stormborn

Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.

So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.

“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.” 

You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.

“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”

You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.

“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.

“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”

“The babe will be perfectly fine—"

“It is too much strain for you.”

He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”

You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”

“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”

You answered him by rolling your hips.

A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.

“Again, for me,” he rasped.

You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.

You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.

You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”

You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.

“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”

Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.

You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.

You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.

For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.

“That was shameless,” he murmured.

“Was it persuasive?”

Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.

“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”

You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.

“You have my blessing—provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain—however slight—you will stay with her and send for me.”

“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”

He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”

Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.

HOTD masterlist

@ange0o

In few days you and Ser Gwayne are to be married, but you have yet to met him. You had travelled to old town, where you’ll live for the rest of you days with your soon to be husband. The oldest and largest city in Westeros, which beholds many beautiful places. But also which doesn’t feel like home as much as you try to. You’ve come to meet Otto Hightower, the father of you betrothed. He treats you politely, speaking only kind words, even so his presence makes you unwell, and you can’t bring yourself to trust him. You’ve spend some time with Alicent, Gwayne’s sister, she has treated you with kindness, showing you around your new home trying to help you grow comfortable.

You had hoped to meet your soon to be husband Ser Gwayne, to be able to get to know him even slightly before the marriage ceremony. But instead all you found in old town were empty halls without his presence. You were told he had to leave for a little while to take care of some matters. The words disappointed you, but you did your best not to show it.

Every now and then when the walls start to feel too heavy you find yourself by a small lake you had found some time ago. There you are now, your fingertips playing with the warm water while your eyes are focused on the pair of swans dancing around. Completely unaware of the presence behind you who has been looking at you for a while, until his voice pulls you out of your thoughts “princess”

He sees as your shoulders tense, startled by his sudden appearance. You turn enough to get a better look at the man behind you, for awhile you simply look at him trying to place where you had seen him before, until you realise it’s your soon to be husband himself. Suddenly you got nervous, worried how you look, is your hair distorted, if your dress has gotten muddy from the route you took to get here. All of these worries running around your mind until you remember to answer to him “Ser”

“Please, call me Gwayne”

And as you speak his name he wishes you’d repeat it again and again, he never thought his name could sound as beautiful as it sounds from your lips. And he can’t wait to hear you speak his name again. His trail of thoughts are stopped when you speak again, your voice laced with nervousness “I wasn’t unaware of you coming back today Gwayne, I apologise for not greeting you”

“Nothing to apologise for princess, I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back today. Fortunately I managed to” for awhile he’s quiet, trying to find the right words until he speaks again “I saw you here and decide to take my chances and greet you without others around”

You gift him with a genuine smile at his words, and he could feel his knees weaken at the sight of it. He had heard the whispers of your beauty, but none which came even close to the real thing. And oh how he will do anything to see you smile again, at him. “Are you fond of swans?” He suddenly asks, referring to how you were admiring them moment earlier.

You nod as you say “I think they’re beautiful and smart creatures. I admire how they love deeply, mating for life”. And now it was the knights time to smile fondly at your words. This small moment shared between the two of you has been enough to make him sure that he’ll fall in love with you very soon, and that he’ll do everything he can to be the greatest husband to you. To make your days filled with nothing but happiness and joy.

Gwayne is the first to break the comforting silence that had grown between the two of you “it’s almost time for supper. Would you give me the honour of walking you back?” He asks as he offers his arm

Oh, and Gwayne has this habit before bed. He won't fall asleep until he's whispered a prayer or two. Early on, he always turns slightly away from you, like it's something private between himself and the Seven. If you ask what he prays for, he gives you the safest answers possible. His house, his father's health, the Hightower standing another year. Simple ones, boring ones.

But as your marriage settles and the two of you grow comfortable with each other, he starts asking the moment your heads hit the pillow. "Shall we give thanks to the Seven for today's blessings?" he'd ask in the dark. 

You're not really used to it at first. Especially during those first few weeks of marriage. But somewhere along the way it becomes your routine too, and before you know it, you're the one starting it. "I'm grateful for today's weather. What about you, husband?"

And boy, does Gwayne Hightower have nightmares (lots of them!!!). Years of carrying the weight of being a Hightower would do that to him. It scares you the first few times because you think he's talking to you. One night, you hear him whisper oddly, "No, don't leave the tower... don't. I'll fix it."

The next morning, you ask what he meant and if he wants to talk about it. He just shakes his head, presses your hand flatter against his heart, and say, "Just stay. That's all I need."

By the time real trust settles between you, Gwayne stops faking it. He still starts the night as the big spoon out of habit, but it never lasts. Twenty minutes later, he rolls around, signalling for you to hug him from behind, and you do so wholeheartedly. 

And he loves it!!!! Loves it when you let him curl into you without saying a thing about it. You never tease him or point it out. You just wrap an arm around his waist, press a kiss to the back of his head, and carry on like this is exactly where he's meant to be.

Whenever he's away from you, whether it's on campaign or travelling to King's Landing, his sleep slips right back into old habits. Odd waking hours and restless nights. He blames the tent, the road, the food. He even blames Criston Cole. Literally anything except the real reason. 

Every so often, his arm reaches out in his sleep for someone who isn't there, and he wakes feeling lost before remembering where he is. The prayers still happen, of course, but they're different out on the road. 

Which means: less recitation and more requests. 

He asks the Mother to watch over you. Promises the Father he'll become a better man if he makes it home alive. Even bargains with the Stranger for one more chance. One more chance to love you properly, the way a wife deserves to be loved. He even catches himself promising children. A son or two. Maybe a daughter with your smile and his eyes.

