meri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

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

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

Precious thing, she truly is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How?

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

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

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

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

“Why were you with him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck patience.

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

Fuck virtues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

You awoke before him.

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

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

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “What for?”

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

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

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

The men sat around the fire, eating their horribly disgusting rations, exchanging tall tales. Cole had taken over the light-hearted nature, and forced it to become a slanderous and honestly obsessive speech about the princesses. He’d moved on from Rhaenyra, now focusing on you. Sweet, beautiful, and kind you. 

“She was always a rough one.” His lip quirked, like he was trying to hint at something unbecoming of a true honorable knight. Of course, Gwayne reminded himself, Cole was not a true knight. A true knight knew when to hold his tongue. “Harsh, like that of a terrible storm. She tore through the Red Keep, leaving chaos in her wake.” 

No one dared to correct him. Many that sat around the fire had visited court, had seen the notoriously kind and gentle princess move with the poise of a true noblewoman. Some had even grown up with the Princess. They all knew that she was not at all like the Dornishman said, and yet, none of them stood to defend her. 

Cowards, the lot of them. 

Gwayne’s jaw twitched as he waited for the man to redeem himself. He’d snapped at the Hand only a fortnight ago, and thought it would perhaps be wise to choose patience over impulse. 

“Women like that are rare, truly.” Cole, unfortunately, continued. “She was, in no uncertain terms, a cun-” 

In an instance, Gwayne rose to his feet, drew his sword, and held it at the Hand’s neck. “Watch your tongue, Sir Criston.” 

The air stilled, the once jovial men tense with uncertainty. “It would be wise to lower your sword, my lord.” 

“The mere concept of wisdom is something completely foreign to you.” 

“It seems-” Criston swallowed. “That your allegiance has shifted.” 

“How dare you.” Gwayne hissed. “My allegiance is not to be questioned.” 

“It is-” Criston dared to speak again. “When you threaten me after my comment about the princess.” 

“I am a man of honor.” Gwayne stepped back, allowing his sword to fall from the man’s neck. “And as a man of honor, I cannot stand idly by as you insult a lady. If you dare speak another ill word of her, I will strike you where you sit, the Gods as my witness.” 

Criston smirked. “I shall not speak of the Realm’s Horror any longer then.” That comment earns laughs from the men. 

Gwayne fought the urge to slash his throat in one swell blow. Instead, he turned on his heel, stalking towards his tent. He flung his sword on the floor beside his cot before flinging himself onto the cushion in a most undignified manner.

As he fell asleep, his mind drifted to memories of you. Well, to only one. His fondest. 

Some Years Ago…

He hadn't seen you in ages, the longing in his heart nearly ready to burst. He knew that Rhaenyra and Alicent had gone off to the library thanks to his spies within the household, and he knew that that meant you were left to your own devices.  

And so there he waited, watching as you walked through the castle garden, soaked to the bone thanks to the aggressive downpour. You'd abandoned your cloak some time ago, realizing there was no stopping your gown from becoming a wet rag. 

His hand, gentle yet firm, had gripped your wrist, pulling you into the groundskeeper's shed. You knew who it was instantly; his touch was as familiar to you as Rhaenyra's whines (mostly regarding her father's wishes for her to marry). Still, a gasp left your lips. 

Gwayne's terribly charming grin looked down at you, his face illuminated thanks to the adjacent window. “Gwayne Hightower, you cannot pull a lady-” 

“I have missed you.” His head hung low, lips closer than they should be. “You have been busy.”

“Such is the life of the heir of the realm’s lady in waiting.” You reached up, brushing a stray hair behind his ear. “I have missed you as well.”

“Your gown-” He looked down, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “It is ruined.” 

“Is it now?” You frowned. “What a shame.” 

“A shame?” He lowered his lips to the crook of your neck, trailing kisses across your chest. Chills ran down your spine, biting your lips to suppress the urge to moan. “My darling girl, you have never looked as stunning as you have this very moment.” You glared, shoving his shoulder playfully. 

“Do not tease, Gwayne.”

“I never tease-” He stopped, correcting his statement before he became a liar. “I only tease when I mean to immediately remedy the situation.”

“Ah.” Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers delicately playing with his hair. “Might I ask how you will be remedying this situation?”

