HederasGarden’s Library

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When he reaches for your face, cupping your cheek in his palm, you instinctively turn your face toward his touch.

“Good girl,” he praises.

His hand drifts slowly downward, fingers closing around your throat, holding you there without exerting pressure. The only response you offer is the flutter of your lashes. He hums softly, satisfied by your obedience.

“I have had such a trying day,” he murmurs, bending to run his nose along your hairline. He inhales deeply, holding his breath before releasing it in a slow rush of warm air. He repeats the action a second time, sighing into your skin.

You say nothing. You know better than to interrupt him.

“My frustration has been simmering all day. It makes me rash.” His fingers shift slightly against your throat. “I need it gone. You understand?”

He watches you expectantly.

“Yes, Lord Hightower.”

At the door you take a moment to steady yourself, pushing down the feelings lingering in your body. Only once you feel calm do you lift your chin and follow the waiting Kingsguard.

It is a short walk to the royal chambers, and when you enter, you find Daeron and Gwayne seated at a small table, joined by another woman.

Even if you had never seen the small portrait Daeron kept in his room, you would have recognized Alicent. The resemblance between Daeron and her is unmistakable, from the soft shape of their faces to the familiar curve of their nose and mouth.

Both men rise when you enter, though it is Daeron who crosses the room first, his reserve falling away entirely this time. You smile as he takes your hands in his.

“Come,” he insists. “You must meet my mother and sister.”

It is only then that you notice the woman seated on the floor behind the table, her long silver-gold hair falling around her face as she leans over the small child in her lap. The little girl grips a wooden block in her tiny fingers, carefully fitting it into the growing tower. Neither seem to notice your presence.

Alicent rises as you approach. You dip into a short curtsy and then rise. “Your Grace.”

“Daeron has shared much about you,” she says by way of greeting.

Something in her words catches you off guard, a faint coolness carefully concealed beneath her courtesy. For a fleeting moment she looks toward her son before returning to you.

“He has been very eager for you to arrive,” she continues.

“I am pleased to be here,” you reply.

“Please, join us,” Gwayne offers.

He pulls out the chair between himself and Daeron, waiting until you have taken your seat before gently pushing it closer to the table. Only then does he return to his own place beside you as the others settle in.

The table is filled with so much food, it’s nearly overwhelming. You hesitate, unsure where to begin until a small pile of pale, golden pastries at the center catches your eye.

Lemon cakes.

You have not had them in years. Ormund hated the scent of citrus and vanilla. He said they were too cloying.

Eagerly, you pick one up, the sticky glaze clinging to your fingertips. The first bite brings a sweetness you had almost forgotten, a rich buttery taste brightened by the sharpness of the lemon.

You make a small, pleased sound before you can help yourself.

“My uncle said you would like them,” Daeron reveals.

You look to Gwayne, surprised.

He holds your gaze for only a heartbeat and then his eyes drop to the table. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his thumb tracing once along the rim of his cup.

“They were served at your father’s hall,” Gwayne says after a moment. “I remember them being brought out after supper.”

“They were my favorite,” you reply.

Gwayne looks back at you, and for a long moment neither of you speaks.

“I have never seen you eat them before,” Daeron says, breaking the silence.

You glance back toward him. “My lord husband was not fond of them,” you say simply, reaching for another.

Daeron’s smile fades slightly, and you immediately regret the admission. You open your mouth, searching for something lighter to say.

“Helaena, darling,” Alicent calls sweetly. “Come eat. The food is getting cold.”

Her daughter does not answer, continuing to speak softly to the little girl in her lap. Alicent’s mouth presses into a thin line, but she does not call for her again. Instead, she turns back to the table, smoothing her expression into something more pleasant.

“Things will be better once we are in Oldtown,” she says quietly, almost as if reminding herself.

Immediately you look to Daeron, confused, only to find the young King staring intently at his plate. You touch his arm and his mouth tighthens. You know that expression. The way he goes still and tucks whatever he is feeling somewhere out of sight.