As for letters, Gwayne's always come out shorter than he means them to, but somehow they end up saying far more than he intended. He'd never write that he can't sleep without you. Instead, he'll complain about the weather being poor for rest, or the cot being uncomfortable, or mention he's been unusually tired lately.

"The road is long and I find little rest upon it. I think of you more than is wise for a man meant to be thinking of other things."

And when Gwayne finally comes home safe... oh, does he keep those promises to the Seven.

He holds onto you a little tighter than usual, doesn't bother leaving that careful bit of space between you anymore. His kisses linger and he becomes way too clingy. And when the two of you finally make love again……

It's all slow hands and passionate kisses like he's making sure you're really here. Then it becomes desperate. Like he's trying to make up for every night he spent sleeping without you. Like he's thanking every god who listened for bringing him home in one piece.

When you quietly ask what happened to the composed Hightower heir, he just buries his face into your shoulder and mutters, "He died on the road. So you can have me tonight."

And really... how could you say no?

You pull him closer, let him rest, and remind him that he doesn't have to be the Hightower heir tonight. He doesn't have to be Otto's son or Alicent's brother, or the man everyone expects him to be.

Blood...blood covered your hands as you held the wound on your thigh and your neck in desperate need of a Maester. One of the "Baratheon men" had rightfully recognized you and was planning on taking you back to your mother. He heard a knight pass down the hall and panicked, started second guessing himself due to your attire and hair color. A decoy? Just like they were planning on staging?

Before you knew it, he had a blade shoved in your thigh and another in the side of your neck. You'd taken his dagger out of your thigh miraculously due to the adrenaline and killed him with it, but now you're wounded badly, crawling on your belly, leaving a trail of blood on the stone below you to try to get to Gwayne, not to save yourself before you bleed out from your femoral, but to warn him.

You hear commotion and try to get up, stumbling your way there with a knife still stuck in the side of your throat, blood covering the entirety of your thigh under your dress, slick and warm. Thankfully, he doesn't need it; he's caught onto the scheme on his lonesome. He'd pulled the man's own sword out of his scabbard to kill him with it, and in your delirium nothing has looked sexier. Falling to your knees in the doorway as he explains to Ormund how that man is not who he said he was, how this was an assassination attempt on Daeron and Ormund. Your body thuds, and he snaps his head around, and in an instant he's kneeling on the floor beside you, cradling your head.

"SOMEONE GET A MAESTER! Oh my Gods-" He nearly says your actual name before correcting himself to continue protecting you like he has been the entire time. He holds pressure on your thigh to try to keep you from bleeding out, His hands caked and covered in the red sticky substance. He's crying before he even realizes he is, tears pulling down his face and dripping off his chin onto you. "Rose, please." The last words you hear before you lose all consciousness. You don't feel pain; the adrenaline's made sure of that, and part of you wants to slip off into whatever Heavens or Hells await you. Maybe if it all ended now, you wouldn't be a burden to him; maybe he could be free of his stressors and get himself a beautiful woman. He could return to Oldtown without worrying about the now brunette woman beside him being discovered as a Targaryen.

A few days had passed, and he was expected to return to OldTown rather quickly with a small group of men leaving with him. Much to their discontent, he had decided to stay until you could be transported, either being carried on back or with a cane. No way in the hells was he leaving without you, the way his heart hammered against when he saw you, as if it would give itself to you if it only meant that you would be okay.

The only time he isn't by your side is when he's sleeping, and even then he has your cloak tucked up close to his face so he can fall asleep as your smell permeates his nose, clinging to it. The last few nights have been off; considering the nature of his dreams, they start so lovely, a smile on your face as you lay in a field of flowers playing with the child he has with you... He can't see its face, if it's a boy or a girl, but he doesn't care... and then suddenly the child is whisked away, disappearing like ash. Followed by your skin filling with blood and cuts all over you, and your smile turns to horror as you scream his name in agony, begging him. He tries to move but his feet stay stuck in the mud.

He wakes in a cold sweat that's covered his face and drenched his shirt. Gwayne's hands are scrunched so hard into fist that he looks down and realizes he's made himself bleed with his nails in his palm. He tries to brush it off, knowing that you're okay, not far down the hall, but he's still shaking, and he can't go to sleep without knowing that you are okay in this exact moment. He grabs your cloak, his pillow, and a blanket, dragging them with him down the long corridor, down to where you stay.

Gwayne's breath hitches only slightly as his eyes find you watching the slight movement of your chest under your own blanket as you breathe. His shoulders fall, and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. If you weren't hurt and the cot wasn't so small, he'd crawl up beside you to whisper pleas in your ear, to beg you to come back to him.

Making the small palette on the floor takes just a few seconds, but he lays it close to your bed, reaching one of his hands up to hold yours to make sure you don't slip away in the night.

It's all going so fast, but it's no surprise considering the nature of the world people endure. He almost wished that he had gotten you pregnant a few nights ago. He almost wishes to hopefully fast-track some sort of future, especially now that he's terrified you'll pass, that he'll never see your beautiful eyes open again.

Part 8 in progress

tagged: @pancitoconjam @lanabanana12711 @qardasngan @aemondssapphire @ctrl-alt-delulu @hadesnumber1daughter @cloudyzip @daenerysvelaryonsblog @rebeccawinters

Do I have a plot in mind?

Not really.

Just Gwayne stumbling across the reader in the middle of a terrible situation and saving her before anyone else can.

