so the luck is ours alone?

It's a great honor. You should be happy.

Those were the words that rang in your ears. You sat at the table laden with all the realm's delicacies; the scent of spilled wine mixed with the suffocating cloud of sweat from the dancers.

Every now and then, lords and ladies walked up to pay their respects, kneeling in front of you. In some ways, it worked out being stuck listening to their well-wishes and blessings: there was a lot on your mind.

It's a great honor.

Your handmaiden's words, as she braided your hair the day you were betrothed.

You should be happy.

Your cousin's words as she kissed you goodbye, with a glint of envy in her voice.

Do not dishonor our house.

Your father's last words to you as he walked you to the altar.

As the hours passed, you felt more like a convict waiting to be led to the gallows than a bride on her wedding day.

'Are you well, my lady?'

Startled, you looked to your right. The prince's hand was leisurely resting on yours; nothing too sentimental, but a gesture that sent the appropriate message for the room full of people.

'Of course, Your Grace,' you flashed him a reassuring smile, but had an unnerving feeling he wasn't convinced. Nevertheless, he didn't push it. He turned back to the lord who had strolled up to the table.

It was the most important night in the whole Realm. Prince Baelor, heir to the throne, took a new wife; you never thought it might be you.

But it just so happened that both your older sisters passed from fever. It left you with a dowry that rivaled that of the Lannisters, and the king wanted to unite his house with an ancient family.

Your father was elated. You always thought one day he'd ship you off to some old lord. It would be fine, you used to think, disappearing somewhere far. No one would pay you any mind ever again; no one would care what you did, or where you went, as long as you were there to warm your husband's bed. But this was different; married to the heir, you'd be watched forever.

If you knew, you would've been more careful; but you were so young, and thought that your life was going to end in some backwater keep with a lord thrice your age, who couldn't even see who he was screwing.

So when you found yourself in your young and handsome sworn shield's embrace, you let him have you. You just wanted to feel something, and the moment his hand brushed yours was like a dam that broke in you. You promised yourself it was just that one time, but one time became another, and another. You didn't recognize the person you were when with him. You were drinking in those nights like you knew they had to sustain you for the rest of your life.

You confided in your handmaiden; like she told you to, you reached carefully for a small knife by your plate. Making sure no one saw you, you tucked it into the sleeve of your dress. The cool steel resting against your skin was unsettling.

You shot a look over at the prince, making sure he did not see you just then. He was watching the crowd with a calculating gaze. You prayed–though you weren't sure who would listen–that he didn't notice the absence of your sworn knight.

You saw him last night. The hour was late, but you were awake, pacing nervously in front of the window. It was unwise, but you took him to bed.

A bit later, he donned his armor silently and turned to you:

'My lady, I will surrender my post in the morrow. I hope you can forgive me.'

You sat up, covering yourself with the sheets.

'You're leaving? Where?'

'Wherever they'll have me. I cannot serve under your new husband's banner. I've sullied my honor,' he said without meeting your eyes.

'People will talk... more so if you leave right before the wedding–'

'You will be queen one day. No one can touch you.'

'I am not queen yet!' you began to panic, 'Do you understand what they might do with me, if it's found out that–'

'Forgive me, my lady.'

He left, and like he said, by the morning he was gone.

It was when a quarrel broke out amidst a group of drunk men that Baelor signaled the servants and handmaids over.

They led you to Baelor's room: you'd never seen it before and weren't sure what to expect. Likely something grand, opulent.

To your surprise, when you stepped inside, you were greeted by a spacious but dimly lit room with sprawling bookcases. By the window stood a large table with candles that melted into mounds. In the middle was a bed covered in a rich golden duvet, and near it was a lit fireplace. It was actually somewhat... welcoming.

And it almost made you forget that you had to act fast. You hurried up to the bed and ran your hand under the mattress, looking for a dent. The silk sheets were pleasantly cool against your fingertips. You found a place where you could nicely hide the knife and find it later; you reached into your sleeve and pulled it out.

