golden chalices, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while musicians played a spirited tune to celebrate the crushing of the rebellion.

At the high table, you sat motionless. You didn’t touch your wine, didn’t look at the feast before you. You sat perfectly straight, your wide eyes staring vacant into the middle distance.

To your right sat Gwayne, washed clean of the soot and blood. His hand rested flat against the small of your back—a frantic touch that had been there for hours, silently begging for even a flinch, a glance, a single tear to prove you were still alive.

From your left, a shadow fell over your plate.

Otto Hightower stepped slowly toward you. He looked to be unbothered, his face a mask of serene statecraft. He leaned down slightly, placing a cold hand on your shoulder.

“A tragic business, my lady,” Otto murmured, his eyes scanning your blank profile with the curiosity of a master checking on a piece of chess. “Your father was a man of honour, but regretfully, honour without wisdom is a short lived thing in this world. It is a mercy that Gwayne arrived in time to spare your sisters from a traitor’s end.”

Otto’s fingers tightened slightly—a subtle warning disguised as a gesture of comfort.

“The King notices your silence.” His voice dropped into a pragmatic register. “You are a Hightower by law and by blood now. Smile for your King. Speak to your husband. Let the court see that the rebellion is truly dead.”

Otto then paused, waiting for your compliance, waiting for the polite response you had been taught since birth to give.

You gave him nothing. You remained horrifyingly still, an exquisitely dressed corpse sitting in the center of their victory.

Beside you, Gwayne let out a sharp breath, his fingers digging into your waist as he looked up at his father. He wanted Otto to stop. But he merely sighed, a flick of disappointment crossing his features before he pulled his hand away and dissolved back into the crowd of cheers.

Across the hall, a lord raised a goblet, his voice booming over the chatter as he toasted the victory of the Greens, explicitly naming your ancestral home as the nest of traitors that had finally been cleansed by the righteous steel of Ser Gwayne.

The noise that came after shook the very foundation of the castle. Gwayne closed his eyes, his forehead pressing forward as he shattered beside you.

But your eyes were no longer vacant.

Your body had not moved an inch, but your flat gaze had slowly drifted down to the linen table cloth.

Resting just inches from your motionless hand was a small, silver knife, laid out for the final course of the banquet. The torchlight caught the polished steel of the blade, reflecting a tiny glint of fire.

You didn’t care about the roar of the crowd cheering for your father’s execution. The hall faded into a distant, muffled hum as your unblinking eyes locked onto the silver with clarity.

It was a promise of an exit, a way to finally wash yourself clean of their green banners and go home to the salt-swept cliffs where your father was waiting.

“Is he alright?” Gwayne asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes while walking over to you both. Daeron having been put in the nursery once more to try and get him to sleep alone. That clearly having failed. As he doesn’t cry for attention, he wails like he’s been abandoned, desperate for a modicum of love.

“Just a little bit lonely.” You say, swayed him. The boy immediately settling now he’s in your arms. “Aren’t you my little dragon?”

“I can hold him.” Gwayne offers before just taking the sleeping babe from your arms. Giving the boy a soft smile when he briefly stirs. “You need sleep my love.”

“I’m fine.” You say knowing Gwayne just wants a chance to have baby cuddles, him having been busy most of the day.

“Why do you think he cry’s every time he’s apart from us?” Your husband asks sitting down on the large snuggle chair in Daerons room. Looking down at the boy with complete love and care in his eyes.

“He’s scared of being abandoned again.” You say sitting next to him, knowing he’s giving you a look while you look at the babe. “Don’t look at me like that. No matter how you try and spin it he was abandoned by his parents.”

“He wasn’t.”

“Gwayne-.” You try before getting interrupted.

“We’re his parents.” Gwayne says firmly, not willing to hear any different. “And he need to learn that we’re not going anywhere.”

“Then we need to show him.” You say resting your head on your husband shoulder.

-

“Rawww.” Gwayne exclaims picking Daeron up and spinning the boy around. Making the young boy laugh, loving playing with his kepa. “I’ve got you! Good luck rescuing the princess now!”