The rest is just him being hopelessly tempted by her. By how impossibly sweet she smells. By the way fear makes her pulse flutter beneath her skin. By the way she looks at him with those wide, trusting eyes, even after seeing what he is. She trembles every time he comes near.

Every instinct in her body recognizes she's standing in the presence of a predator, even if her heart doesn't. And Gwayne hates himself for noticing. For wondering how warm she'd taste. For wanting to press his face into the curve of her neck just to breathe her in.

He's starving. He's always starving...

He wakes in the morning rather well rested, but he doesn't feel you beside him, and he jumps up with worry. Had you left? Please don't have left; he'd finally let himself fall. He searches the loft-type room, quickly dressing before bolting out the door, but his shoulders fall as he sees you talking to Eythan, who seems to have brought back a buck of some sort, talking about his hunt with you.

"This one's pretty, Gwayne. I don't see why you hide her." He jests and helps ready the horse for your trip into town. A few canteens, a bit of coin, and a bit of food.

"Maybe I hide her so men like you don't try to steal her from me."

"No, no one is stealing this one from you. She's about as loyal as they come; she won't shut up about you. 'Oh Gwayne this.' 'Oh Gwayne that.'"

You blush at Eythan's words, your newly dark hair accentuating the pink of the blush on your cheeks. "I am just his squire. Nothing more."

"Ha! You might convince everyone else of that, but you're far too pretty to be anything other than nobility...but your business is not mine. I owe your knight my life. If you have gloves, wear them. Your hands are much too soft to be a full squire."

Gwayne watches his friend speak to you, pointing out the few things that he himself couldn't be objective about pointing out. "You should slouch just a little as well."

"Yes, just be less of a lady, and you'll do fine. If you are to see his cousin, stay close to Gwayne. Keep a reasonable distance as you can between you and Ormund; that man is grating and... explosive."

Your eyelashes flutter with worry as you think about it, but you take a deep breath and try to focus on the man that's put his life on the line for you and what you must do to keep him safe, which is perform. Nodding, you look back up at them. "We should make haste, shouldn't we? We don't know how quickly word has traveled to him."

"She's right, Gwayne. The last thing you need from your cousin right now is it full blown temperature tantrum. Get going...and..." Eythan turns to you, taking the strip of fabric you tied around your throat for your wound off. "Use any scars you have to your advantage; theatricality has saved many lives."

It takes a very short amount of time to gather the things you need and say your goodbyes. Both of them hug briefly as you climb onto the horse; she's rested now and so much less anxious, and she was before, so much sweeter.

It isn't long before you're both in front of Ormund and Daeron. The poor boy looks scared and tired like a square peg shoved in a round hole; if you hadn't been hiding in plain sight, you'd go over to him, hugging him as hard as you can just so he knows he's not the only pawn in this war. He doesn't deserve this, but alas, there's nothing you can do.

"So why do you have a squire if you do nothing but run with your tail between your legs back to me? Ser Criston fights on, but yet you do not?" Ormund sits at the table in front of several rolls of parchment rolled out with different plans on them, so sure of himself, almost arrogant.

"My squire was my sister's idea, you know how she-" Thankfully, Ormund interrupts because he jumps at the opportunity to defend you and explain exactly what your purpose is here beside him.

"Pardon me, but I don't care whether your squire has a dick or a cunt, I wonder why you've returned." He brings the small vial to his nose to diffuse anything he might smell now, including the little amount of sweat from the ride into Tumbletown and the lingering scent of horse.

"Fighting on is madness, can't you see?" Shock fills Gwayne's voice; his cousin can't possibly think that it's the smartest decision to ride into battle when you'll surely be slaughtered.

"Do you think me mad, Your Grace?" Ormund asks the boy standing an understandably far distance away from him but not too far as to deem it impolite.

"No, sire." Daeron, the boy, speaks. Any agency he has for his own decisions has been stripped from him. He's scared that anything he says will cause an outburst of anger his way, and he values his life. Your eyes water just slightly, not that anyone would notice, your heart breaks for him... so alone and so completely broken.

"You want me to fight on? With that? A dragon is sitting on the hill above us, in five more, not thirty leagues away." Gwayne's getting quite hotheaded on the situation, taking a step forward; you gently touch one of the hands he has crossed behind his back, hoping to quell the very obvious and understandable anger that's starting to radiate under his skin.

"Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects; she's a woman. Quit squeamish from what I hear. Apparently her own daughter, the only child she has left, is better with a sword than she is. It's said she's the one who cut off your father's head like it was nothing."

Gwayne stiffens. You'd done what? Why hadn't you told him of his father's passing? Were you the one to kill him? No, I can't be this way. He knows you; he's bedded you. There's no way that is how this has come about. Is Ormund lying? Are you lying? Again, he has to act like a soldier and push it off, against what he's feeling; he had sworn to protect you.

Your mind flashes with memory, remembering the blood... the way your mother cried when Daemon told her she had to end Otto's life. The way she swung and missed, hitting his back, swung again, and his head fell to the ground with a sickening squelch. You remember looking away... you're much skilled with a blade but Daemon would never let you fight unless his body was already cold. What's Gwyane thinking? Does he believe him? Your wipe a tear from your face and step back letting him have space.

"If your host leaves these walls, you'll she it turned to ash, to dust. Aemond fled and my sister is a hostage in the King's Landing. The River army approaches, what course is there, Ormund?" His tone bites regardless of that angers at you or his cousin it comes out just the same.

