Lady Wura

Yet tears were for holy men... and, folly though it sounded, Ormund Hightower was a husband before he was ever a penitent.

True or not, he still knelt at the altars of the Starry Sept whenever duty and time allowed. His prayers were measured and humble, his hands clasped just so, his voice carrying the proper weight of contrition. He lit candles to the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone alike, made his offerings on holy days, and listened patiently whilst septons spoke of virtue, duty, and the burdens the gods laid upon noble men.

Yet for all his devotion, Ormund possessed another passion besides prayer : he had a nose for perfumes.

Not merely an appreciation, but a keen, almost indecent sense for them, the way a hound might scent blood in the dark.

He could name the oils in any lady's hair from three paces, pick apart the florals and the musks and the rare eastern extracts : the smokebark from Qohor, the jasmine of Myr, the crushed petals of the winter rose. And yours, he'd told you once on your wedding night, after he'd spent two hours just pressing his face to the hollow of your throat, breathing you in — yours was the only scent that ever made his cock ache.

In company, when you teased him for it — which part, my lord? which part of me smells sweetest? — he'd play the gallant. Your hair, he'd say, lifting a strand between his fingers, letting the candlelight catch it. Or your wrist. The ladies would coo, your sisters would blush, the old men would nod and call him a devoted husband and you a beloved wife.

But when the door closed.

When the servants had taken the wine cups and the rushes had been swept and the candles burned low in their holders, and you stood before the basin in nothing but your thin linen shift, washing the powder and the perfume of the Great Hall from your skin — then he would tell you the truth.

You asked again, and you always asked, in the intimate dark of your bedchamber when the fire had dwindled to embers and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a hand. Which part, husband?

His mouth would find your neck, wet and hot, his tongue dragging salt and skin and the faint trace of rosewater you'd dabbed there.

Your cunt, he'd murmur against your pulse, teeth scraping. When I'm hungry. He'd pause, breathing you in. Your neck, when I want to leave a mark. Your tongue, when I want to taste how sinful you can be when the gods aren't watching.

He was a man obsessed with perfumes, your husband. But his favorite had always been yours, yes, that particular musk of you, the scent that lingered in the sheets when you'd risen, that clung to the pillows he'd press his face into while you were away at the sept or at market.

That night, he stood at the basin longer than usual.

He watched you through the rippled reflection in the water before he plunged his face in, scrubbing the day's dust and the Great Hall's smoke from his skin. The candlelight caught the water trickling down his bare chest, the dark hair that matted his sternum, the hard muscle of his shoulders. Your husband slept bare every night, had done since your wedding, claiming your linens were too soft for wool and that anyway, he liked the feel of your thighs against his skin.

But tonight he wasn't watching you wash. He was watching you pray.

You were on your knees at the foot of the bed, hands clasped before you, head bowed. The shift you wore was good linen, near translucent in the firelight, falling to your calves and hiding nothing. The outline of your body — the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the shape of your cunt pressed against your thighs — all of it visible, all of it offered.

Your lips moved in silent devotion. Seven blessings. Seven thanks. The prayer for a husband's safe return, the one for a fruitful womb, the one your mother had taught you for forgiving a man his sins.

He didn't deserve forgiveness tonight.

When you finished, you made the sign of the seven-pointed star and slipped beneath the furs, settling onto your side, back to him. You hummed — that soft, contented sound you made when the sheets were clean and the bed was warm and you could feel him climbing in behind you.

Goodnight, my lord, you murmured.

He pressed his chest to your back. Skin to linen. The heat of him, still damp from the basin, seeping through the thin fabric. His cock was already half-hard against the curve of your ass, and you didn't flinch.

Goodnight, my love.

His mouth found your neck. A kiss, soft at first, then wetter, slower, his teeth grazing the tendon that ran from your ear to your shoulder. His palm spread flat on your belly, fingers splayed, just resting.

You didn't move.

Instead you pushed back into him. A slow, deliberate arch of your spine, pushing your ass against his cock, your back bowing until your shoulders pressed his chest and your hips cradled him. Your eyes were still closed. A faint smirk touched your lips.

He groaned. The sound was rough, dragged from somewhere deep, and he bit your earlobe for it.

Minx.

His hand slipped, down from your belly, across the linen, gathering the hem of your shift and pulling it up your thighs. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric whispered against your skin, bunching around your hips, leaving you bare from the waist down.

His fingers found the thatch of dark hair between your legs. He touched it first — just touched, just felt the coarse curls against his calloused fingertips. Then he tugged. Gentle pulls, wrapping strands around his fingers, tugging just enough to make your hips shift, to make you press back against him harder.

Nothing, he breathed into your ear. No smallclothes. No shift beneath the shift. You came to bed bare for me.

You said nothing. Your hand reached back, found the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his skull.

His fingers slid lower.

Through the hair, through the wet heat of you, parting the lips of your cunt with a slowness that bordered on cruel. He found your pearl — that tight, swollen nub hidden in its hood of flesh — and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

You gasped. A real sound, torn from you, your hips bucking into his hand.

He pressed his mouth to your ear, and he laughed — a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.

Oh, the gods would weep to see you now, wife. So pious at the sept. So proper at the feast. And here, in the dark, you spread your legs for a finger and a whisper.

His thumb worked your pearl in slow circles, wet with your slick, while his middle finger traced the length of your slit. Up and down. Teasing the entrance, pressing just barely at the rim of you, then dragging back up to circle your pearl again.

You were soaked. Puffy and swollen and dripping for him, your slick coating his fingers, your thighs trembling where they pressed together around his hand.

He kept whispering.

You think the septon knows? When he gives you the seven blessings and you lower your eyes so demurely — you think he knows your cunt is this wet? That you knelt at the altar this morning with your thighs pressed tight to keep my seed from running down your leg?

Two fingers. He pushed them into you without warning, without prelude, just the sudden, slick slide of them burying to the knuckle in your heat.

You cried out. Not loud — bitten off, swallowed, your hand clapping over your own mouth as his fingers curled inside you.

His other hand clamped over yours, pulling it away, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing your palm flat to the mattress.

No, he said. I want to hear you.

He fucked you with his fingers. There was no other word for it — the wet, obscene squash of his hand moving between your thighs, the rhythm of it, the way he curled his fingers to find that spot inside you that made your vision white at the edges. Your hips moved with him, pushing back to meet every thrust, your mouth open against the pillow, your moans muffled into the feathers.

That's it. That's my wife. His voice was wrecked, ragged. You take my fingers so well, love. What will you take next?

The sound of it filled the quiet room. The wet slap of his hand, the rhythm of his breathing, the broken sounds you made beneath him. He fucked you with three fingers now, stretching you open, his thumb pressing hard on your pearl while his teeth found your shoulder and bit down — just enough to mark, just enough to make you gasp.

You taste like honey and sin, he murmured against the bite mark. And I am the hungriest man in the Reach.

The squash of his wet hand. The stutter of your breath. The way you whispered his name, broken and desperate, as he pushed you closer and closer to that edge.