When you were sure the knife was neatly tucked in, you smoothed the blanket and turned to find Baelor standing in the doorway, watching you quietly.

The blood froze in your veins.

How long had he been standing there? How did you not hear him coming? Did he see... Gods, did he think...

'It's not what it looks like, Your Grace...' your voice quavered, and the ice in your veins morphed into hot mortification when you realized that your fate could turn even darker. If they thought you were trying to hurt the prince...

'Like what, my lady?' his expression was impossible to read. You had no idea what was going on in his head as he considered you. It was like he had a drape up, keeping anyone from seeing inside.

It was this expression that you noticed when you first met him in your home. Even then, as you walked with him in your gardens, you couldn't tell how he felt about the match. But he sounded kind; you noticed that too. It was one reason you felt less scared about the marriage.

Even now, as he inquired of you, you noted the soft edges of his voice. As if he wasn't questioning you about why you just hid a knife in your wedding bed.

'Do not fret, my lady. I think you to be smarter than to attack the king's heir with a butter knife,' there was a light jest in his voice, which you found strange.

What were you supposed to say? That you were going to wait till he was asleep to cut yourself and stain the sheets, hoping he wouldn't figure out you were not a maiden?

Just bring the guards and send me back to my father, you thought, and closed your eyes. There would be hell to pay once your family found out. You'd be better off running away.

He walked up to his table, where a pitcher of wine and two goblets stood.

'Come,' he said, and you did.

He poured you a cup first, then one for himself. He drank, and you followed suit. You weren't sure what else to do. After a bit of consideration, he broke the silence.

'I thought you seemed troubled since this morning,' he said as he examined the wine in his cup, 'at first, I thought it was just the nerves.'

Oh gods.

'After all, you've been put under immense pressure. Your lord father is a severe man. You have your entire house's name riding on your shoulders,' he was looking at you now, with that same calculating gaze he watched everyone with. You felt yourself bend under the weight of it.

'But I think there's something else burdening you, isn't there?' he asked.

You shut your eyes and awaited the accusation.

'Is it your knight?' his voice was lower now. There was a barely noticeable waver in it; was it from containing his anger?

You carefully put the goblet on his table, and descended to your knees.

'I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. My lord father didn't know. It was not his fault,' you said with a shaking voice, and waited for the flood of his rage. To be cast aside; to be thrown out. To face the thunder that came next.

Except that it didn't.

'Rise, my lady,' he said, and poured himself another cup. After a bit of consideration, he asked:

'Are you with child?'

You shook your head.

'My handmaiden helped me source moon tea from the Grand Maester. I ordered her to. Please do not punish her,' before you could think, you told him. You could only hope he would have mercy on them.

'Does anyone else know?'

You shook your head again.

'Only my handmaiden and I. And my sworn knight. He resigned from his station this morning,' your voice was barely audible.

He stared into his cup just like before. A long silence, before he spoke again.

'Do you love him?'

Your eyes jumped to him: you expected him to sneer at you, to spit in your face, or, at best, dismiss you without another glance. But to this, you were unsure how to answer. You decided to tell the truth.

'I do not.'

He turned back to you.

'Why, then?,' he asked, with a small frown on his face. You could tell he was still studying you, but there was something else now, too. Puzzlement? Curiosity, perhaps?

You tapped your finger on the goblet, before you were able to answer.

'Because I wanted something for myself.'

The honesty of that surprised even you, but it was true.

Ever since you could remember, you felt a terrible dread hovering over your head; it felt like your life had ended before it could even begin. The first time you realized that feeling quieted was when your hands touched your knight's. It was after a tourney; he'd asked for your favor. He won, but was badly injured, and you visited him afterwards.

'Are you going to send me away, Your Grace?' you asked Baelor, waiting for the blow.

He considered you for a second, leaning against his table.

'Why would I do that?'

It was the second time he surprised you with something he said. You tried to read his face to see if he was perhaps mocking you, but it didn't seem so. He was genuinely asking.