"Your uncle lacks imagination and courage. Apparently she's been seen here near by Rhaenyra's daughter... she would love her daughter back, we just need time to find her. Regardless of that matter, I'd take one Hightower man over three Tullys, they're exceedingly unskilled. We have a clear advantage, you're just too..." Ormund turns his head to Daeron who fakes a smile, Ormunds eyes turning from the boy and finding the woman behind Gwayne. "...blinded to see it. I am turning King's Landing against the overweening cunt little by little." Gwayne looks at him with an expression that screams incredulity both in part to the way Daeron reacts but also Ormund's insinuation that it's you, a woman that's causing him to lose focus.

"Soon the great houses will come to our side as soon as they see how unmatched Rhaenyra is for the throne."

"And yet where are they?" Gwayne speaks with his arms behind his back still technically respectful but his tone waivers in the opposite direction.

"The patient hunter gets the kill." Ormund's jaw clenches with annoyance, clearly having little patience for his cousin.

"I have suffered a long road, seen comrades killed and killed my fair share of soldiers. I'm quite fatigued. Pardon us." Gwayne turns to leave, quite annoyed with how this conversations turned out and it's clear that the both of you need to have a conversation as well.

"Could you Ser Gwayne to his quarters please?"

The three of you entered the whole way and he had no idea where to start, talking to Daeron or talking to you. You follow him but stay out of the conversation cause it's not your own to be part of.

"I shall go to my room and we can continue this conversation in a bit. Is that alright? My squire and I are in need of new bandages." He lies to him, he needs to speak to you about his father Otto. He grabs you rather roughly by the arm, pulling you infront of him with Daeron infront of you keeping you both safe.

"You can clean up yourselves here, take this room for the night. No one will bother you, I swear it...I only ask you join us for dinner."

"We would-"

"Just...Just you, Uncle."

"Well, I will be there."

The both of you and are the room and instantly it's as if a heavy haze falls upon the room. Gwayne bites his lip and paces the room, the tension you dispersed in him last night returning with a fury. This conversation won't be particularly easy and it won't be particularly pleasant for either of you. In an instant he pins you to the wall rougher then anything he'd ever done to you before, his blue eyes are wearing and full of pure fury.

"Gwayne, you're being rough." You're now scared he might do something but you don't move. You hope he knows the goodness inside you.

"Is that what you think is important right now? Is it true did you kill my father?!" He shouts loud enough to startle but quiet enough no one outside this room can hear him even in his fury.

"No I didn't kill him I mean I was there when it happened but I didn't kill him and I know you're going to ask but no I didn't tell you because honestly I've been trying to forget that it even remotely happened my mother was brutal for no reason except the push of my uncles few words that this is what she needed to do to become Queen. Also we've been rathed preoccupied or do you remember the road like a fairytale?" Your Targaryen sass coming out there at the end, almost sounding like your mother. His sapphire eyes pierce yours like a freshly sharpened blade even as they water of their own volition.

"So it is true? My father is...he's dead?" He's processing it, he is next in lone for that of Oldtown if- when...since? his father's dead. He's angry, livid but he doesn't know what to do.

"Yes." Your eyes find his as they begin to water the way his are, this isn't something you wanted to tell him, this isn't anything anyone wants to hear especially not from someone you've learned to love so deeply in the week. Someone that feels like forever, like you've always been by eachothers side.

He unhands you, his shoulders fall as he opens his mouth to speak but no words come to mind. What would he say? What do you thank you for telling him of the passing of his father? Would he ask if he went swiftly?

"I'm so sorry, I would have done something if I could but what would I have done? It's not like my mother listens to me particularly well. If it was my brother then maybe but she's so angry about my brother's dying she wants blood and revenge, justice no longer. She believes it is Hightower's creating panic and distrust in the city walls and apparentally your cousin-"

"Rumors spread like wildfire during war. I- I don't blame you for what happened but I become exceedingly more angry with your mother as time goes on, perhaps it's good we get some time apart while I dine with Daeron and Ormund. Have someone send for your supper here."

"I can't say I blame you and if you want to be angry at me, I suppose I can't stop you but I want you to know I would never do anything to you. If my mother right now was in this room telling me to kill you, I'd be at my knees before you even got a chance to blink. I'd beg her for mercy, I'd beg her to spare you... I beg for a simple life for both of us with a babe and a cottage......If she said no I'd ask her to kill me in your stead."

His body stiffens, hearing the sadness but complete devotion in your voice. He's angry, he needs to be angry. He needs to find someone to put this anger on or something but right now if he doesn't leave this room, it's going to be you who faces it. Gwayne takes a deep breath and turns out the door to head out to Daeron, he doesn't have you put salve on his wounds, he doesn't say goodbye, he just leaves. Leaving you alone to wonder exactly what might happen now... Will he tell Ormund of your true nature? Will he leave you to your own devices to defend for yourself?

(Part Seven in the works.)

tagged: @pancitoconjam @lanabanana12711 @qardasngan @aemondssapphire @ctrl-alt-delulu @hadesnumber1daughter @daenerysvelaryonsblog @rebeccawinters

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.