“There are difficult memories here for Helaena,” Daeron says finally.

“We will stay until the coronation,” Alicent adds, reaching for his hand with a gentle smile. “After that, I shall return to Oldtown with Helaena.”

The flash of anger you feel at her words catches you off guard. Alicent’s tender expression, the way she reaches to comfort him as though no time has passed between them, only makes the feeling harder to ignore. She has only just found him again. To leave him again seems unimaginable.

When you look across the table you find Gwayne watching Daeron as well, a slight wrinkle of concern between his brow. Perhaps better than anyone, he understands what his nephew has lost.

Absently, your thumb brushes over Daeron's forearm. You are not his mother, nor could you ever take her place. But for years, while she was gone, you did what you could. During the long journey to King’s Landing, you prepared yourself to step aside. To return Daeron to the mother he had spent so many years longing for. You had been glad for it.

Yet now, hearing she means to leave, you are startled by the small, shameful flicker of relief buried beneath your concern. Everything else in your life has been swept away. You are not ready to lose him too.

“The great houses have already begun to arrive,” Gwayne says with a weary sigh, breaking the quiet. “Soon, we will be overrun.”

“So the war is truly over?” you ask.

Daeron lets out a quiet breath.

“It is an uneasy peace,” he admits. “Cregan took his wolves back north, but…” He trails off, staring down into his cup. “If Aegon had not already been poisoned, I do not know if there would have been any words that could have stopped him.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Across the table, Alicent turns away from the conversation, her attention shifting to Helaena. She watches her daughter quietly, almost as though she has chosen not to hear what is being said.

“Perhaps the realm was spared a final battle because of it,” Gwayne says gently, lowering his head to meet his nephew’s eyes.

You squeeze Daeron’s arm, wishing you could offer him more comfort. After a moment, he covers your hand with his.

“We should speak of happier things,” he announces.

“You will wear green again soon,” Helaena says suddenly.

Everyone turns toward her. You’re shocked to find her looking right at you. Then, as if nothing unusual has happened, she turns back to the blocks, carefully placing another atop the small tower in her daughter’s lap.

Alicent is the first to recover, offering a small, polite smile.

“Ah, yes,” she says. “You will need a new wardrobe for the coronation and for what comes next. Black has its place, but it cannot be worn forever..”

“No. Of course, you are right,” you say, suddenly finding you no longer have any appetite for the lemon cakes on your plate.

The mention of a new wardrobe is an unwelcome reminder of the conversation you had only yesterday. Another sign that your future is already beginning to unravel, slipping from your grasp.

Daeron clears his throat.

“I had thought to go riding after we are finished with our meal,” he says, his voice lighter than before. “Tessarion has been restless, and I fear she will take offense if I keep her waiting much longer.”

You smile. “A dragon’s patience is not easily tested.”

“And what of you? Have you decided what you will do today?” His gaze drifts briefly toward Gwayne.

You hesitate. “I think I would like to visit the sept.”

“You should not go alone,” Daeron says immediately. “Perhaps my uncle could accompany you.”

Gwayne lets out the faintest breath through his nose, brow lifting slightly as he stares at his nephew. Daeron only returns his look with a small smile.

“If my lady would welcome the company,” he says, inclining his head, “I would be honored to escort you.”

When you meet his eyes there is no expectation in them. Only patience.

“I would like that,” you admit softly. “If you truly do not mind.”

A quiet warmth settles over Gwayne's features. “Not at all.”

–

The path to the sept is not a long one, but Gwayne still offers you his arm. This close, you find yourself aware of the warmth of him beside you and the faint scent of leather and clean linen, mingled with something distinctly his. He keeps his pace slow, his stride measured to match yours.

You walk in companionable silence, passing surprisingly few servants. Those you do encounter greet Gwayne warmly, their expressions easy and unguarded.

“I must apologize,” he says suddenly.

You look toward him, but he keeps his gaze ahead, his expression thoughtful.