“My prince, be careful!” You fake shout, stood on the sofa pretending to be a princess locked away in a tower. “The only way to defeat the terrible monster is with cuddles!”

“Ahhh.” Gwayne fake screams when Daeron wraps his arms around him, cuddling the man tightly. “Oh no.” He says dramatically moving to the floor faking death but making sure Daeron doesn’t get hurt. “How did you find my one weakness.”

“Kepa!” He giggles as Gwayne fakes his death before running over to you and tacking you in a hug. “Muña!”

“My prince, you saved me!” You declare dramatically picking the boy up and kissing his cheek. “Thank you.”

-

“Who’s there?” Gwayne croaks out, still half asleep when he hears the chamber doors get slowly pushed open.

“Me.” Daeron says in a small voice tears streaming down his face while he cuddles his toy dragon close to his chest. “I had nightmare.”

“Come here.” Gwayne says holding his arms out to the boy who runs over and clambers into bed. Snuggling in between you both, waking you in the process. “What was it about?”

“You and muña didn’t want me anymore.” He cry’s terrified you would leave him and not want to be his parents anymore.

“That’s not possible.” You reassure him sleepily, brushing some of his hair out of his face. “You my darling boy are the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

“Promise?” He asks in a small voice.

“We promise.” You and Gwayne respond in unison making a pinky promise with the boy.

“Now come on, it’s sleepy time.” Gwayne say, laying back down, needing sleep before he has to get up at dawn for drill training.

“Can we have dragon story first?”

-

“What are you doing?” You ask Daeron, finding your son with a bucket and sponge sat next to his dragon. Tessarion. The girl just laying beside him letting him clean her. Your dragon sliverwing just laying in the corner keeping an eye on her hatchings, the older girl being very protective of the young boy and his dragon.

“Giving Tessie a bath.” Daeron explains sweetly washing the dragons head.

“Why?” You ask trying not to laugh, Tessarion weirdly enjoying the bath.

“I heard uncle Ormund complaining about her smell when he came to visit so I thought I’d give her a bath.” He says innocently, an adorable look on his face while he washes the blue girl.

“Oh my sweet boy.”

-

“Do you have to?” Gwayne asks anxiously, looking between you and the dragon. Him loving the girl but worrying given you are a few moon along. Since finding out you were with child your husband has not liked leaving your side, Daeron doing the same.

“Gwayne, he wishes to fly and I do to.” You say, understanding where your husband is coming from but also knowing everything will be fine. You having promised to take Daeron flying, Tessarion being you young to have a rider.

“I know I just worry.” He admits, self aware, hating he has to spent the day with his insufferable cousin instead of you and your son.

“Silverwing would never hurt us.” You tell him softly, cupping his cheek in your hand.

“I know she wouldn’t but I still worry, what if the babe-.”

“The babe will be fine, many dragons riders have flown when with child.” You reassure knowing Gwayne just loves you so much that the thought of anything happening and him not being there is terrifying. “She knows that if anything at all happens to take me home to you.”

-

“Muña!” Daeron whisper shouts excitedly running over to you, having been scared after hearing the screams. Not even Gwayne’s words of reassurance could calm the boy.

“Hello baby boy, I’ve missed you.” You say taping next to you so you can cuddle him.

“Missed you to muña.” He says snuggling into your side. “Can I see the baby?”

“Daeron, meet your little sister.” Gwayne Says softly having been waiting in the corner holding the girl, wanting to give you and Daeron a moment together.“Her names Aemma.”

.✦ ݁˖ one evening though, gods gifted Gwayne the chance to spend time with you alone. You were hidden away in the tower’s library, book about beetles in your hands, too focused to even notice the presence looking at you. Gwayne was admiring how calm and comfortable you looked, and how beautiful. All the others times he had seen you, you were looking anywhere but into someone’s eyes, you were keeping to yourself, soft frown settled on your face. Not now though, now you looked so comfortable. And so Gwayne scoffed to announce his presence

“What’s that you’re reading my lady?” The knight in front of you inquires as you look up from your book. You debate on being quiet, hoping your silence will make him leave, but something in him makes you feel comfortable enough to answer. So you do, telling him that the book in your hands is about beetles, some of your favourite bugs. Gwayne listened intently to you talk, asking questions after a question, showing genuine interest. “You seem to hold lot of knowledge, it’s admirable”