.✦ On the cruel nights when your mind torments you with nightmares instead, Gwayne will be there to hold you while muttering sweet nothings until your breathing calms down. And as he wipes away the fallen tears he’ll remind you that it was nothing more than a bad dream and that he’ll never let anything hurt you

.✦ Loves to surprise you with gifts. With small and simple ones like showing up with your favourite sweets accompanied by your favourite tea, or some tiny trinket he found while on his travels that made him think of you. As well as expensive and more luxurious gifts, for example surprising you with a new gown tailored especially for you

.✦ One of Gwaynes mains love language is word of affirmations, he loves to shower you with compliments. Kiss every inch of you while he mutters how beautiful you’re and how you look as the gods themselves shaped you. He’ll never forget to tell you how you bring light and softness into his life, and how you make the mundane word seem lighter

.✦ after the marriage you’ve been surrounded by Gwayne’s side of the family more often. You can see how Alicent and Otto share glances with silent judgment at you from time to time, and how the maidens whisper of you. All of which makes you feel as if you don’t belong there, as if there’s something wrong with you. You decided upon not telling Gwayne about any of it, not wishing to burden him even more with all the duty already lying heavy on his shoulders. But he can tell, he can always tell when there’s something bothering you. The way you barely speak to him when he comes backs after long time, how you call him my lord or lord husband, instead of his name. The way you don’t run to hug him as you usually do, is enough to tell him that something’s on your mind

.✦ He does his best to make you forget your worries and to see the bright smile decorating your face again. He offers to talk to his sister, tell her to be kinder to you. And tell you to simply forget about that the maidens gossip about, that they don’t know the actual you and so they have no say when it comes to you. Even if the rest of the world would to make you feel out of place, you can always count on your dear husband to make you feel right at home

.✦ Gwayne learns to adapt to your habits. On the days when all you want to do is go hide away in your chambers and occupy yourself with your favourite past time, Gwayne will accompany you, making sure you’ll have your meals in the chambers. If you wish for quietness, he’ll give it to you, he’ll be silently beside you. If you wish him to tell you stories, to distract you from your mind, he’ll tell you the most interesting stories he knows

.✦ Whatever your main interest is, little bugs? Sewing? Collecting flowers? Gwayne adores it. Even if he himself doesn’t see the enthusiasm about it he’ll listen to you talk about it, watch as you take part in it. If you need something for it, he’ll make sure you’ll have it

.✦ Whenever it all gets too much for you, if a harsh sound scares you, if the hatred in the war filled world feels too much, Gwayne is there to comfort you with nothing but patience. He’ll cover your ears with his hands to town down the loud sounds. Pull you against his chest as he rubs soft circles on your back, not pulling away until he can feel your heartbeat steady

.✦ Gwayne loves his wife with everything in him, his wife is who he devotes his life for, and he’ll do anything to be a deserving husband for you

────୨ৎ────

He knows the real you—the one who hides behind porcelain smiles and demure silences. He has seen you crack a joke so improper that even Ser Harwin choked on his wine. He has watched you roll your eyes at a lord's tedious monologue and then turn to him with a look that said, save me from this, and he had—he always had, with a gallant and utterly doomed excuse that whisked you both away. He knows you, and that knowledge is precisely what makes this game so dangerously, exquisitely entertaining.

There was a time, in the earliest days of this dance, when you doubted yourself. You wondered if you had imagined the tension—if the heat you felt was merely your own desire reflected back at you by wishful thinking. You are a princess, after all, and he is a Hightower. The wall between you is not made of stone; it is made of duty, of oaths, of the thousand invisible chains that bind a man of honour to his station.

But you watch him now with sharper eyes, and the truth is undeniable.

You see it in the rigid set of his jaw when you enter a room, as if he must physically brace himself against the sight of you. You see it in the way his knuckles go bone-white where he grips his sword belt, the leather groaning under the pressure. You see it in the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand rests on his arm a moment too long—that tiny, betraying stutter that no one else would notice, but you have memorised like a prayer.

And you see it most of all in what he doesn't do.

Oh, he wants you. That much is as clear as the morning sun through the Red Keep's windows. But more than that, he knows you know. And that knowledge is a slow poison in his veins. He is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a son of the Faith, a Hightower. He has sworn oaths and signed pacts and built a life on the sacred foundation of his honour. He cannot act on his desires. He cannot even acknowledge them. 

So you push.

You push because you can. Because there is a peculiar, intoxicating power in knowing that you are the sole architect of his torment—that a single brush of your fingers against his sleeve can send him spiralling into a silence so deep it borders on prayer. You are the sculptor of his suffering, and you wield your chisel with the precision of a master.

You push because he lets you. Because for all his oaths and his honour and his desperate, clinging restraint, he never once tells you to stop. He never walks away. He never asks you to leave him be. He simply stands there, a man made of stone and duty, and lets you carve your name into his fractures.

You do it in the training yard, when you appear at the edge of the lists with a goblet of water and a smile that says I brought this for you, Ser Gwayne. 

His sparring partner stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden presence of a princess where one has no business being. Gwayne does not stumble—he is too disciplined for that. But you see the way his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic, the way his grip on his sword goes white-knuckled. You see the way his gaze darts to you and then away, as though looking too long might burn him, might sear through his carefully constructed walls and leave him bare.

You wait until he has lowered his blade, until the other knight has retreated with a bow and a mumbled excuse, before you step closer. Close enough to count the sweat on his brow. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

"Your form is impeccable," you say, soft enough that only he can hear, as you press the cup into his hands. Your fingers linger on his—not a graze, not an accident, but a deliberate, unhurried caress that lasts three heartbeats too long. "Then again, I've always admired how controlled you are."

The word lands like a blade between his ribs. You see it in the slight flare of his nostrils. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, a muscle leaping beneath the skin. You see it in the way his thumb twitches against the goblet, as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

His swallow is audible. "Princess," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, like gravel smoothed by too much restraint. "You should not—"

"Should not what?" You tilt your head, all innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "Compliment a knight on his skill? How dreadfully improper of me. I shall have to write to the High Septon and confess my sins immediately."