“I never had the chance to offer my condolences for your loss.” He pauses. “Not only for Ormund, but for everything that has changed since.”

Your fingers flex against his arm and you feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath the fabric.

“You have been brought here, your future discussed before you have had time to settle into the present. I imagine that cannot be easy.”

For a moment, you do not know what to say. To have someone acknowledge your situation so plainly is both a balm and a wound. You know you should offer a polite thank you and allow the conversation to move on, as you have done so many times before. But, instead, the truth slips free.

“No. It has not been easy.”

He looks toward you, pale blue eyes steady and gentle . “Perhaps the sept might give you a moment away from all of it.”

“Is that why you go?” you ask.

“Perhaps,” he says after a moment. 

“And you find it helps?”

The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Sometimes.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the Crone for more guidance.”

His eyes shift toward you, amused. “For me?”

“For both of us,” you admit.

Gwayne slows as the corridors open onto the small courtyard of the royal sept. The space is surprisingly quiet, filled only with birdsong and the soft rustle of the breeze. Inside the air is cool, and sunlight filters through colored glass, painting the stone floor in shades of green, gold, and white.

Together, you make your way toward the Crone and kneel upon the thick, cushioned pad laid before her. There is barely enough room for the two of you, leaving you closer to Gwayne than you expected. Your shoulder nearly brushes his.

You take a slender candle from the tray and hold it to the flame of the taper already burning in front of the statue. The wick catches, and you set it among the others. Beside you, Gwayne does the same.

You do not know exactly what to ask for. Courage perhaps. Or simply the strength to accept whatever comes next. As you ponder, your attention drifts toward Gwayne. You find yourself wondering what he might be asking of the Seven. His head is bowed, strands of golden-red hair falling across half his face, his lips moving quietly as he murmurs the words beneath his breath.

He looks beautiful.

The thought comes quickly and without permission. You draw a quiet breath and curl your fingers into the folds of your dress, embarrassed. You turn your attention back to the Crone and close your eyes, even as heat burns across your cheeks, a sudden warmth spreading through your chest.

It takes a moment to settle your thoughts, but thankfully the prayers come easily once you do. They are the same comforting words you learned as a girl, repeated so many times that you no longer need to think of them. Coupled with the warm, earthy fragrance of incense curling through the sept, they gradually ease the tension from your mind and body, wrapping you in a rare sense of stillness.

You remain suspended in that quiet until the final words fade from your mind. For a moment, you do not move, drawing in a cleansing breath through your nose before slowly exhaling through parted lips.

When you finally open your eyes, you find Gwayne already watching you. His eyes linger over your face as though he has forgotten himself for a moment. Your breath catches, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has held him. A muscle in his jaw jumps, a faint flush in his cheeks. He clears his throat and he rises.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I did not mean to disturb your prayer.”

“I am finished,” you assure him.

He offers you his hand, palm open, and you place yours in it. His calloused fingers close gently around yours as he draws you to your feet. His brow creases, and he seems about to say something when the door creaks open.

Gwayne immediately steps back, releasing your hand. The older septon who enters smiles when he sees him, though his attention briefly jumps to you.

“You are later than usual, my lord,” he remarks. “You are rarely accompanied.”

“Lady Hightower wished to pray,” he explains, gesturing toward you.

The septon inclines his head. “Then the Seven welcome you both.”

Gwayne gives a quiet nod, then extends his elbow toward you without meeting your eyes. You place your hand against his arm, and together you make your way toward the doors. He remains unusually quiet as you leave the sept, his posture still rigid, his attention fixed ahead. You find yourself wondering at the change. Only moments ago, there had been a warmth in his expression that is now carefully hidden behind a familiar reserve.

You have spent enough years learning to read a man's temper, but this feels different. There is no fear tightening your chest, no instinct warning you to choose your words carefully. Only a quiet desire to ease whatever has put him so firmly behind his guard.

The impulse surprises you.

“Do you always pray to the Crone?” Gwayne asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“No. Not always, though she often hears my prayers.”