Come for me, he said. Let the whole of the Hightower know what a sinful little wife I have.

And in the dark of your bedchamber, with the prayers still warm on your lips and his fingers buried deep inside you, you did.

He was not finished.

The thought came to you through the haze, through the aftershocks still pulsing through your thighs, through the wet sound of your own breathing as you lay there, limp and shattered, your cunt still clenching around nothing. You thought perhaps he would roll off, would press a kiss to your shoulder and settle against your back, would whisper some sweet nothing and fall asleep with his nose pressed to your hair.

But Ormund Hightower was not a man who took one meal and called himself fed.

He pulled his fingers from you slow — dragging along your inner walls, making you shudder at the loss. You heard him bring them to his mouth. Heard the wet and sinful sound of him sucking them clean, the low groan he made tasting you on his own skin.

Then he grabbed your hip and turned you.

The world spun, furs and linen and candlelight, and then you were on your back, your husband looming over you, his face dark with hunger. His dirty blonde hair hung damp across his brow, eyes black in the firelight, and mouth wet with you.

He kissed you. Oh, how he kissed you.

Not the chaste peck of a husband taking leave. Not the gentle press of a man being tender. This was a claiming — his tongue sliding into your mouth, thick and insistent, and you tasted yourself on him. Salty and musk and the copper of your own arousal. He kissed you until you couldn't breathe, until your chest heaved and your hands came up to push at his shoulders, and only then did he break it, mouths still close, breath mingling.

You taste even better on my tongue, he said. But I want your warmth.

He took off your shift, and then descended.

His mouth trailed down your chin, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. He paused at your breasts — took a nipple between his teeth, bit just enough to make you arch, soothed it with his tongue while his hand found the other and pinched. Then lower. Over the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the place where your thighs began.

He settled between them.

Your hands found his hair before he'd even reached his destination — fingers tangling in the thick, dark curls, gripping hard. You bucked your hips toward his mouth, desperate, needy, the overstimulation from before still singing in your nerves.

He pinned you.

His hands clamped down on your hips, hard enough to bruise, pressing you flat into the mattress. You could not move, could not grind against his face, could not evenchase the friction you craved. You were held open, held still, held.

Patience, he murmured against your inner thigh. I'll have you when I'm ready.

His breath was hot on your cunt. You felt it — the warm exhalation against your soaked, swollen flesh — and your whole body trembled. You were raw from his fingers, sensitive to the point of pain, every nerve ending standing at attention and begging.

He licked you.

A single, long stroke, from the base of your slit to the tip of your pearl, his tongue flat and broad and wet. You cried out. Your hips strained against his grip, but he held you fast, and he did it again. And again. Each stroke slower than the last, savoring, tasting, groaning against your flesh until you felt the vibration through your whole body.

Gods, he breathed into you. I could die here. I would die happy, with your cunt on my tongue.

He ate you like a starving man.

His mouth devoured you — lips sucking your pearl, tongue fucking into your hole, his nose pressing against your clit with every movement. He groaned against you, the sound muffled by your flesh, and the vibration sent sparks up your spine. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your hips and dragging you harder against his face, and you let him. You gave him everything. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him there, and you rode his mouth with what little freedom he allowed you.

Ormund — His name came out broken, keening.

He answered by pressing his thumb to your pearl — hard, rubbing tight circles while his tongue speared into you, fucking you open, drinking everything you gave him.

You were close again too soon. Too fast. The pleasure was almost pain, the overstimulation building like a fever, and you tried to push his head away. You couldn't. Your hands pulled at his curls but he didn't stop, didn't slow, his thumb pressing harder, his tongue deeper.

Please — please, husband, I cannot —

He did not stop.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, like a wall falling, like the whole of the Hightower crumbling to dust. You screamed. You saw white — a blinding, total whiteness that blotted out the room, the candles, the man between your thighs. Your cunt clenched and spasmed, flooding his mouth, and he groaned against you and kept licking, kept sucking, drawing it out until you were sobbing, until you were pushing at his shoulders with what little strength you had left.

Only then did he lift his head.

His face was slick with you. His chin gleamed in the candlelight, his lips wet, his eyes dark and satisfied. He did not wipe his mouth. He simply looked at you broken and panting beneath him, your thighs trembling, your cunt still fluttering) and he smiled.

But he was not finished.

Ormund reached to the bedside table. His hand moved with practiced ease, finding a small vial of cut crystal, the kind that usually held perfumes and rare oils. He uncorked it with his teeth.

And while your cunt still wept with your peak, he gathered it.

His fingers slid into you again — gentle this time, coaxing, milking your orgasm as it ebbed. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he held the vial beneath you, watched as your own wetness trickled down his fingers and into the crystal. Drop by drop. The vial filled with your slick, pale and thick in the candlelight, and he watched it with the same reverence he gave the seven-pointed star.

When the vial was full, he corked it. Set it back on the bedside table. Returned his gaze to you.

You opened your mouth — to tease him, perhaps. To ask if he meant to wear your scent to court tomorrow, or if he planned to anoint himself before the septon. You were used to his strange ways with perfume, his collections of oils and essences, his obsession with the way things smelled.

But before the words could form, he took you.

His breeches disappeared, and with a single, swift motion — his hand on your hip, the blunt head of his cock pressing at your entrance, and then he was inside you. All of him. In one stroke, burying to the hilt, filling you completely.

Your breath left you in a rush. Your back arched off the bed. His name was a prayer, a curse, a sob.

He began to move.

No more talking, he growled, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips driving into you with desperate, hungry strokes. No more games. I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me dry.

So he fucked you.

Crude as it sound, there was no other word. He fucked you with the same hunger he'd eaten you with, with the same devotion he prayed with, with the same obsession he collected his perfumes. His hips slammed into yours, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and held on.

Come for me, he demanded. Again. Now.

And you did. Because you could not help it. Because he owned every part of you, because your body answered his before your mind could catch up, because the sight of him above you (sweating, desperate, beautiful) undid something deep in your chest.

You shattered around him.

He followed a heartbeat later, his groan low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you. Hot and thick, filling you, marking you from the inside.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his face buried in your neck. He breathed you in, a long, shuddering inhale, and you felt his lips press a kiss to your pulse.

You smell like sin, he murmured against your skin. Like heaven and sin and everything I should not want.

His hand found the vial on the bedside table. He held it up to the candlelight, watching your slick catch the glow.

And I want to keep every drop.

He settled behind you like a man coming home.

The shift of the furs, the creak of the bedframe, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His arm slid beneath your head, making a pillow of his bicep, and he pulled the covers up over both of you — silk and the heavy quilt your mother had stitched for your wedding. He tucked it beneath your chin with a tenderness that seemed impossible from the man who'd just fucked you into the mattress.

His mouth found your neck. Small kisses, pecks really, soft as moth wings, trailing from your ear down to your shoulder. You felt him smile against your skin.