.✦ ݁˖ After that Gwayne knew for sure he wished to marry you. That he’ll do anything to prove you that he’s a good man and lives up to the stories told about him, and that he would make a great husband

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne takes it upon him to read one or two books about bugs as well, to be able to bond over something with you. He’ll share new little fact he learned while offering to walk you to your chambers one evening

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne respects it when you draw away from physical touch and he won’t force it upon but he will always offer it. When walking around the palace garden he’ll offer you his arm, if you refuse he’ll smile and put down his arm while just strolling beside you. If you do take upon his offer, his smile will be extra wide

.✦ ݁˖ When it comes to kissing the top of your hand, like the gentleman he is, instead of giving a quick peck as he does to all the other women, he leaves a long lingering kiss

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne never made you feel weird, out of place, or that you should change yourself. No, he liked you for the way you were, he admired each and every little thing about you. It was safe to say the knight was smitten with you, wherever you were there you could find him as well. He’d bring you small little gifts simply because he wanted to. He would do whatever you wished to do, you wish to stroll around the garden and look for little creatures? He’ll be by your side and listening you to explain to him about the creature without single complaint.

.✦ ݁˖ Whenever he hears an ill minded whisper of you, he uses everything in him to not lash out on the person to tell them how wrong they are. He will always defend your honour, but the honourable man that he’s, he’ll do it politely

.✦ ݁˖ One night royal ball has taken over the palace, and the whole night Gwayne spends beside you, admiring how beautiful you look in your gown. As well as blissfully dancing with you, admiring how carefree you look. In the same evening he asks you if you were to be his wife and if he has your permission to ask your hand for marriage from your father. You agree

────୨ৎ────

“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.

Your husband had many flaws, just like all men.

A few of them he acknowledged, some he refused to see… He could be arrogant, patronising, sometimes spoiled and cocky. None of those traits made your feelings for Gwayne faint.

Feelings that he sometimes called ‘harboured’ to which you reacted with a blush and turn of your head. You argued that there was nothing secret, certainly not harboured in them, since he knew of them very well.

Affection came naturally for Gwayne. Even with the imperfections of his temper and customs of a highborn lord’s firstborn he was true and expressive in his statements. Especially when it was towards his family.

Displays of devotion were nothing shameful to him. Quite the opposite, actually. He was proud of being a Hightower and to that house he owed his life. Still, it wasn’t even close to the glory he felt about being able to share it all with you, his dearest lady wife.

He gained not only your love but also respect with how loyal and caring he could be but that didn't make your own habits any easier to let go of.

You were taught not to show honesty of your emotions. It could be old teaching of septas that more resembled crones and hags than caretakers, but that was all you knew. You viewed that not as weakness but as a vulnerable point that people take advantage of to hurt you.

Not your Gwayne, of course. You were able to understand his genuine nature rather quickly, and he left you with no worries about his intentions. Still, the court of Oldtown wasn’t the simplest one, same about your lord husband’s father and kins.

If they ever were to hate you, which you feared deeply, at least it would not be because of humiliation. Your behavior was always suitable for your position, looks adequate for an occasion and manners… restrained to say the least. It felt safe. A proof of your self-controlled being.

Even if sometimes hiding your face in the crook of your husband’s neck and ignoring the servants that could witness it was all you wanted.

At first Gwayne took that as a part of your serious demeanor. He would have to respect that, he thought, and learn to give you all the space you wanted. Surely he could get used to the behaviour of an old lord who only ever offered his arm to his spouse to present in a more favourable light.

But then he discovered you were fond of his jokes and witty remarks. You laughed and spoke silly things after a cup of wine with him when no one heard. You were far from real seriousness, far from what he knew from his sister and some other ladies.

He tried telling himself that it was all proper, perhaps. Just the way things should be between a man and his wife. He remembered very little of his own parents' marriage but he couldn't imagine his lord father indulging in these sorts of affection that haunted his mind.

But Gods, sometimes he felt like he was going crazy over it.