“Which of the Seven do you favor, then?”

You hesitate, all too aware of what most would expect you to say. The Mother or the Maiden. Both you prayed to as a girl, but since becoming a Hightower, you have found yourself lighting candles before someone altogether different.

“The Smith,” you admit.

You expect surprise, but Gwayne only regards you for a moment, his expression thoughtful, as though the answer has given him something to consider.

After a moment, he says quietly, “He endures.”

“Yes,” you agree.

The simple word settles between you, carrying more weight than you intended. Your fingers drift to the ring on your hand and turn it absently around your finger. There is something unsettling about how easily he seems to understand. Not unpleasant, exactly. Only unfamiliar.

You clear your throat, eager to shift the conversation.

“And whose altar do you often light a candle at, my Lord? The Warrior?”

The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches. “Once upon a time.”

You glance up at him. “But not anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

“The Maiden.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Does that surprise you?”

“A little,” you confess.

“Why?”

You look meaningful to the sword at his hip, and a quiet laugh escapes him, low and brief.

“Perhaps I pray to her because, after all this time, I still like to believe there is something gentle in this world.”

His words catch you off guard, as does the sincerity behind them. For a man who has spent so much of his life surrounded by swords and war, there is something unexpectedly tender in the hope he carries.

“Daeron chose well in making you his Hand,” you remark. “He will make a good King but he needs the right kind of guidance.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” Gwayne says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his expression softens. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint you.”

The teasing takes you by surprise, and you grin despite yourself. “I meant it sincerely.”

“I know,” he assures you. “And I think having you here will do him good as well. He has lost much,” he continues, his tone serious once more. “For all his strength, he is still young. He needs people around him who remember that he is more than the crown he wears.”

“I shall remain here as long as my…” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “Situation allows.”

Something passes across Gwayne’s face at that, gone almost before you can read it. “I hope it allows for some time yet,” he says.

The words are quiet, almost casual, but there is a weight behind them that makes your step falter. You nearly stumble before catching yourself, your fingers tightening around his arm.

“For Daeron’s sake, of course,” he adds, shifting his gaze ahead.

“Yes,” you agree. “For Daeron.”

You and Gwayne walk on in silence, but it is no longer the same easy quiet that had accompanied you to the sept. By the time you reach the end of the corridor, your thoughts have become tangled once more, that small knot in your chest tightening as you think of what lies ahead.

The man beside you is Daeron’s choice. Your father may have his own wishes, if you were to ask. And the lords of the realm, with all their competing interests, would no doubt put themselves or their sons forward.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about what your future should be. Yet when you turn the question inward, you find only uncertainty. You cannot even begin to imagine how you are supposed to choose when you have spent so long having the choice made for you.

House of the Dragon Masterlist | Masterlist

Since his host took the city weeks ago, he has become your most demanding customer. Lavender one week. Cedar and pine the next. Rosewater, then citrus oils, then sandalwood, because the last blend was, according to the servant delivering the message, "missing something essential." You have long since stopped trying to predict what he will ask for next.

Although his particular tastes have been a boon to your business, like most of your neighbors, you wish the Hightowers would leave Tumbleton. Orderly streets and bustling markets do little to smother the distrust and fear that hangs over the town, fed by gossip and the dragons that keep their silent watch from the hill.

What do you care who sits the Iron Throne? You ask no more of the realm than to tend your little shop and be left in peace.

"Good afternoon," you greet, pushing aside the heavy curtains separating your storeroom from the shop.

The easy smile on your face falters as you take in your customer.

He is not the servant you expect, but a tall, well-dressed man clad in a finely tailored doublet and polished leather boots. A heavy swath of deep green velvet is draped over his left shoulder, while a greatsword hangs at his right hip. Another man stands before the door, his hands folded behind his back, his expression so utterly blank that it gives you pause.

Neither returns your greeting.