“Of course, my lady.” He'd been slowly backing you toward the wall, finding satisfaction in your flustered appearance when your back collided against the partition. “I plan to ravish you-”

“Ravish?” You gawked, jaw slack. “Gwayne, what if my uncle- the guard-” 

“If you do not wish for me to continue…” He whispered, hands squeezing your hips. “I will obey your commands.”

“No.” You shook your head, nudging your nose against his. “I never said I did not want to.” 

“Ah.” His hands pulled at the fabric of your skirt, your stomach twisting at the action and what it alluded to. What it implied was something you’d been wanting for quite some time. 

“You know-” You tried your best to seem entirely unbothered. “You have not kissed me yet.” “Haven’t I?” His eyes fluttered to your chest, your heart skipping at his actions. “I believe-”

“I would like a proper kiss.” You grumbled. “I am not a piece of meat, my lord, so you may stop eyeing me like one.”

“I do not eye.” He sounded highly offended. “I am simply taking in the vision that is before me. You are a goddess, the Realm’s Beauty indeed.” 

“Gwayne-” You tugged on his doublet. “Please.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” He leaned closer, his left hand left your hip to cup your cheek. 

You nodded quickly. “It is.” He then pressed you further into the wall, if that was even possible. His lips never left your skin once, worshipping you like a man possessed. Your eyes closed, head tilting up toward the sky. “Gwayne-” 

“I could hear my name leave your lips for a lifetime.” 

“A lifetime?” Your breath caught at the implication. “What do you-” 

“You know.” He murmured against your skin, causing chills to run down your spine. “You must know.” 

“This-” You sounded utterly wrecked. “This is not a joking matter, Gwayne.” 

“I am not joking.” He pulled your skirts up, tugging at your stockings. “You think me an unserious rake, I am convinced.” 

“You must forgive me.” You gasped as his hand pawed at your upper thigh, thoughts failing to form coherently. “But your current actions are proving my point.” 

“Are they?” His hand then slid up further, toying with the base of your chemise. “Would you like me to stop?” 

“No!” You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with fear. “No.” 

“My lovely girl-” He pulled your hand away, kissing the back gently. The act was so chivalrous that it almost made you forget he was actively taking part in the social ruin of a young noble lady. “I am asking for your hand this afternoon.” 

“You are only saying that.” 

“I am not. I have had this planned since a fortnight ago.” 

Your legs tightened around his waist. “Have you really?” 

He leaned forward, his nose nudging yours. “I love you, Your Highness. Most ardently, and if you will have me, I will make you the happiest woman in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I-” You dove down, kissing him soundly. “I will marry you. I will be your wife.” 

Of course, because the gods were cruel, his fondest memory was followed by his worst. He’d left you to go meet with the King and his father, to ask for your hand, hopeful, happy even.

He’d walked in calm, held his head high, but humble. 

He’d even sworn that Viserys was on the verge of saying yes when his own father cut in, destroying his future in one fell swoop. “My King, I apologize. My son, he has insulted you gravely.” 

“Otto-” 

“Your niece is of a higher rank. He is only a second son.” Otto glared at his child. “Leave us.” 

“Father-” Gwayne puffed his chest, trying his hardest not to look utterly crushed. “I love her, truly and honestly. I would- I would provide her a loving marriage, one of happiness and peace.” 

“But not one that she deserves. Not one fitting of a Princess, am I right?” Otto raised a brow. Gwayne was speechless.

“Leave us. I won’t repeat myself.” 

Gwayne hadn’t seen you after that day. His father had forbidden it, going so far as to post guards at his door and at the base of the Princess’s balcony. He’d sent him back to Oldtown, and sent you into a depressive state. 

A mere fortnight later, Gwayne had been walking through the streets of his home when a villager whispered about the Targaryen princess who flung herself off the tallest point of the castle. 

And two days later, his own father’s raven had confirmed it. You had died from heartbreak, all thanks to Otto Hightower and his scheming. 

Gwayne knew that you were gone, and yet, when he saw your dragon, he let himself believe that you were still alive. He dared to have hope. And hope would kill him, just as it did his spirit all those years ago. 

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Your fingertips drifted over the numbers in your phone, every time you pressed a number, the guilt settled in your stomach like a scorpion about to crawl its way to the surface.