A ghost of something—frustration? longing?—flickers across his face. "You know that is not what I meant."

"Do I?" You take a step back, just enough to make him lean forward unconsciously, just enough to prove your point. "Then perhaps you should be clearer, Ser Gwayne. I am, after all, only a simple princess. I cannot be expected to read minds."

His eyes darken. There is a storm in them now, a tempest he is fighting to contain. "You are many things, princess," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "But simple has never been one of them."

The admission costs him. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, in the way his knuckles are white around the goblet. He has said too much. He knows it. And you know he knows it.

You smile—slow, satisfied, victorious—and you walk away before he can take it back.

You push him at the feast, when you dance with him—because you arrange it, because you are a princess and he cannot refuse, because you have learned exactly which strings to pull to make the court's expectations align with your desires. A word here, a smile there, a subtle mention to the right lady-in-waiting that you would so enjoy a turn about the floor with Ser Gwayne Hightower, and the pieces fall into place as neatly as stones in a mosaic.

He knows what you have done. You see it in his eyes when he approaches you, summoned by the queen's own hand, his expression a careful mask of courtly composure. He knows he has been maneuvered. He knows you have trapped him in a web of propriety and expectation, and he knows he cannot escape without causing a scene.

And you revel in it.

You take his hand, and you let him lead you to the floor, and you press closer than propriety allows. Your chest brushes his. Your thigh slides against his as you turn. You are a shadow against him, a whisper of silk and warmth, and you feel the tremor that runs through him like a plucked string.

"Relax, Ser Gwayne," you whisper against his ear, your breath warm on his skin, your lips so close that you almost—almost—brush the shell of his ear. "The court is watching. Would you have them think you cannot stand the touch of your own princess?"

His hand tightens on your waist—just for a moment, a reflexive clench that speaks of longing more than any words could—and then he forces it to loosen. You feel the effort it costs him, the way his fingers uncurl one by one, as if he is peeling them away from something precious.

"They would think nothing of the sort," he grits out, his voice so low it is barely more than a vibration against your skin. "They would think a Hightower knows his place."

"And what place is that?" You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief, with challenge, with the knowledge that you hold all the power here. "At my side? In my shadow? Beneath me?"

His step falters. Just one beat, a stumble so small no one else would notice—a catch in the rhythm that lasts less than a breath. But you notice. You always notice. You catalogue it like a victory, like a trophy, like another stone in the fortress of his composure that you have so carefully chipped away.

His eyes meet yours, and there is something dangerous in them now. Something hungry. Something that looks, for just a moment, like he might forget every oath he has ever sworn.

"You play a dangerous game, princess," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something frayed at the edges, like a rope that has been stretched too thin for too long. "One day, you will push too far."

"And what will you do then, Ser Gwayne?" You smile up at him, sweet as poison, innocent as sin. "Will you finally catch me?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You see the war in his eyes—duty against desire, honour against want, everything he has been taught against everything he has come to crave. You see him imagine it: reaching for you, pulling you close, forgetting the court and the oaths and the thousand eyes that watch.

You see him remember himself.

He does not answer. He cannot answer. The words are trapped in his throat, caught between his teeth, held back by a lifetime of discipline. But his eyes tell you everything—that he is drowning, that he is burning, that every moment spent in your presence is a war he is steadily losing.

And you, sweet princess, have never been one to surrender.

You let the dance continue. You let him lead, let him pretend he is in control, even as you feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge. You let him hold you, let him spin you, let him guide you through the steps with the precision of a man who is using every ounce of his focus to remember where his hands are allowed to be.

And when the dance ends, you do not let him go immediately. You keep your hand on his arm, a moment too long, and you lean in to whisper one final blow.

The evening ends with Gwayne Hightower excusing himself early, pleading a headache, and you watch him leave with a knowing smile that curls at the corner of your lips like a secret shared with no one but yourself.

Your sister finds you moments later, eyebrow arched, a goblet of wine in her hand and a knowing glint in her eye.

"What did you do to him?" she asks, and there is no accusation in her voice, only amusement. Only the curiosity of a woman who knows her sister too well to be fooled by innocence.

"Nothing," you say, innocent as a lamb, wide-eyed as a dove. "I simply danced with him."

Rhaenyra snorts, a sound most unladylike and utterly familiar. "You danced with him the same way a cat dances with a mouse.”

You smile and say nothing, because she is not wrong. Because she has never been wrong about you, not really, not when it matters. Because she knows you better than anyone, and she knows exactly what you are doing.

But she does not stop you. She never does.

Tonight, you have reached a brazenness you would otherwise not think yourself capable of.

But that is the thing about walls—once you have chipped away at them long enough, they do not so much crumble as dissolve, leaving you standing in the ruins of who you used to be, marveling at the woman you have become. And tonight, that woman is not content with whispers and glances. Tonight, she wants to hear him break.

You know he stands guard outside your chambers. You know it as surely as you know the beat of your own heart—that steady, traitorous rhythm that quickens every time you so much as glimpse his silhouette in a crowded hall. You can picture him there now: broad-shouldered and impossibly still, his silhouette backlit by the sconces that line the corridor. The flickering torchlight catches the copper in his hair, burnishes the sharp lines of his jaw. His hand rests on his sword hilt in that familiar, easy grip that speaks of decades of discipline—but you know better now. You know the tension that lives in his shoulders like a second skeleton, a permanent weight he carries because he refuses to let it go.