The first continues a leisurely circuit of the shop. His fingers drift over shelves and pottery before lingering on a bundle of dried lavender. He lifts it to his nose, inhales, then sets it back. Next come the oils. He unstoppers one bottle after another, sampling each fragrance. His expression never changes. At one shelf, he pinches a handful of the dried spiceflower you import from Lys between his fingers, crushing the delicate petals until their warm, peppery fragrance blooms into the air.

You wince, all too aware of the time and expense it took to bring the spice to your little shop.

Your eyes flick back toward the second man. He has not moved from the doorway, nor has his unreadable gaze left you. Heat creeps up your neck beneath the weight of it, and you lower your eyes. Only then do you notice the white tower embroidered across the breast of his dark green surcoat.

Your stomach drops, a sharp breath catching in your throat as you realize who is in your shop.

Lord Hightower.

The quiet inhale is enough to draw his attention. His handsome face turns toward you, expression cool and faintly disdainful. Self-consciously, your hand rises to your throat. You’re acutely aware of your plain linen dress and stained apron. 

You know you should curtsy. Address him properly. But the words never come. You remain rooted where you stand as he closes the distance between you with unhurried steps.

"I have found myself troubled of late," he says at last. "There is a scent that lingers on the parcels my servants collect from your shop. Some... fragrance I have not yet tried."

His gaze drifts past you, lingering on the entrance to the storeroom before returning to your face.

"It is faint," he continues thoughtfully. "Perfectly balanced between sweetness and something greener. Not floral. Not herbal. Clean…"

He trails off.

You blink, waiting for him to elaborate, your mind already sorting through the countless oils, dried botanicals, and perfumes lining your shelves. Nothing comes to mind. Lord Hightower has purchased nearly everything you carry at one time or another.

"I believe you have sampled nearly all from my shop, My Lord," you reply. “But I could send for something new. Perhaps scented waters from Qarth.”

"No." The single word is quiet but absolute. He shakes his head, his lips settling into a thin line.

"It is here," he says, more to himself than to you. "I know it. You must—"

He stops and his nostrils flare. Something sharp flickers across his composed features. His eyes, cool and measured only a heartbeat before, suddenly fix on you with startling intensity. 

A cold trickle of unease slides down your spine. Without thinking, you take a half step back.

He follows, closing the distance between you in two strides. Large hands settle firmly around your upper arms. More startled than hurt, you stumble backward until the edge of the counter digs into the small of your back, leaving nowhere else to retreat. Lord Hightower follows, his body nearly swallowing yours. 

Then, to your utter bewilderment, he lowers his head. His face hovers near your neck, eyes falling shut as he draws a slow, measured breath. You freeze, unable to do anything but tremble beneath his grip. The bridge of his nose traces the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. He pauses there before moving upward, lingering just behind your ear. There he takes another slow inhale.

“It is you,” he murmurs.

He presses even closer, crowding what little space remains between you. Every shallow breath you manage draws your chest against his. 

Overwhelmed, you grope blindly for the edge of the counter, fingers curling around it as though it alone can keep you upright.

"My... my lord," you stutter, the words scarcely more than a whisper.

He does not seem to hear you, his mouth following the same slow path his nose had traced moments before, each breath fanning over the sensitive skin of your neck. Then one hand rises, long fingers closing around your jaw, grip firm enough to still any movement. He tilts your chin higher, forcing your head back until the vulnerable line of your throat is exposed. 

He groans, a low sound from deep within his chest. 

Your skin prickles uncomfortably. A trembling hand finds his shoulder. You push but it’s like trying to move stone. You are at his mercy, surrounded by him so completely the air feels too thin to breathe. 

“Please,” you whisper.

The word barely leaves your lips before you feel the faint scrape of teeth against your skin. You jolt, every nerve in your body suddenly awake. Heat races up your spine, your heart hammering so violently you are certain he must hear it. Just as you think your legs are about to give way, he tears himself back.

Something dark churns behind his blue eyes. His gaze sweeps over your face as though seeing you for the first time.

“You are the source.”

The slow smile that curves his lips is a hungry one.

Ravenous. 