You dialed the numbers. You called the line. So why were you so afraid they would answer you?

You could see the whole city from the hospitals rooftop. This particular night was an absolute nightmare, yes, you were at a constant state of loss and never actually grieving, but tonight? Tonight you lost a little boy. And those were always the toughest cases.

A voice echoed in your ears "Suicide prevention this is Dex, who am I speaking with?" the man behind the line said in an almost too well practiced voice.

"Hi" you muttered under your breath, your voice barely a whisper. You told him your name, answering his question.

"Hello, how can I help you today?" Your name felt sweet in his mouth, like a tasting of something he was missing—of something he needed. A North Star to make him good.

"Are you planning on taking your own life right now?"

Seconds passed, you didn't know what to answer, no one had asked you this question before, you didn't even allowed yourself to think of it.

"I just– I don't think so, I just needed someone to talk to, someone who could listen."

"Hey Kid, what're you doing up here?"

He could hear a new voice in the backgroung—a mans voice. Then, just as quickly as the call came, it ended.

He needed to keep thinking of your name over and over again, as a kind of silent devotion. He got a taste of what life can be, of what he can become—someone good.

He had your name, he had the sound of your voice, and that was all he needed to find you.

2ND PART

The first sign that you were going to have a terrible Thursday happened at 8:10 that morning when you spilled cold brew directly down the front of your white sweater five minutes before class started.

Oh, it wasn’t a splash or a drip. It was a pour. Like the universe had taken deliberate aim at your sweater.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered, staring down at the spreading brown stain in horror while fellow Briar University students streamed around you outside the Business building.

A guy holding a door open up ahead glanced at you sympathetically. You smiled tightly.

“Livin’ the dream,” you said, holding up your empty coffee cup towards him as you entered the building.

By noon, the stain on your sweater had dried into a horrible stain you weren’t sure you’d be able to get out, you’d forgotten about a discussion post that was worth fifteen percent of your grade, and your mother had texted you three separate times asking if you had heard back from any internship coordinators yet.

You sat in the third row of your marketing class, trying very hard not to put your head through your desk.

Professor Cole clicked through slides at the front of the lecture hall while you stared blankly at your laptop. Your group presentation was in twenty minutes, and Tyler, who had contributed almost nothing for two weeks straight, still hadn’t uploaded the portion of his project.

Melanie leaned over from the seat beside you, “You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m considering it.”

“Against Tyler?” Mia asked.

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

You finally turned your head toward her, lowering your voice. “If he doesn’t upload his part before this presentation, I’m actually going to lose my mind.”

“He’s probably just finishing it,” Mel tried.

You gave her a look.

Mel winced. “Okay, yeah. That sounded fake, even to me.”

You scrubbed a hand over your face.

The exhaustion sitting behind your eyes lately felt permanent. Not dramatic enough to ruin your life, not severe enough for anyone to really notice, but constant. Everything required effort.

Everyone around you seemed so sure lately. People are talking about internships and graduate schools, and moving to other cities. You're just trying to get through your junior year.

Your phone buzzed.

Tyler:  My bad just saw this lol

You stared at the message in disbelief. Then another message appeared.

Tyler: Think my wifi is messed up

“Your villain origin story,” Mel whispered.

You replied to Tyler: presentation is in fifteen minutes.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.

Tyler: can u just cover my part?

You slowly lowered the phone. Mel saw your face immediately. “Oh no.”

“He wants me to cover his part,” You whispered.

“Absolutely not.”

“I know that.”

Mel sighed. “You’re going to do it anyway, though, aren’t you?”

You slumped back in your chair, because yes, obviously you were.

Professor Cole clapped once from the front. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Fantastic.

You stood on unsteady legs while your group, minus Tyler, gathered at the front of the room.

The presentation started badly and somehow continued to get worse. The projector lagged, one slide had the wrong chart. Then came your section.

Normally, you were good at presentations. Not amazing, but competent. Today, though? Today, your brain felt like static.

You clicked through to the next slide and immediately realized it was wrong. Not catastrophically wrong, just enough that every word in your head vanished at once.

“And, um…”

The room suddenly felt too warm. You swallowed.

Professor Cole looked up from his notes.

Panic crawled slowly up the back of your neck.