You were still catching your breath. Still floating in that warm, liquid haze that followed his claiming, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and satisfied, the ghost of his cock and fingers still stretching you. You felt his softening length pressed against the curve of your ass, wet and spent, and you pushed back into him instinctively.

His hand found your breast. It always did. Every night, without fail, whether he'd taken you or not, his palm would cup your flesh, his thumb would find your nipple, and he would hold you like that until sleep took him. You'd come to expect it, to need it, the weight of his hand a comfort you couldn't name.

But his other hand did not go to your waist.

It slipped lower. Over the curve of your hip, across the soft skin of your belly, down through the coarse hair between your thighs. You were too tired to open your eyes, too spent to question, but you felt his fingers find your entrance — slick and swollen and still leaking his seed.

He pushed inside you.

Two fingers. Slow and gentle, a soft intrusion that made you sigh rather than gasp. He buried them to the knuckle, and then he stilled.

To keep your scent on me by morning, he murmured against your hair. So I can take you with me when I rise.

You hummed. A sound of agreement, or surrender, or simple exhaustion. Your hand found his where it cupped your breast, and you held him there, your fingers intertwined with his.

You were already gone. Already drifting into that deep, dreamless sleep that only a well-fucked wife could find. Your breathing evened, your body relaxed fully against his, your cunt clenching occasionally around his fingers in reflexive, dreaming pulses.

The Maiden herself might blush to hear such thoughts, and even the Stranger would raise an eyebrow, if the tales were true. Yet what were gods and their judgments beside the comfort and joy your husband brought you? Let the septons mutter of sin. Let them wag their fingers and speak of virtue. The Seven might forgive you...

it is painfully easy to recall the last memory you had before time stopped, a moment that has since been etched into your house name for what now feels like ages ago.

you were nothing but a daisy-fresh child, the world resting lightly at your fingertips as you explored the castle halls to your heart’s content. though you did have an adventurous streak, and that streak often got you into trouble… but nothing like this. it was the last time you had ever seen your father’s face lit up brighter than the stars in the midnight sky.

though he had never been particularly graceful, he would let you call yourself the fastest knight in the reach, always pretending to lose those little games you shared, falling dramatically to the floor with a hand pressed to his chest and a groan so exaggerated it always sent you into fits of laughter.

“you’ll never catch me!” you had cried, tiny hands bunched into fists as you gathered the silken skirts of your gown, running through a corridor that smelled of fresh roses and gardenias. echoing laughter filled the hall behind you, a sound you had not heard in what feels like an eternity.

“is that right?” your father called after you, giving chase, always just a few steps behind, far enough for you to feel like you were winning.

the memory grows more blurred at the edges as time goes on, almost like a puzzle missing a crucial, final piece. 

your vision tilted unsteadily. one wrong hurried turn, one missed step. the polished stone of your lavish home had betrayed you.

there was a sharp, violent impact as your head struck the wall, and then everything unraveled at once. it was almost as if your consciousness slipped away like sand through an open fist.

from that moment on, everything you had built your world around changed.

your father caught you before you fully collapsed; “look at me, dear child,” he said desperately, panic threading through every syllable. his arms tightened around your small, limp form as though sheer will alone could undo what had happened. “please… look at me.”

but you did not stir, and the realization began setting in. 

nearby handmaidens who tended the corridors had already witnessed the tragedy unfold. a silver tray slipped from one woman’s hands, clattering loudly against the stone. another stood frozen, her palm clasped tightly over her mouth.

footsteps erupted from every direction, chaos rushing in where laughter had been only moments before.

“my princess…” one lady whispered, her voice breaking.

“fetch the maester!” another cried. “now!”

yet your father did not once move from your side. his eyes never left your face, searching it desperately as though he could will you awake through nothing but his fear of losing you. 

by the time the maester arrived, it was as though the man who once ruled triumphantly had become something entirely different. he was not gone, but reshaped and scarred by the sight of you in his arms, as well as by the terrifying stillness of your small body.

“my princess?”

a gentle voice came from beyond your chamber doors, pulling you gently from sleep rather than forcing you awake.

“it is nearly noon.”

you stirred slowly, blinking against the soft light filtering through your curtains. time itself seemed to move differently within these walls, like nothing was ever rushed or done carelessly.

you sat up, stretching your arms as if you were to grace the day properly, allowing yourself to truly settle into it. somewhere along the years, you had learned to find beauty even in the smallest, most ordinary things. perhaps that was what made a true princess in a place like this.

your soft royal life had learned to flourish even within a garden that had been closed to the world for as long as you could remember.

sunlight pooled across your chambers in familiar gold, slipping over painted walls and tracing the edges of embroidered curtains your ladies insisted on changing with every season. the air smelled faintly of peony and lavender, your favorites, always made sure by your father to keep the things you loved close to you. 

although, that may have arisen from his fear of how threatening the world outside could potentially be.  

three of your handmaidens entered quietly; one placed a crystal decanter of water beside your bed, followed by a small plate of bread still warm from the kitchens. another drew back your curtains a little further, letting the garden light spill in fully. the third began tidying ribbons and pins left from the day before.

there was ease and practiced care in their movements now, which was nothing like the fear and urgency of years past.

a smile found its way onto your face before you even realized it.

“may i visit the greenhouse today?” you asked softly, your love for the blooming things of spring always impossible to hide.

“after breakfast, my lady,” your handmaiden replied automatically, as though the answer had been written into every morning you had ever lived here.

you only lightly hummed in response.

assisting you in dressing had long since become less of a duty and more of a quiet ritual. these same women had known you since infancy, and their hands moved with familiar care as they fastened laces and smoothed fabric into place. your gowns were always soft now. trimmed with floral patterns, pale jewels set delicately along the bodice, chosen not for gaudiness but for comfort. beauty, here at the castle, was something gentle rather than something of performativity. 

“your father sent word this evening,” one of them said as she worked the laces at your back.

the mention of him no longer brought the same sharp tension it once had. time had softened the edges of everything, even grief.

“he inquired if you would like breakfast in the west garden this morning, my lady.”

without hesitation, you took the silken ties gently from her hands, a bright smile breaking across your face.

a small laugh escaped you, light and unguarded.

“well then, we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

you moved toward your mirror, quickly pinning a few strands of hair into place, though you paused for a moment. not nearly out of vanity, but out of something quieter. almost something of a breath or a realization.

you were not, by any means, a little girl anymore. but neither were you the fragile tale westeros had chosen to invent.

perhaps one day your father would understand that too.

and with that, you went to join your father for breakfast in the west garden, where the roses were in full bloom and the morning sun spilled across stone, making everything feel, for a little while at least, like the world had always been this way.

as the mid-day began to settle in, just teetering on the edge of sunset, you found yourself tucked away in one of the much quieter rooms of the palace, a leather-backed book placed absentmindedly in your lap. you were not fully registering nor reading the words on the page, per se, just letting the words and vivid imagery cloud your head as the afternoon warmth began to shine in through the stained glass window just beside you. 

a content, almost sleepy sigh came from you, and just as you were beginning to drift off to that of a catnap, a soft yet urgent knock on the library doors awoke you back into reality. 