You loved him as he loved you, he knew it. You showed it with deep care, and said it to him when he asked. It crossed his mind that perhaps you lied just to please him. He wanted you to be able to speak freely, even if the truth wouldn’t be the one he wished to hear. He wanted to know if it was rationality that forced you into this arrangement…

But you never brushed his hands away. Never grimaced in annoyance when they found their way to your lap. You picked them up gently, cupped and squeezed in your own smaller hands. Not once you stepped away when Gwayne wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

Yes, he was much more familiar with reading the manners of a court than other people’s feelings, but gods, he did know how to read his own wife. His wife, who didn’t hate him, even if he used to question that in the beginning. A wife who loved him and battled her own shadows of the past.

Eventually he learned to understand that you simply struggled with such acts and he shouldn't feel too bothered about them. Your behaviour wasn’t aimed to hurt him, after all.

It could be hilarious, actually, seeing how sometimes your calm nature shattered with the feelings that overtook your body. It was like an armada of ships crashing into the shore and even though Gwayne noticed your worries and wished to soothe them, he always failed to hide his smirk. He wasn’t necessarily trying to make you break your calmness and get a reaction from you, but it fed his pride a bit every time he managed to do that unintentionally.

Your behaviour was even more evident in moments when he himself could not hold back from affection. When led either by longing or worry all he could think of was looking all over you, making sure you were in safety and good health. When his arms moved around you subconsciously, without him noticing at first. He didn’t mind anyway, especially when his initiative made you feel a bit more secure about expressing yourself.

It was after he completed an essentially important deal as a representative of Hightowers of Oldtown. The business forced him to leave your home for weeks. You awaited him patiently, exchanging many letters. Yet the words that often appeared too hollow to Gwayne wasn’t enough.

He came back tired but motivated with his palms aching from gripping the reins and the want to caress your skin.

He saw you standing in the yard, waiting like the devoted wife you were. After such a long separation there you were: beautiful like the day he married you. Almost on wobbly feet, he noticed, and clearly a part of you wanted to break and run to him, fall into his arms. Still, you didn’t even budge to move closer. You fooled yourself that you hid your shaking hands behind your back before he had the chance to see. Naive. He did have a good look at you and at least he assured himself you were fine.

Even though your eyes were filled with tears which you kept ignoring, your voice was calm. Emotionless even, some could think. Not Gwayne. He knew that your way of dealing with too many feelings was burying them even deeper inside your chest.

“The children have missed you,” you spoke calmly when he approached.

Gwayne's smile almost fell. It wasn’t an unwanted greeting, no. He missed your children exactly as much, but it was you now in front of him, not them. You must have seen his expression turn faint, more like a grimace now.

Just as the words left you properly, your breath hitched and you raised your hand to cover your mouth.

Before you could turn away to hide your disheveled state Gwayne closed the distance between you and gathered you in his arms. It was like a safe cage that you wouldn’t break out from even if you tried.

The sobs that broke out of your throat were pieces of restraint you forced yourself into. Even if your own behavior, the only one you viewed as appropriate, actually hurt you it was also an anchor. Something familiar in the grim days when your husband's absence howled in the halls of Oldtown.

“Then perhaps I should walk past you, my wife, and go straight to them?” He teased with a voice quiet enough only for you to hear.

Gently he tangled his fingers in your hair, making you exhale deeply. Your head fell to his shoulder and with a sniffing, you finally wrapped your arms around your husband.

Gwayne breathed in your scent, focused on how your hair brushed his face, felt how your skin was against his again, just as it should be. Gods, you were fit to be together. Your moderation and stability with his wit and audacity.

“I fear I was starting to go mad without you, my lady…” he muttered when his lips brushed over your ear.

“I too am very glad you're back,” you admit weakly, swallowing the small whimpers that made you feel dizzy from embarrassment.

You wanted to hide your face again but Gwayne didn’t let you. Slowly, with soft brushes of his hands, he made you pull your head away and look at him. He cupped your cheeks and smiled. It was catty in a way; a look you would hate to see if you didn’t miss him so greatly.