You’re trapped. Like a flower petal between waiting fingers, delicate and doomed. A sweetness only revealed through ruin.

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The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.

You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.

You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.

Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.

Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.

It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.

Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.

Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.

Daeron.

Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.

He is alive.

More than that, he is king. 

Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.

–

The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.

Inside, you feel nothing.

Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.

Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.

"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."

"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."

His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.

“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.

The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.

You pause before it.

The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state. 

The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.

He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.

"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You flinch and she adverts her eyes.

“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry. 

Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.

You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.

"All is well," you assure her. 

She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.

The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.

Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.

You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.

“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.

A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.

Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise. 

Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.

The new Lord Hightower. 

Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.

He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.

“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.

On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them. 

He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face. 

Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King. 

You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed. 

“You Grace.” 

You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.

"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."

"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”

Daeron goes still.

His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.

A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.

"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.

"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."

Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.

Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.

“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.

Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."

Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.

Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.

"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."

Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile. 

As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.

You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.

Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.

You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—

Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.

“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”

You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.

The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.

 “You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”

Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.

"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”

They said the same about Ormund. 

You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.

His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.

Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you. 

"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins. 

"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"

Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.

“Soon,” his uncle replies.

The words settle over the room like a stone.

"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."

You stared at him. "For me?"

"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the  maesters believe he has little time remaining."

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.

"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence." 

His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly. 

“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."

Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin. 

Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice.  It does not make it hurt any less. 

After a long moment Gwayne says your name.  Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.  

The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.  

"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them. 

 “You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says.  The promise is earnest enough to make you ache. 

You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.  

At last, Daeron speaks.

"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."

For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.

"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows. 

"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.

You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that. 

"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises

You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.

He already has someone in mind you realize.

“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.  

His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.

It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.

"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."

His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.

Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along. 

Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.

"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly. 

"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.

His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.

"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."

You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.

"Daeron," you say softly.

His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.

For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.

Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.

Without a word, he looks away.

You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet. 

You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.

But hope is a fragile thing.

You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.

A small half-smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, roguishly charming as always. Your own brows draw together in annoyance, and you purse your lips. Your lack of response is more than enough to answer his question.

He stands, clad only in his breeches and a half-tied tunic, the loose fabric hanging open just enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Flickering candlelight dances across his skin, casting shifting shadows that accentuate the lean muscle earned through years of training. You draw a slow breath through your nose, your fingers curling against the edge of the vanity as your gaze lingers on him for just a heartbeat too long.

“So angry you can’t even speak,” he muses. “Or does something else still your tongue?”

“I will let you know when I wish to speak to you again,” you reply airily, busying yourself with arranging the jewelry you wore earlier inside its carved wooden box. You fuss with each piece far longer than necessary, nestling rings and bracelets into place to keep your hands occupied. 

So lost in thought, you don't hear his approach. Instead, the clean scent of him, threaded with sandalwood and cedar, surrounds you moments before he comes to a stop behind you. His long fingers trails lightly over your collarbone and heat seeps through your thin dressing gown where he rests his hands against your shoulders. 

"Should I apologize again?" he asks, deliberately dropping his voice to a low, velvety murmur, close enough that the words fan over the shell of your ear.

You do not give him the satisfaction of looking up, though he can certainly feel the involuntary tremor beneath his hands and hear the subtle hitch in your breath. Offering only an indifferent hum from the back of your throat, you close the lid of the jewelry box and busy yourself straightening the row of perfume bottles with deliberate care.

“Perhaps more than words are needed to show you how contrite I am,” Gwayne continues. 

Before you can react, the chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves it – and you – away from the vanity, stepping into the empty space. He lowers himself, one knee and then the other, looking up at you with such exaggerated seriousness that you almost resent the way it threatens to make you smile.

“I am at your service, my lady.”

There’s a secret kind of thrill to seeing a knight of the realm kneeling before you, hands bred for steel and battle made soft just for you.