“And the consumer demographic,” you said finally, your voice thinner than normal, “shows a significant preference toward…”

Toward what? Your own slide looked unfamiliar. Heat flooded your face.

“…sorry.” Your voice sounded far away.

You kept talking anyway, grasping at anything to say as a few students focused in on you more.

By the time the presentation ended, you had no memory of half of what you'd said. You sat back down in your seat, your face flushed, while your heartbeat thudded painfully in your ears.

“That honestly wasn’t even that bad,” Mel said, leaning over.

You stared ahead blankly. “You’re lying.”

“A little.” “Thank you.”

The rest of the class dragged on endlessly. By the time you finally escaped the building, dusk had already started settling over campus. A chilly wind whipped between the brick buildings, as students hurried past in clusters, bundled in hoodies and jackets, laughing too loudly.

You felt disconnected from it all somehow.

Rain clouds rolled low overhead as you crossed the parking lot towards your car.

Your ancient silver Honda Civic sat wedged crookedly between two SUVs, looking vaguely apologetic about existing. This car was your baby, though, and had been with you all through high school and now into college.

You unlocked the car and got inside, sitting there for a minute before starting it up.

The check engine light glowed immediately when you started the ignition. It was bright orange and accusatory.

The light had flickered on three days ago.

You’d ignored it because:

1. You were broke,

2. You were stressed,

3. Denial was free.

The engine made a low, unhappy rattling sound. You gripped the steering wheel.

“Please don’t do this to me today,” you whispered to the car.

The car, apparently unmoved by your suffering, rattled harder.

You pulled out of the parking lot anyway.

The roads around campus crawled with evening traffic. Headlights reflected off of damp pavement while students crossed the streets without looking.

You turned up the radio slightly, trying to drown out the strange noise under the hood. For a few minutes, it almost worked.

Then, the grinding started. Loud, metallic, violently concerning.

“What the hell was that?” You said out loud.

Another awful clunk sounded beneath the car. The steering wheel vibrated faintly in your hands.

“No no no no—” you started.

You turned the radio completely off, which was a bad choice.

Now, all you could hear were the loud sounds of grinding, rattling, and what sounded suspiciously like mechanical death.

Your stomach twisted. Car repairs were expensive, like devastatingly expensive. You did not have the money for devastating right now.

Rain began falling lightly across the windshield. Perfect.

At the next red light, you grabbed your phone with shaky fingers and searched: “mechanic near me open now”.

Most places were closed, except for one. Logan & Sons, open until 9 p.m. It was twenty minutes away.

You looked at the clock. 8:14. The car made another horrifying noise. Decision made.

You took the next right turn abruptly enough that someone honked behind you. “Sorry!”

Rain intensified steadily as you drove farther from campus. The streets grew emptier, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings instead of student apartments and bars. Every strange sound made you more nervous.

What if the car died completely and you got stranded? What if you had to call your parents for money again?

You were twenty years old and still felt like you were constantly one bad week away from falling apart.

The grinding noise worsened as you turned onto Riverside Avenue. That’s when you saw the garage.

There was a neon sign that glowed blue against the dark street: LOGAN & SONS.

One bay door stood open, and warm light spilled out and across the wet pavement. For some reason, relief hit you immediately. The place looked alive. Music drifted faintly outside, voices echoed from inside, and tools clanged somewhere in the background.

You pulled into the lot carefully. The second you parked, the car let out one final, horrible, metallic groan before silence dropped heavily around you.

Rain tapped against the roof, and you sat motionless for a second with both hands still gripping the steering wheel. Then, you dropped your forehead against it, muttering, “Love this for me.”

Eventually, you forced yourself out into the rain, and cold water soaked instantly through your clothes and shoes as you hurried toward the open bay door.

The warmth hit you first, then the smell. Motor oil, metal, and coffee.

The garage itself was bigger than you expected, with three service bays stretching deep into the building. Toolboxes lined the wall, and old signs and license plates from across Massachusetts and the New England area hung crookedly overhead.

Classic rock played softly from somewhere near the back, presumably the office. It felt messy, loud, but comfortably imperfect.

One mechanic stood near a truck with its hood open. Another was halfway underneath a lifted SUV, legs sticking out from beneath it.

The standing mechanic noticed you first. “You need help?”