His jaw will be set in that maddening line of stoic resolve as he surveys the darkened hallway. The perfect knight. The unshakable sentinel. A man carved from stone and oaths.

You intend to shake him until he crumbles.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the stone walls, painting the room in shades of gold and crimson. The night air has turned cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from the open window—the first promise of a storm rolling in from the Blackwater, the distant rumble of thunder a fitting prelude to the tempest you are about to unleash. You left the door unlocked. Not ajar, not obvious—just unlocked. A test. An invitation. A trap baited with silk and sin.

You let your shift slip from your shoulders.

The silk pools at your feet like water, a whisper of ivory against the cold stone floor, and the cool air kisses every inch of your exposed skin—raising goosebumps across your chest, your stomach, the sensitive flesh of your thighs. You shiver, but not from the cold. Never from the cold. You are burning from the inside out, a furnace stoked by anticipation, by the knowledge that he is just beyond that door, that he can hear everything.

You lie back on your bed, the sheets soft and rumpled beneath you, and you let your hand drift lazily down the plane of your stomach. You are deliberate in your slowness. You are an artist, and this is your masterpiece—a performance meant for an audience of one, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even if he stands rigid and unyielding, pretending he cannot hear, pretending you do not exist beyond the role of princess to his protector.

But he can hear. And he does exist in the space between your thighs, whether he knows it or not.

You make no effort to stifle the sounds that escape you.

They begin softly—small, breathy sighs that could almost be mistaken for restlessness, for a woman turning in her sleep. A whisper of pleasure, barely audible, a thread of sound you let hang in the air like silk. You test the waters, waiting, listening for the telltale creak of leather shifting outside your door. Nothing. Not yet. He is made of sterner stuff than that.

So you push harder.

Your fingers find the heat between your thighs, and you trace slow, aching circles around that sensitive peak with practiced precision. You know your own body like a map you have studied in the dark—every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. And you let yourself feel it, truly feel it, because this is not merely performance. This is want. This is hunger. This is the fire that has been building since the first moment he looked at you like you were the sun and he was desperate for a taste of the burn.

A moan escapes you—low and throaty, the kind of sound that belongs in a shadowed alcove, in the tangle of sheets, in the quiet space between two bodies that have given up pretending. It is the sound of a woman who has stopped caring about propriety, who has abandoned the mask of the perfect princess and let the woman beneath claw her way to the surface.

Another. This one sharper, catching on the edge of a whimper as your fingers press harder, faster, chasing something that feels perilously close to release. You arch your back against the pillows, letting your head fall back, your hair spilling across the linens like a white halo. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, and you do nothing to quiet them. You let them swell and crest, filling the chamber with a symphony of your own making.

And you know he can hear you through the oak of the door.

You bite your lip, frustration coiling hot and heavy in your belly. Is he truly that steadfast? That unmovable? That infuriatingly honourable? You have given him every invitation, every provocation, every whispered temptation. You have stripped yourself bare, not just of silk but of pretense, and still he stands there like a sentinel carved from the very stones of the Red Keep.

You press harder, faster, your breathing growing ragged as you chase the thought of him—his hands instead of yours, his mouth on your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself imagine it is him touching you, him drawing these sounds from you. You imagine his breath hot against your ear, his voice rough with desire, whispering all the things he cannot say in the light of day.

The silence from the other side of the door is absolute. No shuffle of boots. No sharp intake of breath. No telltale clink of armour betraying a shift in stance. It is as if he has turned to stone, as if he has willed himself into a statue of duty and denial, carved from the same unyielding marble as the Seven themselves.

You are about to give up. About to abandon this foolish game and finish what you started in bitter, solitary frustration—when—

Knock. Knock.

"Princess?" His voice is low through the door, carefully measured. Painstakingly neutral. The voice of a knight addressing his charge, nothing more. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard... sounds of distress."

You almost laugh. Distress. How perfectly proper. How adorably chivalrous. If you weren't already so wound up, so aching and empty, you might find it endearing. But you are far past endearing. You are past patience, past games, past pretending that the heat between you is anything less than a wildfire waiting to consume you both.

You do not answer.

Instead, you let your fingers slide deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet chamber. You let a moan spill from your lips—deliberate, wanton, unashamed—knowing he can hear every shameful, beautiful note of it. You arch your back, let your breath catch in a sharp gasp, and you let his name fall from your lips like a prayer you have forgotten how to stop praying.

"Gwayne..."

"Princess?" His voice is sharper now, edged with something that might be worry—or might be something far more dangerous. The careful mask is slipping. You can hear the crack in his composure, the faint tremor beneath the steel. "I'm coming in. Forgive me."

The door swings open.

He stands silhouetted in the firelight, one hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats—for assassins, for intruders, for anything that might explain the sounds that have been tormenting him for the past quarter-hour. His body is coiled and ready, a predator prepared to strike, every muscle taut with the promise of violence.

Until they find you.

And then he falters.

Everything about him goes still. His hand falls from his sword, limp at his side, as though the weapon has become an afterthought, as though every lesson of his training has been rendered meaningless by the sight before him. His chest, rising and falling with quickened breath, seems to freeze mid-inhale, the air trapped in his lungs like a prisoner. His eyes—those lovely, terrible, agonized eyes—trace the curve of your body, the arch of your back against the rumpled sheets, the slow, indolent movement of your fingers still buried between your thighs.