Though you do not speak, your chin lifts the slightest fraction, the unspoken invitation all he needs to part the robes of your dressing gown. Roughened fingers curl around the back of your calf and he guides you to spread your legs for him. There is something endearingly annoying in the way he watches you from beneath his golden lashes, utterly certain that, given enough patience, your resolve will crumble.

You give him nothing and he smirks, pressing a kiss to the inside of each thigh. Distracted, you miss the moment he cups your hips and drags you forcefully forward. The unexpected movement draws a startled little sound from between your pressed lips. Left precariously perched on the edge of the chair, you instinctively reach for his shoulders to steady yourself.

He looks up at you with a smirk and urges you to spread your legs until you are on full display. Only then does his gaze drop to the most intimate part of you. The blue of his eyes deepens, his lips parting as though he has forgotten to breathe. You squirm despite yourself, the cool air grazing your skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands.

Gwayne does not put his mouth on you like you expect. Instead, his fingers trace the length of your inner thigh, his touch deft and unhurried. Goosebumps rise in their wake, and a shuddering sigh escapes you when he finally reaches your core. There he finds that delicate bundle of nerves and rubs slow circles with the pad of his thumb. Your sensitive flesh catches on the roughened edges of his calluses, the sensation enough to make you seek more. 

You tilt your hips forward and he rewards the movement by teasing your entrance with two of his fingers, a slow, deliberate exploration of your warmth. His blue eyes remain fixed on yours until you can bear them no longer. Your gaze slips to his forearm, following the play of muscle and flexing tendons beneath his skin as he works. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, though it sounds less like a command than a plea. “My beautiful wife.”

Heat blooms in your chest at the quiet praise. You hate how easily those three words soften your resolve, the reason for your anger growing hazier and hazier with each passing moment.

“Am I yet forgiven?” He questions.

When you do not answer he crooks his fingers, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through your belly.  Words fail you. Your lashes flutter closed, breath catching in your throat as you hover on the precipice, so achingly close. Without thought, you raise your hips, seeking more until the deliberate scrape of his thumbnail over your bud tears brings you back to the present.

“I need an answer, if I am to continue my apology” he whispers, his voice rough with want. 

“Yes, gods, please Gwayne,” you keen.

He smiles, victorious, but the faint flush creeping across his alabaster skin tells you you are not the only one so affected. 

“Please,” you beg a second time, unashamed and needy. 

“Whatever my lady demands,” he agrees, removing his fingers. 

You have only a moment to mourn their loss before Gwayne buries his head between your thighs and his tongue deep in your cunt. As in all things, he is relentless in bringing you to your peak.

One hand remains braced on his shoulder while the other falls to his head, fingers threading through his hair. You’re unable to resist the need to anchor yourself to him, as if he could abandon you in this moment of any other.  

He devours you as though your taste is the very air he needs to breathe, the water that sustains him. It is enough to undo you. Ribbons of pleasure unravel inside your belly, sweeping up into your chest and washing through you. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nearly painfully so, yet Gwayne only answers with a deep groan, the sound sending another wave of aftershocks through you. He stays between your thighs for a moment, content to worship you further. Only when your hand slips from his hair does he finally draw back. His blue eyes are bright, his cheeks warmly flushed, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his brow. He looks utterly undone,

“I am worried, my lady,” he says with feigned sincerity, “that I have not apologized sufficiently.”

“Gwayne,” you begin, trying to gather your wits, but he is quicker. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he catches your hand and gently draws you to your feet. Your legs are less steady than you would like, and he slips an arm around your waist.

You feel utterly spent, and whatever argument had sparked this morning's quarrel is little more than a distant memory now.

“I must apologize more thoroughly,” he continues, reaching to loosen the ties of your gown. 

The rich fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Gwayne's gaze lingers on your naked form, so full of hungry devotion that it fans the embers of your desire.

“I am quite cross,” you lie, slipping your arms around him and drawing him close. 

You rise onto your toes and kiss him, slow and lingering, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic. Perhaps, you think with quiet amusement, you ought to quarrel with your husband more often.