“my lady? may i come in?” 

the words of your handmaiden were never rushed, as nothing at the castle ever was. time was so valuable, and it seemed a person was granted so little of it. 

“you may.” you did not look up immediately, gentle hands closing the reading and mentally noting to return to those pages later–the sound of a small creak as the door opened. although, there was something different about her mannerisms today. almost as if there had been some sort of shift in the air. 

her hands were folded neatly in front of her, lingering just longer than usual in her spot a few feet away from you, as if she was trying to find the correct words to speak. 

that alone made you look up, paying her the respect of your gaze, noticing the rather serious expression on your face. 

“have you been searching for me?” you asked lightly, eyebrows gently furrowed as you tried to place the mood of the conversation. your handmaidens were usually always cheery and you hoped they had not grown afraid to speak with you about serious matters.

just as the silence hung in the air for a beat longer, she began to speak; “your father requests your presence, my lady.” 

your fingers gently curled around the edge of that now seemingly uninteresting book laid in your lap, attention sharpening at the nature of her words. what on earth was so urgent? “..does he?” 

another pause followed your speech, looking over to the side with a small sigh, thoughts beginning to race within your head. 

“he says it is rather important, your highness.” 

that was new, because “important” things did not reach you here. at least, not in the way the reached the rest of the world; you’ve grown accustomed to rather dull days. 

then, you stood up slowly, smoothing out the silken fabric to your gown, which was more of a habitual gesture than something attempting to fix your appearance. 

“i suppose i shall not keep the king waiting,” you said, a small smile on your face, trying to almost ease whatever sort of tension that was in the air. beginning to tress outside of the room, you passed her, flashing her a quick smile, hoping to falsely convey that you were not nervous by any means. 

she watched you for half a second longer than normal, as if she already was aware of what was to come. and, if it had caused the castle to shift even the slightest bit; perhaps that meant good news. something was about to change. 

as you began to tress throughout what seemed like endless hallways, you noticed things that had simply never been there before. and, those things were not hard to miss in the slightest, given these walls are the only thing you had grown to remember without fault. 

looking to your right, you paused in your tracks to take a quick glance outside of a large window in the foyer, and to your surprise.. there seemed to be what looked like dozens of castle servants handling banners, trimming rosebushes, tending to things that had been long overgrown. 

you silently reminded yourself what you had even been meaning to do in the first place, picking up the fabric to your gown, footsteps much quicker now–almost like a small run, which was uncharacteristic for you. especially in these halls. 

finally drawing upon the large door to your fathers chambers, your hands were softly placed palm-flat against the carved wood, pushing it open with an almost child-like curiosity. before you spoke, you stepped one foot into his quarters, beginning to speak as you closed the door behind you. 

“father? you wished to see me,” you softly began, gaze down at the ground for a moment as you smoothed out your dress, before your head tilted up to see your father across the room. his hands were clasped behind his back, curtains drawn fully open to let the sunlight in, which was so strange. any other time he would have had those curtains drawn closed tightly, collecting dust and waiting for the next time to be used. 

it seemed he was watching the same thing you had been so perplexed about on your way here, paying close attention to the servants who were currently at work, which was quite earnestly the first time they had tended to any vines that tressed up the cobblestone walls or paid any attention to the flora and fauna in years. 

he seemed rather calm, but almost too collected. as if he were trying to contain his nerves. a heavy sigh came from his lungs, head dipping to look at the ground for a split second, before he halfway-turned his body to look at you, even though he had avoided making any eye contact at first.

you made soft yet cautious footsteps towards him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if touch alone could somehow change the lamentable mood he was currently in. “what troubles you, father?” you said softly, head slightly tilted as you looked up at him with an almost worried expression. 

“my daughter,” he started, his voice taking upon a tone of what seemed like he was reminiscing on something. “you deserve much more than the isolation of these walls.” he continued, emphasis on those last few words that left his mouth. you gave him a small nod, communicating understanding of his words. 

“we cannot remain something of a legend forever,” he started, only the slightest bit of shakiness in his voice. a tone that only you would even begin to understand. “it is time the gates opened again.” 

for a moment, you were dumbfounded. the gates? open? ..for all of westeros? such a thing was almost unheard of. your eyes narrowed for a moment, looking over at the busy servants just outside, and then returning your gaze to your dear father. 

“now is not the time to jest, father..” something in you began to play it off as some strange joke, but not because you did not believe him. it was simply because it was the only rational way to react after spending years alone, taking the same pathways, reading the same novels repeatedly. 

“jest?” a warm, deep laugh came from his chest, almost husky due to his age. “dear child, the invitations have already begun to be drafted.” his words caught you off guard–there really was to be a gathering. a grand one. “this is a need for visibility. our alliances have weakened, and we must regain our house reputation.”

the thought of it was simply unfathomable. you began to imagine platters upon platters filled with exotic foods, chandeliers coming out of the dungeon, and the old ballroom you loved so dearly to become restored. 

you began to become overjoyed, an unmistakable smile crossing your face, an almost excited laugh coming from you. “oh, it shall be simply grand!” you exclaimed, suddenly lunging slightly forward to watch antique glassware and blossomed flowers being transported throughout the castle. your father began to speak, opening his mouth, yet your curious mind had already started racing. 

“will there be music? oh, and dancing?” it sounds almost captivating, but alas, he knew you needed to realize you were not exactly familiar with what you were rushing to step into. “and what of the guests; who shall be attending? how many people?” 

he gently paused your excitement with a soft tone, reminding you that this was only the preparation. “my dearest, you must be patient. i shall not bore you with any details.” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “the seamstresses and dressmakers will be arriving shortly. there will be no further questioning.”

a small, defeated sigh came from you, but the smile on your face could fool your father any day of your true emotions. “yes, father.. i understand.” you said gently, recollecting your thoughts and dimming your excitement. yet, that was only for a moment. 

you began to realize he was not forcing change upon you. he was allowing you to accept it, and by the nature of your response, he knew he had made the right decision. 

it was only a moment longer before you quickly gave your father a tight embrace, incredibly grateful for the opportunity he has granted you with, even if it was for reasons other than simply allowing you to experience what life has withheld from you. “thank you, father. i shall be on my best behaviour, i’m sure of it.” you let go after a moment, flashing him a quick smile, before being on your way out of his chambers. 

as you made your way towards the foyer, you were careful to pick your dress up, pacing down a flight of marble stairs–caucious not to slip. on your path down the stairs, you passed multiple servants and handmaidens, all busied with some sort of task that entailed decorating the palace to its entirety. 

after making a turn towards the entrance of your private quarters, a group of at least five women were already sorting through fabrics and threads, a quarter of the expanse of your rather large room occupied by seamstresses. “ah, there she is. your majesty, come forth, will you?” 

one of the older women motioned with a hand for you to come closer, taking a step back to allow you to stand in front of a large, multi-framed mirror that covered almost the entirety of the wall. you flashed her a quick smile, allowing her to take whatever measurements she needed from you. “did you have any ideas in mind, my lady?” she said to you, granting you creative liberty to some extent.

you took a moment to think, unsure of what you would be expected or even want to wear to such an event where royals were expected to attend. 