'Because I am not a maiden. You married me believing you were getting a pure bride; I have deceived you,' you said, though it was strange you had to spell it out.

'That's not the reason I married you,' he said, with a strange level of calmness.

Everything about this conversation was curious. Seeing your frowning expression, he continued.

'This match was made because the king hoped to unite an ancient house with the crown. As far as that is concerned, you haven't erred. As for our personal hopes...'

He trailed off and fiddled with one of his rings, the one with the Targaryen sygil.

'It is my sincere hope that you can find happiness here. But if you wish to go home...' he looked into your eyes, and you were shocked to see his typical calculating watch gone. He seemed genuine.

'...If you wish to go home, there is still time.'

That, you didn't expect. You were so terrified of the prospect that it never crossed your mind that it would be presented to you as an option.

No, you did not want to go back home.

You walked to him; he watched you as you got closer, trying to read what you were going to say. He was always studying people like that: you noticed it from the moment you first met him. Perhaps as the Hand, he'd had to get accustomed to reading between the lines, planning moves as he spoke with lords. Trying to spot what someone's next motion might be, what they might say.

You were now in front of him; you felt his gaze on you. You stood there for a minute, in front of this invisible line. You wondered if he was going to move over it, when you realized: he was waiting for you to do so.

You reached your hand out and brushed it against his. You felt a whir in your ears at that touch; you'd been technically wed for hours but never been... like this.

He ran his fingers against your knuckles, then on your arm; you finally took the courage to look up at him. Your face was inches away: he'd kissed you before at the sept during your vows, but this was different. Then, thousands of eyes and the murmurs of spectators; this time, just the crackling of fire and the feel of his breath against your lips.

He closed the space between you, and you marveled at the softness. It made you smile. Your worries from earlier melted away as you went to rest your palms on his chest; he caressed your arm, planting soft kisses on your mouth.

You began to run your hand lower, and his breath hitched in response. He deepened the kiss, and you felt a pleasant jolt in your belly as his tongue entered your mouth.

'You said you wanted something for yourself,' he said between kisses.

'Yes, Your Grace...'

'Tell me what you want,' he breathed against your mouth, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

'Your Grace, I–'

'Baelor. Call your husband by his name.'

'Baelor...'

'Yes,' he said while he ran his mouth over your throat.

'Mm... Keep talking to me,' you said, shuddering at the feel of his stubble against your skin.

His voice was one of the first things you took notice of when you met him.

It was, in some ways, jarring when compared to his looks. He seemed serious, stern, intimidating even, with his ever-calculating gaze. So his voice held a tenderness you didn't expect: warm, raspy, dancing in a gentle but assured tone. When he talked, you felt... sheltered. That's what you noticed as you walked with him that afternoon, when he and his entourage arrived at your father's castle.

Now, hearing his words made your pulse quicken.

'Turn around for me.'

You did, and he unlaced your corset. When he hooked his fingers to remove it, you shuddered.

He had you facing him again as he ran his palm over your small clothes. He slipped his hand in, and you gasped at the contact. You could hear how wet you were for him already.

He studied your face as he touched you. Then, in a voice that sent a dull ache to your center, he said:

'Did he fuck you last night?'

Your mouth fell agape from the feeling of his fingers rubbing you, spreading your come, and from the question he just asked. Heat enveloped your face...

'I asked if he fucked you last night.'

Shame bubbled in you as you nodded–then cried out as he pushed two fingers inside you as a retort.

'Is that what you're doing on the night before you're wed?' his fingers pushed against that spot in you that made you buck against his palm.

'Fucking your knight in your bedchamber?'

'I'm sorry,' you pleaded, desperately digging your hands into the bedposts, as he worked on you with his hands.

'Could've come to me,' he said, leaning against your ear now, in a low voice, 'if you needed to be fucked so bad.'

"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"

And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."

"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."

It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.

You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.

No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.

Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.

Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.

What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.

The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.

Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.

And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."

All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."

Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."

Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."

You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.

"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."

Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.

"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."

You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.

And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.

"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."

The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.

It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.

He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"

Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.