“Can you say it for me, wife?” It sounded like a chaste plea. Perhaps it would be if he hid how much pleasure he had out of it. You almost rolled your eyes, wanting to step away but you found yourself unable to. Gwayne caressed the sides of your face like he was trying to memorize it once again. “Please, would you say it out loud for your husband? If that’s the only thing I need to hear now?”

You nodded slowly.

“I missed you, Gwayne.”

Not speech of a foreign language, just what you used to see as shameful.

It was no longer embarrassing to admit and certainly not embarrassing to feel, and yet the words felt unfamiliar on your tongue. Sharp at first, like something forbidden. Then nicer, and eventually it turned sweet. Almost as lovable as the new expression on your husband’s handsome face.

“I love you…”

“I love you too, husband.”

a/n: more gwayne fanfics are coming!!

“Get this baby out of me!” You cry just wanting the pain to stop and to be able to hold your baby in your arms. “You are never touching me again!”

“Fuck!” Rhaenyra interjects shouting at the midwives. “You’re such a cunt!”

“As you wish my love.” Gwayne says knowing you’ll change your mind but willing to do anything you ask.

“One more push princess.” Both you and Rhaenyra’s midwives say in unison. Both you and your sister screaming while you push Gwayne between you both. Both of his hands being squeezed beyond belief.

“It’s a boy.” Rhaenyra’s midwife says wrapping the crying babe in a blanket before passing him to his mother.

“It’s a girl.” Your midwife says not even a moment after, doing the same with your babe. Gwayne being given both baby’s while you and Rhaenyra deliver the afterbirth.

-

“Princess’? The queen wishes to see the babes.” An apocalyptic servant says from the doorway, feeling guilty for just following orders. Her having waited a few more minutes after the screams stoped before entering. “I can take them.”

“No I’m taking my son myself.” Rhaenyra responds stubbornly, sharing a look with the midwives at the queens audacity. Just about to attempt getting up when Gwayne stops her.

“Rhaenyra don’t you dare get up.” Your husband commands, not willing to let any of this slide. Consequences be damed. “Tell my sister that if she’s so desperate to see them she can use her legs and walk to us.”

“Ser-.” The maid attempts to interject before getting interrupted by Gwayne. Him giving the girl a look, almost as if daring her to test him.

“Go.” He demands not giving her an opinion to argue back. “And send Daeron in while you’re at it I know he’s hiding behind the door.”

“Muña! Nyra!” Daeron whisper shouts having been told multiple times that when he sees you after the birth he has to be quiet. Him claiming up into bed with you and your sister. The sheets having been changed and most remnants of labor cleaned up.

“Hello darling.” You say softly to your eldest, he may be your brother by blood but he’s your son by love. “Do you want to see your sister?”

“You know the queen won’t be happy?” Rhaenyra says to her brother by law, noticing him poke his head out the door and send a servant away. Before he makes his way back to her side, leaving Daeron to talk with you while he checks on your sister.

“My sister should know better than to make a woman who’s just giving birth walk that far or at all.” He says back, disappointed in his sister. She used to be kind, but that’s what living with Otto will get you he thinks. Knowing if not for his father his sister would be much better off.

“She’ll say she gave the option of a servant taking the babe.” Rhaenyra counters worried about the fall out.

“And I will say just because she’s fine not caring for her child doesn’t mean we are.” He whispers into Rhaenyra’s ear, not wanting Daeron to overhear. “He’s adorable, boy number three.” He says more loudly, making your son think he was just talking about the new babes. “He’ll make a remarkable knight one day.”

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra smiles happy her sister has such a kind and loving husband.

“Are you ready to move to your apartments?” The midwife asks you and Rhaenyra, thinking you’d both be more comfortable there than the birthing chamber.

“I’ll help muña.” Daeron offers wanting to help in anyway he can.

“Thank you darling.” You say softly knowing there’s nothing your son can really do apart from just be with you but that’s more than enough.

-

“Laenor is helping Rhaenyra back to their apartments.” Gwayne tells you as soon as he enters yours. Him knowing that’s the first thing you’ll ask, you loving your sister. “I’ve also made it clear I’m the one who denied Alicent her ‘request’ so Rhaenyra shouldn’t get in too much trouble.”