“perhaps.. white. a beautiful, pure white gown.” you said softly, looking at yourself in the mirror in front of you in attempts to take into account your features. although, the answer was subtly shocking to the older woman. “white, your majesty? won’t you want to reserve that for your day of wed?” 

you shook your head slightly, a smile crossing your face. “well, i do not assume i shall be married soon, or ever, for that matter. especially not in these.. circumstances.” your thought process was simple; it would most certainly not be easy for any man of high status to marry a princess who has never made any court appearances or even been seen by outsiders. 

your remark had gained the interest of two younger seamstresses who were currently pinning fabric together, beginning to form the underskirt to your gown near the back of the room, “i beg to differ, i heard lords from the capital are attending,” one of them started, her tone rather matter-of-fact, assuming you’d be potentially courted by many suitors. 

a small laugh came from the other. “i heard this is to be the largest gathering since the tourney at ashford meadow,” she said with a grin, seemingly feeding on quick court-gossip. this earned a shock from the other seamstress, beginning to sew ornate stones onto a section of fabric. “one of the dragon princes are attending.. the house targaryen rarely travels west.”

that remark in particular had caught you off guard. you simply had to know more.

“the dragon prince?” you questioned, looking over at them over your shoulder. you had only heard brief mention of any house relating to dragons from your father, when you would eavesdrop on meeting as a little girl. the same dressmaker who had been adding little crystals to the gown came closer, holding up fabrics next to you, seeing what would look best.

“you’ll know him when you see him. snow-white hair.. like that of an old valyrian painting.” she whispered, making this prince sound more like a rumour than a royal. you hadn’t thought that the realm was nearly this complicated. she began to speak once more; “he is–”

the older seamstress gave them a scorning look, reminding them that it was not by any means in good taste to gossip about seemingly one of the most influential house names. “girls. i shall remind you we did not come here to speak in poor taste.” after that warning, the room went quiet aside from the sound of pins occasionally dropping, or the sound of heavy fabric.

softly, you turn back to the mirror, not a sound leaving your mouth, silently thinking to yourself. what was such a matter with this family name, and why on earth were they so important? it seemed you would have to wait for the day to come. 

attempting to break the silence, you speak softly, an innocent question leaving your mouth.

“..what silhouettes are they wearing this season?”

and so, over the course of weeks, the castle changed in ways you could not even begin to fathom prior to the engagement. the change was not all at once, or loud, or gaudy.. it began to change in pieces. 

you had been awake for hours, currently sat at your vanity, simply awaiting the unveiling of the dress you waited weeks for. the conversation you had with those two nosy seamstresses still never failed to cloud your mind, with all the talk of high-ranking lords and ladies, making you much more nervous than excited for a court appearance after many years in solitude. 

the hour was growing late, and the sun had set hours ago, the castle now illuminated with golden candelabras and blown glass lanterns. it was something you only could have imagined in a painted memory. below you, you could hear the faint clanking of metal trays and silverware, paced footsteps moving with an unfamiliar purpose. 

you had been awake since dawn, simply listening to the sounds coming from outside your door. 

a soft knock came upon your door, waking you out of a sort of subconscious daydream. “your evening gown is finished, my lady.”

excitement began to take over the feelings of nervousness, turning slightly towards your door. years of wearing the same light, simply tailored gowns had made you look forward to the arrival of such a grand dress.

you stood slowly as the door opened to many familiar faces–then another, and another. not just your usual handmaidens that always greeted you in the morning time, but others too. the women carried what seemed like never-ending fabrics, boxes tied with ribbon, and a small tray of what looked like pale feathers. 

the dress was not unveiled all at once; first came the fabric. “oh, it is divine.. they’ve outdone themselves.” you said, as your fingers brushed along the satin fabric. “careful,” one of the handmaidens said, earning a soft laugh from you. was it improper to touch the dress you were soon to be wearing?

“is it fragile?” you said, with a slight smile. 

“no, your majesty. just important.”

and with that, they helped you dress slowly, as they always did, but today there was a difference in their movements. there was more attention and much more precision. as if every aspect mattered in a way it hadn’t before, like you were not simply getting dressed, but prepared. 

the fabric settled over you, the gown having an undeniable weight to it. the laces of the corset-style waist were tightened and tied with care, little white plumes intricately placed upon the bodice. 

just as you were beginning to take a longing look at yourself in the mirror, a servant rushed in, pausing at the doorframe. 

“my lady, you must make haste. guests are beginning to arrive.”

you could already hear the strum of violins and the chatter of royal guests downstairs. before leaving the quiet familiarity of your room, you take one last look, allowing yourself to smooth out the silk fabric of your dress and adjust the boned bodice holding the structure together. 

and with that, pushing aside any nervousness or uncertainty, you begin to make hurried footsteps to the ballroom. along your path, you passed many servants carrying refreshments and trays, the heightened smell of rosebuds wafting throughout the halls, and the sound of music getting increasingly easier to hear as you get closer and closer.

before entering what seemed like something out of a storybook, you turned your quick footsteps into slower, more purposeful ones. there was booming laughter and glasses clinking, just behind massive wooden doors; to which were already propped open. 

stepping inside the warmly-lit gathering, your presence does not go unnoticed. 

the volume of some nearby conversations begin to falter, some heads turning to feast upon what exactly the reach had been keeping locked away for so long. out of the corner of your eye, you see another nudge the lord beside him, though you decide to ignore it. many women smiled at you, though, some filled with envy. 

you gravitated towards the end of the room, taking hold of a stem of wine, swishing it within the glass before taking a quick sip. for someone who had such a lavish party in their honour, you didn’t quite see any familiar faces. 

your footsteps were slow, simply listening to conversations happening near you.. talk of alliances, how horrible the last tourney was, an arranged marriage. all things very common for court. while your eyes drifted over the grand floral arrangements, something caught your eye. silver hair. and not the old, aging kind of silver. pure white. 

suddenly a thought from weeks before rang into your ears, almost as if you began to remember something crucial, when that seamstress had mentioned “snow-white hair.” your memories began to fall into place, taking a long and good look at the figure across the room. if your eyes were not deceiving you, he looked around to be twenty years old. perhaps the dragon prince was not all myth. 

and perhaps you had been looking a bit too long, which granted you a cock of his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes as if looking you over. setting his wine down on the table next to him, within a blink of the eye he was beginning to move. 

you turned around, in attempts to walk around the crowd rather than through it–your father right behind you. “she looks just like her mother.” he was standing with a few other lords; all in jewel tones of red, yellow, and green. one of them began to whisper to the other next to him, another speaking; “ah, here she is. she’s been hiding from us all night.”

his remark gained boastful laughter from the men with him, all smiles, to which you cannot place were genuine or if they had ulterior motives. you silently cursed him within your head, given you had completely lost track of a certain white-haired prince. 