You tucked a piece of your wet hair behind your ear awkwardly. “Hopefully?”

The mechanic grinned. “That usually means definitely.”

Before you could answer, the guy beneath the SUV slid out smoothly, and you forgot what you were about to say.

His broad shoulders stretched beneath a faded gray thermal shirt that was pushed up at the sleeves. Grease was streaked across his strong forearms. A backwards black cap shadowed slightly messy dark brown hair curling at the ends.

It was John Logan. Briar University Hockey Star, John Logan.

He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag while walking toward her.

You blinked. Right. Words.

“The car?”

His mouth twitched slightly, his deep brown eyes locked onto yours.

“Yes. Usually the car.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

God, you sounded insane.

“It’s making a noise.”

The mechanic near the truck barked out a laugh.

Logan just looked at you patiently.

You gestured vaguely toward the parking lot. “Like… a horrible one?”

“Helpful.”

“I try.”

Something amusing flickered across his face.

“What kind of horrible?” he asked.

You frowned. “Metallic?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And clunky?”

“Those are technically words,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

Annoyingly enough, his voice was nice, too. Low. Rough around the edges.

You crossed your arms defensively. “I know absolutely nothing about cars.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Wow.”

He grinned suddenly, and it changed his entire face. Not prettier, exactly. Worse. More dangerous, because his smile was stunning.

He nodded toward the parking lot. “Show me.”

You followed him back outside in the rain. Up close, he was even taller than you realized. At least 6’3, probably. You had heard of Logan around campus, but who hadn’t heard of the star hockey players? He was a senior, and you ran in different crowds, so you’d never really seen him up close.

The rain darkened the shoulders of his shirt while he crouched slightly near the front tire of your car.

“Start it,” he said to you.

You climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The grinding noise erupted immediately. He physically winced, and your stomach dropped.

“Oh, that’s bad,” you said, seeing his reaction.

“It’s not ideal.”

“’Not ideal’ sounds expensive.”

He leaned closer to the hood, listening carefully while the engine rattled unhappily.

Rainwater dripped from his hat and his hair, making it much curlier. You tried very hard not to notice dumb details like that.

“Kill it,” he said finally. You shut the engine off quickly.

Logan stood fully upright and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“How long’s it been making noise?”

You hesitated.

“That long, huh?” he asked.

“The light only came on a few days ago.”

“You kept driving it anyway?”

You folded your arms. “I had places to be.”

“The dashboard light is literally warning you something’s wrong.”

“I know that now.”

“You knew that before, too,” he said, smirking.

“Okay, are you always this judgmental, or is this a special service?”

That got another laugh out of him. The sound surprised you again. It wasn’t polished; it was real.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/N.”

“I’m John, but everyone calls me Logan.”

He nodded toward the car. “Pop the hood.”

You reached for the lever that was next to your left knee. You found the latch and popped the hood open.

“There you go,” he teased.

You pointed at him warningly while climbing back out of the car, with a smile.

He laughed as he lifted the hood and leaned over the engine. You tried not to stare, but failed almost immediately.

Not because he was objectively gorgeous, he was, but there was something deeply attractive about competence and a man who knew how to use his hands. There was an ease in his movements and a quiet confidence.

He had one hand braced against the frame while the other adjusted something deep inside the engine.

You stood awkwardly beside the car, and the rain slowed to a mere drizzle for the moment. The silence should have felt uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. Instead, it felt strangely… easy.

Logan was sarcastic, a little rough around the edges, but infinitely charming. He was calm in a way that made you hyperaware of how scattered you felt standing next to him.

Logan straightened slowly, wiping grease from his hands against the rag that was hanging from his back pocket.

He stepped around the front of the car and crouched briefly near the front wheel, checking something else while rainwater darkened the knees of his jeans.

You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets.

“So…” you said carefully. “How bad is it?”

Logan looked up toward you.

Close up like this, his eyes were a deep chocolate, with flecks of amber.

“You need brake pads,” he said. “Probably rotors too.”

You nodded like that meant anything to you.

“Okay.”

“And your front bearing sounds rough.”

“…Okay.”

“And if you kept driving it, it would have gotten significantly worse. I think we need to do some further digging to make sure everything else is ok.”