“Thank you my love.” You say giving him a quick kiss when he bends down to look at the babe in your arms. Daeron having been telling you some of the things he did with his cousins, him being a similar age to Luke.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Gwayne asks the boy, you having agreed he can help name your newborn. Wanting Daeron to be reassured that he’s still important to you.

“Aemma.” Daeron says having been speaking with Jace and Luke about ideas. All three boys thinking their mothers would like that and Rhaenyra confirming that would be a good choice.

“I love it.” You say, looking down at the little girl in your arms, her having little tufts of sliver and copper hair already on her head. “Princess Aemma Hightower.”

You’re intrupted from continuing your conversation when the guard opens the door and announces your father and his wife. “The king and queen.”

“Father.” You greet offerings him a weak smile, still unsure how to act around him all these years later after he caused you mother and brother’s death.

“A girl I hear!” He says excitedly, having just come from meeting baby Joffrey. “Marvellous news, have you picked a name?”

“Aemma, after mother.” You explain letting him look at the girl.

“She’d like that.” He says softly, looking at the girl who’s already the perfect mix of you and Gwayne.“Alicent what do you think?”

“Lovely.” She says tightly, silently seething after what you, Rhaenyra and Gwayne did. It ruining her plans of humiliating you both. “Gwayne may I speak with you?”

“Now isn’t a good time, my wife having just given birth and all.” Gwayne says passive aggressively, not having looked at his sister since she entered.

“Muña do you want a cupcake?” Daeron asks innocently, him thinking you might be hungry. Completely forgetting he’s in the presence of his birth parents. “I did them with Luke and Jace after getting the egg!”

“Ohh cake can I have one?” Your father asks the boy, only thinking of cake.

“Yes grandsire.” Daeron says sweetly taking two cakes from the table and giving you the best looking one.

“He’s your father remember darling? Like Alicent is your mother.” You correct, not wanting anymore issues today. Taking the cake of the boy and offering him a thank you.

“No, you and Kepa are my mother and father.” He responds, tilting his head to the side. Knowing it’s true but viewing you and Gwayne as his real parents.

“Daeron-.”

“I’m fine being the boys Grandsire, you two have raised him.” Visarys says interrupting his wife without realising or caring. “Now about this cake.”

-

“How dare you.” Alicent shouts at her brother, him having been ignoring her for the past few days. Him refusing to leave your side. “I’m your queen!”

“Yes, but before that you will always be my little sister who’s treating my wife and her sister horribly!” He shouts back, not caring that Cristian Cole is in the corner glaring at him.

“You don’t get to speak to me that way!”

“I apologise for speaking facts your grace, however I do not apologise for protecting women as that’s part of my vow as a knight and husband.” He snaps, fed up with the whole thing. Looking forward to when you’re healed and you can go back home to oldtown.

“Leave, you’ve turned my son against me!” Alicent screams, hating that her son loves you so much. Not thinking about the fact you’re the one who’s raised him while she was busy plotting with her father.

“No, you turned him against you by sending him away in the first place! And even then you could have written or tried to visit! We’re only here because Rhaenyra asked us to! You haven’t written since his 2nd name day!”

“You can’t speak to the queen like that.” Cristian Cole says in an attempt of a threatening tone, instead Gwayne just finds him pathetic.

“Oh fuck off Cole.” Gwayne snaps rolling his eyes while he leaves not bothering to ask his sister’s permission.

-

“We’re going back to oldtown tomorrow.” You say to Rhaenyra while you sit together having tea, watching the boys play outside. Joffrey and Aemma both sleeping in their mother’s arms. “He loves being with you and the children but, Alicent and her sons just upset him.”

“I understand that.” She says a selfish part of her wanting you to stay but knowing it for the best. You deserving to be happy. “I’m thinking of moving to dragonstone but I don’t wish to leave father and laenor wants to stay.”

“That’s understandable, I hope you two can come to an agreement.”

“Me too, we’ll come and visit you soon though.” She says changing the subject, not wanting to dwell. “The boys adore Daeron and Gwayne.”