“why, yes… yes. i do suppose i’ve been in hiding.” you said with a forced smile, eyes darting around as you endlessly searched a crowd full of individuals for one. and yet, it was as if he had vanished within thin air. how hard was it to misplace someone so striking? 

your father began to speak again. about what, you had no idea. your mind was certainly elsewhere. without taking a second thought to think of what he was speaking of, you agreed by nodding your head. 

after a moment, you excused yourself–there were much bigger things at hand here. “excuse me.” you said, beginning to pace your way through the crowd, pardoning yourself for being in someone's way more times than you could count. 

soon enough, you found yourself on the other side of the room. standing just quite in front of the “elusive” figure you’d been trying to track down all night. 

your first mistake was thinking he would make attempts to introduce himself first. he simply.. leaned against the wall, eyebrows furrowed as he studied you, deciding if you were worthwhile.

he seemed beautiful and charismatic, yet there was most certainly something off, shown within the way he exuded a harsh sort of stillness while the gala around him was soft and warm.

breaking the silence, you began to speak–before he got to it first.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, his tone rather matter-of-fact, taking a small sip of wine whilst his eyes never let up from your complexion. 

your hands remained folded together in front of you, resting on the fabric of your gown. whatever did he mean by that?

“and what is it that you were supposed to expect?” you added, your head slightly lifting to actually make attempts to make eye contact, your question coming off as charming. 

“someone timid.” he said, before allowing a beat of silence, looking down into his glass filled with crimson liquid. “though you interest me in conversation.”

your eyes narrowed for a moment, beginning to experience a feeling you couldn’t quite place. perhaps a bit of excitement was misplaced as nervousness. 

“..would you rather me hadn’t, your grace?” you replied, a bit of playfulness in your tone, clearly, you weren’t intimidated. 

there was a long pause, before he spoke once more.

“no.” the prince quipped back, rather quickly, like he knew what he wanted to say before you were finished with your sentence. like he didn’t have to think about it. 

alas, you wanted to know more, the result of the conversation was not quite satisfactory. 

you began to speak, though it was hard to ignore you were being almost studied with every movement of your mouth. “may i ask you something?” 

“you already have,” he said, gaining a very subtle roll of your eyes at him. were all princes so persistently irksome? 

he noticed your little face of irritation, almost smiling to himself. “another question, then. go on.” it seemed he strictly carried the conversation, not the other way around. 

you tilted your head to the side, your gaze looking off in a different direction as you spoke. “have you always enjoyed making strangers uncomfortable, my lord?” after those last few words, you returned your focus of sight onto his face. 

undoubtedly, there was an unmistakable smirk painted upon his pale complexion. the tiniest smirk, like he somehow found it humorous.

he didn’t look away when he spoke, not even for a moment, like the act of watching you was part of the conversation itself.

“you speak as though discomfort is always an insult,” he said at last, voice low enough that it barely had to compete with the noise behind him. “it is not.”

your fingers had begun to adjust the fabric of your gown, finding something else to occupy your racing mind with. you allowed the moment of silence to stretch just long enough so it felt more intentional.. and less like you were at a loss for words.

“then.. what is it?” you asked him. his eyes briefly flickered down your hands, watching the movement of gentle fingers, as if he was mentally noting something that other people would ignore. 

“testimony,” he started, his tone stating his words rather simply. “of truth. or, lack of it.” 

his words made you pause. whatever was he hinting at? your expression shifted, quite obviously, before you could begin to control it. a hint of a laugh came from you, followed by an exhale. because, honestly, how else were you supposed to react?

“so.. you go around looking for truths to collect?” you said, your tone was rather light in the way that was careful, “how very devoted of you.” 

at your remark, something changed within his expression. it wasn’t anything of warmth or amusement, at least in any familiar sense.. it was more like recognition. like what you said had very closely met the mark than you intended it to. 

“only the ones worth listening to.” he began, that same unchanging tone of his in those words. your gaze had stayed on him much longer than etiquette would have most likely advised you, as well as the fact that you did not exactly know where boundaries sat in a conversation like this. 

“and what makes mine listening to, my lord?” you asked, a small smile on your face as the corners of your mouth curled up. and, for the first time, he looked away from you. 

it wasn’t a retreat for the conversation by far, much more like a deliberate pause. he looked down into his goblet of wine, as if the answers he was searching for would be found within the reflection of the red liquid. it was almost as if the conversation had ended in being strictly theoretical. 

then, without lifting his head, he spoke. “you assume the question was meant to flatter you.” with a movement of his jaw, his tongue flicked within the inside of his mouth, as if tasting the remnants of the blood-red wine left upon his gums. strangely enough, the mannerism akin to a reptile. 

it was so faint, that if you were not watching closely enough, it would have gone unnoticed. unfortunately, you were. and it did not feel like an entirely human gesture. your mind traced back to prior conversations, remembering how the dressmaker had referred to him as the “dragon prince.” it was true that his peculiar movements did strike you as dragon-like. 

“i found the remark to be quite flattering,” you said, your words coming easily. it was curious in a way that betrayed any thought wondering if curiosity was permitted. 

for a moment, he did not respond. it was as if the question had not offended him or caught him off guard in any way, it was simply as if what you had said was able to redirect his thoughts on the conversation–and, undoubtedly, you as well. 

his gaze lifted once more, studying you with a different sort of interest. he was not simply registering your emotions, or picking apart what you were replying, there was a quiet interest in the way he was taking in every feature about you.

now, that should have made you uncomfortable. but, it made you far less sensible, making you much more curious in return. 

your smile shifted slightly, no longer just polite, but with an air of self-assurance, given the fact you had potentially caught his eye. “you are looking at me as though i’ve said something interesting,” you said.

though, it was not quite a question. he did not look away from you once, yet, his eyes had become focused on each individual feature, like he was trying to piece something together. 

“you have.” he replied, his words simple yet immediate. there was no hesitation laced within his words, which only heightened your curiosity. 

you exhaled through your nose, a faint laugh forming without any bit of resistance. “that is not something i hear often,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly as your gaze now stayed firmly on him. “usually i am told the opposite.”

there was a very small pause from him at your words. “the opposite,” he repeated, unsure of what may be his motives at this rate. 

you lightly nodded, once, as though your admission was something unremarkable. “that i am.. expected to be quieter,” you said, trying to briefly find the correct phrasing, though now tone suggested you were not particularly concerned with perfecting your speech. “less noticeable, perhaps.”

you watched him carefully as you spoke; but not out of fear of his reply or the nature of what he may be thinking. (thought, the potential of his thoughts did interest you.) it was merely because he had begun to react in ways that other noble suitors would not. if he could even be considered a “suitor.”

he absorbed your notion as if it mattered. “and do you try to be?” he questioned, yet the words had landed differently than any previous statement, it was directly giving you a choice as to how you planned to answer. 