You exhaled slowly. This is the part where adulthood cost money.

“How much?” you asked quietly.

Logan studied you for half a second too long before answering.

“Depends on what parts we use.”

That was not a number, and you noticed immediately.

“I don’t like that answer.”

“It’s the answer I have.”

“How bad,” you said, more quietly.

He stood fully upright again. “A few hundred,” he said.

Your stomach dropped hard enough that you physically felt it. Your current bank account contained a little bit of money, but not “a few hundred” to just spend.

You looked away toward the dark street. “Cool.”

Logan’s expression shifted slightly.

“Long day?” he asked.

“You have no idea.”

He waited, not pushing. And for some reason, that made words start slipping out before you fully decided to say them.

“I go to Briar, and my group presentation imploded today,” you admitted. “One of my group members basically disappeared and didn’t show up to class, and then I had to cover half of his section while actively blacking out in front of thirty people.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It was devastating.”

“Mmm.”

He was about to say something, when the other mechanic came to the bay door.

“Logan! You alive out there?”

“Yeah,” he yelled back.

He spotted you again, and grinned.

“Oh, still with the customer,” he said.

Logan looked exhausted already. “Jeff.”

“What?”

“Don’t.”

Jeff looked at you, “He gets cranky when he skips dinner.”

You blinked, and then immediately betrayed yourself by glancing toward Logan.

“Have you skipped dinner?”

Logan shot Jeff a look. “You can go inside now.”

Jeff looked delighted by this entire interaction and disappeared back inside, laughing.

You looked back toward Logan carefully. “You’re mean when you’re hungry?”

“No.”

“You kind of seem like you might be.”

“That’s because I’m currently hungry.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Logan noticed. You knew he noticed, because something subtle changed in his expression for half a second.

The rain started to pick up again, this time with a wind that made it so cold that you shivered involuntarily. Logan noticed that too.

“You shouldn’t be standing out here.”

You looked toward your car helplessly. “I also apparently shouldn’t drive that.”

“No.”

“Great.”

Logan glanced back toward the garage thoughtfully. “Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

You immediately thought of your options. Mel was probably studying. Your roommates would complain. Calling your Dad would turn into an entire conversation you emotionally could not survive tonight.

And honestly? The idea of explaining this whole disastrous day out loud to someone sounded exhausting.

“I can figure it out,” you said automatically.

Logan looked unconvinced. The problem was, you sounded unconvinced, too.

He shoved both hands into his pockets.

“You can leave it here overnight,” he said. “We can take a better look at it tomorrow.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Would you like a ride?”

The question came casually. You hesitated. Logan must’ve seen the uncertainty on your face, because he immediately added, “Or I can wait here while you call someone.”

The fact that he offered you an out so quickly made something clench in your chest. He wasn’t pressuring you, not even slightly.

You glanced back toward the street, then toward the warm garage behind him, then finally back at Logan.

“…You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even know me,” you said.

He smiled. “You’ve got a very trustworthy face.”

You laughed softly. There it was again, that weird feeling of the day getting lighter around the edges every time he made you laugh. This should still objectively qualify as a terrible day, and yet…

Logan nodded toward the garage, “Come on.”

You followed him back inside as warmth wrapped around you immediately as you entered.

Logan grabbed a dark hoodie hanging off a chair near the office and pulled it over his thermal shirt. He had an extra hoodie that he offered to you, and you put it on.

“Okay,” he said, grabbing keys from the counter. “You hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Are you hungry?” he asked again.

Yes, you thought. Very. You hadn’t eaten since noon, and stress always killed your appetite until suddenly it didn’t, and you realized you was starving.

“…Maybe.”

Logan nodded once like he’d expected that answer already.

“There’s a diner nearby,” he said.

“You’re taking me to dinner?” you said, your eyebrows raising.

His expression turned immediately unimpressed. “I’m taking you to fries.”

“That still counts.”

“Not really.”

“Come on,” he said as he walked out the door. The rain had slowed slightly again.

Logan’s blue truck sat parked near the edge of the lot beneath a flickering streetlamp. It was clean enough to tell he cared about it, and messy enough to tell he actually used it.

He held the passenger door open as you climbed in. He rounded the hood, getting in the driver’s side. The inside was warm and smelled like coffee and pine-scented air freshener.