You watch the recognition dawn on his face. The moment when the sounds he has been trying to rationalize—the soft moans, the ragged gasps, the whispered invocation of his name—finally find their source. You watch him put the pieces together, watch him realize that every moment of torment he has endured tonight was not an accident, was not a dream, was not something he could dismiss with prayer and denial.

He knows he should look away.

You see it in the way his gaze flickers, just for an instant, toward the door. You see it in the muscle that leaps in his jaw, the desperate clench of his teeth. You see the war in his eyes—the battle between every oath he has ever sworn and every desire he has ever denied.

He knows he should turn. Should close the door. Should pretend he saw nothing and scourge himself with prayer and penance for the rest of the night. He should walk away and never speak of this, never acknowledge this, never let himself remember the way you look right now—sprawled and wanton and utterly, devastatingly his.

But he cannot.

His eyes travel down the column of your throat, past the rise and fall of your bare chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, to where your fingers move in slow, torturous circles. You watch him watch you, and the power of it is intoxicating—headier than wine, sharper than any blade. You have defeated the great Ser Gwayne Hightower without ever touching him. You have brought him to his knees without ever leaving your bed.

He swallows. You watch his throat work, watch the struggle play out across his features—the desperate, agonizing push and pull of duty against desire. "You—" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again, the words scraping past his lips like broken glass. "You said you were in distress."

"Did I?" You tilt your head, all mock innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "I don't recall saying anything at all."

He flinches as if you have struck him. "Princess, I—"

"Gwayne." You say his name like a command, like a plea, like a prayer. You hold his gaze as you slowly, deliberately, begin to move your fingers again—a languid, unhurried rhythm that you know he can see, that you know he cannot look away from. 

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and charged. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The fire pops and crackles. The rain patters against the window, a soft percussion against the stone. The world goes on outside, oblivious to the cataclysm happening within these four walls.

And then he breaks.

It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. One moment he is standing there, frozen in the doorway, a man carved from stone and oaths. The next, he has crossed the room in three swift strides, and suddenly he is there, standing over the bed, looking down at you with eyes that have abandoned all pretense of restraint. His chest heaves. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but they are shaking now, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.

Your fingers graze his wrist, and he shudders.

The contact is electric, a spark that leaps between you like lightning, like the first crack of thunder before a storm breaks. You feel the tremor that runs through him—the way his muscles jump beneath your touch, the way his breath catches in his throat like a man who has been drowning and has just been offered air. His control shatters.

He falls to his knees beside the bed, his hands finding your hips, gripping them with a desperate, almost bruising intensity. His forehead drops to your stomach, and you feel the hot, ragged puff of his breath against your skin—warm and uneven, a man fighting for composure and losing. He is shaking. The great Ser Gwayne Hightower is shaking like a leaf in a storm, undone by the mere touch of your hand.

"I cannot," he gasps into your skin, the words muffled against your belly, his lips brushing your flesh with each desperate syllable. "I cannot—I swore—"

"To protect me," you say softly, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft beneath your touch, copper and gold catching the firelight, and you gently scratch your nails against his scalp. He moans—a low, broken sound that vibrates against your skin. "You swore to protect me, Gwayne. Not to watch me waste away from wanting you."

He looks up at you then, and the agony in his eyes is breathtaking. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and slick. He looks like a man who has been dragged through the Seven Hells and has finally glimpsed salvation—and is terrified it will be snatched away.

"You are a princess," he says, and his voice cracks on the word, splintering like glass. "You deserve—"

"I deserve what I want." You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble that scrapes against your skin. "And I want you, Gwayne. I have wanted you since the first moment you looked at me like I was something worth burning the world down for."

His breath catches. His eyes search yours, desperate for something—permission? Absolution? A reason to stop fighting? "You know—"

"I know everything." You smile, soft and tender and achingly sincere. "I know you have been fighting yourself for months. I know you stand guard outside my door every night and pray for strength. I know you dream of me, just as I dream of you. And I am still asking."

The last of his resistance crumbles. You see it go, see the war finally end in his eyes—the way the tension drains from his shoulders, the way his hands loosen their desperate grip on your hips, the way his expression shifts from agony to something rawer, more vulnerable, more his.

And then he is surging up, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you against him as his mouth crashes into yours.

It is not gentle. It is not chivalrous. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been offered a feast. It is desperate and hungry and so full of longing that it steals the breath from your lungs. His hands rove across your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as though he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.

His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, and you open for him like a flower to the sun, letting him taste every last inch of your surrender. He groans into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through you, and you feel the last of his control slip away. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and he deepens the kiss—claiming, consuming, devouring.

You kiss him back with everything you have. All the months of longing, all the whispered fantasies, all the nights spent imagining this moment—you pour it all into the kiss, letting him feel the weight of your desire, the depth of your want. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, and you feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the rapid drumbeat of his heart echoing your own.

When he finally pulls back, he is breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still gripping you like you might disappear. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and you watch a single tremor run through him—the aftershock of a lifetime of denial finally broken.

"I am going to burn for this," he murmurs, and there is something like wonder in his voice, something like awe. "I am going to burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells for what I am about to do to you."

You laugh, soft and breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then we will burn together."

His eyes open, and the look he gives you is devastating—raw and tender and full of a love he has been too afraid to name. "You are not afraid?"

"I have never been afraid of the fire," you say softly. "I have only ever been afraid of being cold."

He kisses you again, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that speaks of promises and devotion and a future neither of you can guarantee. When he pulls back, he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Then I will keep you warm," he whispers. "For as long as you will let me."

you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister to princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the black and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures

gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of the seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house