‘well, no,” you said, rather honestly. “i think i simply have not had much reason to be otherwise.” your words fell more freely after you spoke, shoulders shrugging for a moment, a breath leaving your lungs that you were not exactly aware you were holding in. 

that gained you silence from him. though, short-lived silence.

not exactly the bad kind, but his attention had shifted much closer to you, even though neither of you had moved any closer–or any further, for that matter. “you’d be mistaken.” he said, gaining a quick quip of your brow. 

“would i?” you questioned, words coming out more inquisitive than you intended. 

he held your gaze, eyes narrowed by a hair, as if he was studying your features once more. beginning to take a quick sip of his wine, those eyes of his hadn’t left you for a moment. 

“you are noticeable regardless,” he said. it should have sounded flat, but it was anything but. his words sounded definitive, like he already had made a decision about you long before you were aware of what it entailed. 

for a moment, you did not respond. but out of hesitation or anything trivial, but because his admission made you suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had not been before. because there was a simple fact; he was looking at you like you were distinct. 

your gaze matched his own more steadily, head tilted slightly to the side, beginning to feel your curiosity shift into something much more deliberate. “that could mean many things, my lord.” you replied.

“it does.” he agreed, his attention not shifting within the slightest. 

you kept your posture rather composed, yet something within you had shifted, beginning to realize that this was becoming something much more than casual banter. your fingers had started to adjust faintly against your gown. 

“you were not meant to be seen often,” he said, as if continuing a thought he had already deemed true. “or you would not react like this.”

you blinked a few times, almost as if batting your eyes–minus the flirtatiousness. you were not used to a man, or a prince for that matter, reading you so well. 

his eyes lowered; but not to your fidgeting hands. he began to focus on the change of your expression, almost silently triumphant in his head that he had managed to have any sort of upper hand over the conversation.

very subtly, he took a step forward. it was not yet invading any personal space, but it was rather close to being deemed intimate. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter;

“who keeps you hidden?” 

your lips parted, almost at a loss for words. “my father," you said at last, though the words felt strange to say out loud. "he believed it.. safer."

the prince regarded your response for a moment, at first, saying nothing. his features conveyed something of no surprise. “i thought as much.” 

he paused for a moment, granting a beat of silence, which could have been for emphasis on his statement. his eyes narrowed for a split second, thoughtfully tracing the inner ridge of his teeth with his tongue. 

“it is a shame.” he stated, the nature of his words catching you off-guard. you were not sure how to react. 

your brows gently knitted together, deciding to dig a hint deeper, your inquisitiveness rather apparent. “..what is?” 

for what felt like the first time during the conversation since you’ve begun to speak.. he did not have an immediate answer. uncharacteristically, he began to search for the correct words, though it seemed several possibilities had crossed his mind before one seemed worthy of being spoken.

“that something so..” he began, head tilting just slightly to the side, almost as if he was studying you intently. “remarkable..” 

there was another short pause before he spoke again.

“..has been hidden behind stone walls for so long.” 

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.

But the moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted from courtly elegance to raw, possessive hunger.

Ormund didn't say a word at first, he didn't need to. He gripped your arm with a firmness that bordered on bruising, spinning you around and shoving you back against the cold stone wall.

His eyes, usually so composed, were dark with a jealous fire. He had seen the way Aemond looked at you; he had heard the Prince's admiration, and it had ignited a need in him to reclaim what was his.

“The Prince finds you sharp, does he?” Ormund hissed, his voice a low growl against your ear. He pressed his body flush against yours, his hardness straining against his trousers, pinning you firmly. “He admires your mind. But he forgets that every inch of you, your thoughts, your breath, your fucking body, belongs to me.”

He didn't give you time to answer. His hand dove downward, ripping your skirts upward and shoving your undergarments aside with a rough, impatient tug. He forced your legs apart, hoisting one of your thighs up over his hip to expose you completely to the dim light of the room.

Ormund dropped to his knees with a suddenness that made you gasp, he didn't tease, he dove straight in. His tongue lashed out, hitting your clit with a forceful, wet stroke that made your back arch off the wall. You let out a sharp cry, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to eat you out with a feral intensity.

He sucked your clit deep into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nub while his fingers shoved themselves inside you, stretching your walls.

He was eating you like a starving man, his face smeared with your juices, making loud, wet slurping sounds that filled the silence of the chamber.

He wanted you to feel the desperation of his claim, to know that while Aemond might admire your mind, Ormund owned the heat between your legs.

You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged sobs as he drove you toward the edge and just as you felt the first wave of orgasm crashing over you, Ormund pulled away, leaving you dripping and desperate.

“Look at me,” he commanded, standing up and quickly shedding his breeches.

His cock was thick and pulsing, fully erect and leaking pre-cum. He didn't use any lubricant other than the mess he had just made of you. He grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly and driving his cock deep into your pussy in one singular, violent thrust.

You screamed into the quiet of the room, the sudden fullness stretching you to my limit. He didn't slow down. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, punishing force, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound. Each thrust was a statement of ownership, driving deep enough to hit your cervix, claiming every hidden part of you.

“Who do you belong to?” he groaned, his voice strained as he hammered into you.

“You... Ormund!” You gasped, your head tossing back against the wall.

“Say it again!” He gripped your throat lightly, not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel his dominance. He accelerated his pace, his cock sliding in and out of your soaking wet pussy with friction that set you on fire.

“I am yours! I belong to you!” The admission seemed to break the last of his restraint. Ormund let out a guttural roar, his movements becoming frantic and wild. He buried himself deep inside you one last time, his body shuddering violently as he pumped load after load of hot cum deep into your womb.

He stayed there for a long moment, panting heavily, his forehead pressed against yours, ensuring you felt every drop of his seed filling you up, marking you from the inside out. The Prince's compliments were forgotten; there was only the scent of sex and the crushing weight of Ormund's possession.

“Fucking righteous cunt thought he could compliment my wife,” he murmured against your throat, jaw clenching, “I will make this entire fucking keep learn just who the fuck you belong to,” Ormund's teeth sank into your shoulder with a sharp, possessive bite, his growl vibrating against your skin as he then hauled you against his chest, pushing you towards the bed, “Prince or fucking not, I'll have him eat is fucking words, rider of the largest fucking dragon or not, his fire will not touch you.”

Ormund pushed you unto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and he yanked your hips up, forcing your ass high while your face pressed into the sheets. His cock, still slick from the load he'd just pumped into you, slammed back inside your pussy in one brutal thrust.

“Let them hear you, let him hear how I am the one making you come undone,” he gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, pounding into you from behind with savage force, each slam drove his length to the hilt, his balls slapping against your clit as he used your body like it was made for nothing else.

Hot cum from his first release leaked out around his shaft with every thrust, coating your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

“Mine,” he snarled against your ear, his hips snapping forward without mercy. “Say it again. Tell me who this cunt belongs to.” His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucked you deeper, harder, claiming every inch of your soaked hole.

“I am yours, Ormund, fuck,” your fingers fisted into the sheets as your mouth parted, breathless and heart pounding with each insistent thrust that made the bed shake, “it was only a compliment, nothing more.”

He shook his head, hammering into you as his free hand reached under you to pinch and twist your nipple, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers while he drove you toward another shattering peak, “You are so oblivious, so fucking blind to the way men stare at you. I should not have let you come with me,” he murmured, hands now gripping unto your hips as he continued to unravel you.

“You commanded me to come,” you muffled the scream that tumbled from your mouth, head tilting to the side as you now watched your husband pound into you over your shoulder, “you commanded that I come with you, husband.”

“Then I'll spend every godsdamned moment between your legs, if only so to remind those that I am not a man who shares what is his in any manner.”

The wet sounds of his cock stretching you filled the room, mixed with the slap of skin on skin and his ragged breathing. He didn't slow down, didn't ease up, he kept railing you from behind, determined to flood you again before the night was over.

His hair, now damp and clinging against his forehead, made your cunt clench tighter around his cock and a smug smirk fluttered across your face, “Green is a colour that suits you most sinfully, Ormund.”

Ormund’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, possessive hunger. The mention of the color; the color of the Hightowers, the color of the ambition that fueled the court, seemed to snap something inside him. He didn't just thrust, he snapped his hips forward with a brutal, jarring force, his cock slamming deep into your cervix with a wet, heavy thud.

“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left bruises, anchoring you in place as he began to rail you with a savage intensity. Each strike was a claim, a violent assertion of ownership that left you breathless and shaking.

The fury in him was palpable, a storm brewed from the lingering image of Prince Aemond’s lingering glances and the way the Prince had looked at you as if you were a prize to be stolen.

Ormund had always been a man of controlled passion, but the threat of competition had awakened a primal, territorial beast he had long since buried. He didn't want to just satisfy you; he wanted to mark you, to fill you so completely that there was no room left for any other man's thoughts or desires.

With a sudden, powerful movement, he yanked you backward, pulling your spine flush against his chest. He didn't stop the friction, keeping his cock buried deep while he twisted his body to capture your lips.

His mouth crashed against yours, his tongue invading your mouth in a mirroring of the assault below, aggressive, demanding, and absolute. He tasted of salt and desperation, his breath hitching as he felt your cunt pulsing and clamping tight around him. “Mine,” he groaned into the kiss, the word vibrating through your entire frame. “Every inch of you... fucking mine.”

He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, his entire body locking up as he hit his limit. A guttural shout tore from his throat as he came, a hot, thick torrent of cum flooding your womb, filling you to the brim. He shuddered violently, his heart hammering against your back, his cock pulsing inside you as he emptied himself completely, claiming you with every drop of his seed.

But as the peak of the orgasm subsided, the brutality evaporated, replaced by a sudden, aching tenderness. Ormund didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, his movements becoming agonizingly slow. He began to grind his hips into you with a rhythmic, devoted slowness, his cock sliding through the slurry of his own cum and your juices.

He began to kiss the nape of your neck, his lips soft and lingering, his breath warm against your skin. The contrast was dizzying, the man who had just been railing you like an animal was now cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the Seven Kingdoms.

He whispered fragmented vows of devotion, his voice thick with emotion, grinding into you with a steady, loving pressure that targeted every sensitive nerve.

The slow, deliberate friction began to build a different kind of heat, a swirling vortex of pleasure that felt deeper and more intimate than the violence of before. Your walls clamped around him in rhythmic waves, and as he continued to grind into you with that unwavering devotion, you felt yourself shatter. You came undone, your body arching and sobbing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, leaving you limp and trembling in his possessive, loving embrace.

Ormund's lips brushed yours again, softer this time, the kiss lingering with a quiet apology woven into every press. His breath came warm against your mouth as he murmured, “Forgive me. I was too rough with you.”

His hands eased their grip on your hips, fingers stroking the marks he'd left behind in soothing circles. He stayed buried inside you, his cock still half-hard and slick with the mess he'd pumped deep, but his thrusts had slowed to nothing. Instead he held you close, chest pressed to your back, and began to rock his hips in the gentlest of motions, just enough to keep you connected while the tenderness took over.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough with leftover heat. “Aemond's eye on you... it woke something I thought I'd buried. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that.”

Another slow kiss landed at the corner of your jaw, then lower, along the curve of your neck. His tongue traced the skin he had earlier bitten, now soothing it with careful laps.

He pulled back just enough to turn your face toward him, claiming your mouth once more in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted of salt and regret. His tongue moved slower now, exploring rather than invading, while below he ground his hips forward in tiny, devoted circles that dragged his cock against your swollen walls. The wet sounds of his cum shifting inside you filled the quiet between kisses.

“You're mine,” he breathed into the kiss, the words gentler than before, “but I never want to hurt what belongs to me.” His hand slid down to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with feather-light strokes as he continued the slow grind, letting you feel every inch of him without the earlier brutality.

The tenderness built its own heat, each careful movement drawing soft gasps from you as he kissed away the sting of his earlier roughness.

“Forgive me, my love.” He murmured into your ear, “I forget myself sometimes when it comes to you.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, “You need not apologise, husband. I quite enjoyed it.”

He placed a tender, fierce kiss against your forehead and smiled, “I feared you might say that.” and with a quiet chuckle, Ormund gathered you against his broad chest, his arms wrapping securely around you as though the whole world could wait.

He rested his cheek atop your head, content simply to hold you there, listening to your steady heartbeat until the silence between you became as warm and cherished as any whispered vow.

While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.

Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”

His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.

“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”

There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.

Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.

“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”

With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.

“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.

The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.

Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—

And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.

The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.

And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.

“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.

Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”

“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.

You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.

After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.

As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Precious thing, she truly is.

With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.

“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.

His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.

A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.

“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”

Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.

Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.

“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”

“But—”

His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.

“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”

Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”

His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”

He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.

When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.

You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.

For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.

Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.

His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.

Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.

But you weren’t alone.

A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.

“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”

Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.

“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”

“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.

His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.

“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”

His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.

“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”

A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”

“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”

Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.

Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.

“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”

“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”

“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”

He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.

“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”

The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.

With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.

Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.

These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.

And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.

To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.

“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Oh—!”

A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.

His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.

“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.

However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”

Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.

“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.

His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—

His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.

Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.

How?

Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?

His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.

“Why were you with him?”

That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.

But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.

He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.

“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”

“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.

You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—

“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.

But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.

Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.

“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”

“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”

Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.

Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.

It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.

“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”

You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.

“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”

You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.

His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.

The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.

“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.

Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.

With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.

Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?

A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.

Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.

Fuck patience.

He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.

Fuck virtues.

Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.

“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.

“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”

He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.

So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.

When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.

As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.

You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.

There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.

“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”

The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.

Fuck.

The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.

You awoke before him.

With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.

Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.

At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.

“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.

Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.

You blinked. “What for?”

“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”

“Oh?”

“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”

He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.

“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”

You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.

“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”

Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”

His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.

“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”

“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”

Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?

Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.

When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.