shh… don’t cry.

You had known Ormund Hightower all your life, loved him when you were young and foolish enough to believe that your innocent heart mattered to him. For years, you had molded yourself into his ideal—you kept yourself pretty, perfected your manners, and stayed up late reading tedious books just so you could casually strike up a conversation on subjects he cared about.

“Only you would throw yourself in the studies of the arts of war. What a charming young lady you are.” He would smile and be amused, and you would bite the inside of your cheek, genuinely believing you were winning him over.

You had carefully crafted your image as a prim, intellectual lady, dedicating every ounce of your grace and intellect to a singular, desperate goal: enticing him.

And you really thought you were at the forefront of his thoughts too—

“I present my victory to you, my lady. And at my behest, name you as the queen of love and beauty.”

The day you were crowned by the dashing heir of Oldtown right after he won the tourney before the entire court was the day you truly believed your girlhood dreams had come to life.

However... Ormund Hightower was apparently a man of distinct taste— and the young flower of House Tyrell was not on his list of potential brides, despite his fondness of you.

“Any good man would be delighted to be the object of your affections, no more so than I.”

It was the night after the news had broken of him asking for the hand of the vivacious Lady Tarly. He had a crooked smile, even as you stared at him with heartbreak shining in your eyes.

“Alas, I am a man soon to be wed. We must cease these meetings, so I ask you not to call on me any longer.”

Your heart died then, and stayed cold for the next ten years.

But fate, working its cruel irony, returned Ormund to you just as the war of succession for the Iron Throne began to tear the realm apart. Although the man before you was no longer the posh new lord of Oldtown, but a seasoned man hardened by politics and a wife who died in childbed.

“Declare Aegon the rightful heir and commit five thousand of your men. In exchange... my protection and the hand of the Lady Tyrell.”

Your good sister, the Lady of Highgarden, who was the regent for her infant son, had wished to remain neutral amidst the ongoing civil war. But the Hightowers were kin to the queen dowager and had been fiercely loyal since ancient times. Confronted with Ormund Hightower’s formidable host and the threat of dragonfire, she simply could not refuse his offer.

However, you had not forgotten the man who had broken your heart.

. . .

“Who would have thought that you would remarry? Your poor wife must be weeping in her grave.”

That was the first thing you said to his face after ten years, and he was entirely unfazed and amused instead.

“Of course, no one is more delighted than I to accept this most generous proposal,” you followed, your voice dripping with sweet venom as you paced before him. “But I wish to settle an arrangement first.”

Ormund leaned back, an intrigued glimmer in his dark eyes. He had a small smile and gave you a nod, gesturing for you to continue. “And what might that arrangement be, my lady?”

“I wish to maintain my freedom. I expect to be allowed to live on my own terms, and that includes being permitted to keep my own counsel, travel as I see fit, and take my own companions.”

Ormund’s lips twitched, as he tilted his head. “Companions? Do you mean lovers?”

You lifted your chin and looked down at him with haughty defiance. “I suppose so. Because frankly, I cannot see either of us engaging in romance in our otherwise unfortunate union.”

How was it that the man who once meant the world to you be the one you felt nothing for when fate twisted its narrative so you could become his wife?

“The rose has grown rather sharp thorns, I see.”

For the first time, you saw how Ormund’s eyes lit with distaste, even if he was ever amused. “As much as I could imagine, I couldn’t possibly allow that. At least for old times’ sake, shouldn’t you grant me the grace of fulfilling the role of your lord husband?”

“Let us speak freely here. If I recall correctly, it is my house’s bannermen you seek, and ten years is a long time,” you scoffed. “We might have been fond of each other once, but we are, at present, not.”

“Oh, but I am,” he countered smoothly, “still very fond of you, Lady Tyrell.”

Ormund finally rose from his seat and approached you with ease. His blue eyes narrowed, and a wicked, knowing smile curled his lips.

“And I have no intention of sharing what is mine, least of all with men lesser than I am. If it is a lover you want, then you will find I am more than sufficient.”

He stepped into your space, a particular yet pleasant smell—from his collection of pomander, no doubt—filled your senses. Leaning down, he whispered directly into your ear:

“At least let me prove to you that we don’t need romance to find… a common ground.”

This man was far more cunning than you had ever given him credit for, seamlessly crafting a trap for you to fall into.

But if he thought he could effortlessly master you like a piece on a chessboard, he was sorely mistaken.

He might have broken your heart a decade ago, but now, you held the shards.

Ormund Hightower, however, seemed intent on making good on his word.

He lavished you with his wealth, stood beside you like a devoted and gallant husband, and before long, even the smallfolk began singing praises of your match—utterly charmed by the sight of their Lord and the new Lady Hightower.

And he wanted the exclusive rights to your bed? Fine. You would grant him lordly dues, but—

—seven hells, you would have never expected that sex with him would be this great.

One time, it had started with him pinning you against the walls of your chambers, devouring your lips like a man in heat. The other time he took his time, worshiping every inch of you until you were weeping his name into the silk pillows, begging for a release he purposely delayed.

And now—

“Haah...”

The breath hitched in your throat as you sank down onto him, the heat and friction from where the two of you were joined striking like a sudden fever. You sat astride his hips, your skirts pooled around you, anchoring him beneath you.

Ormund’s calloused hands were gripping your waist as he let out a grunt, trying to steady himself against a shifting tide. He looked up at you, his blue eyes hooded, blown wide with a hunger that melted away the facade of composed lord from the war council.

This was him entirely at your mercy—

You rolled your hips with a fluid, agonizing grace that drew a ragged groan from deep within his chest. You kept your chin tilted high, meeting his lustful gaze with a mocking smile.

“Is this all it takes to render the Lord of Oldtown into submission?” you taunted, your voice trembling slightly with the pleasure of him, though you forced the words out like a dare. “A woman’s touch?”

Ormund’s jaw clenched, a breathless grin on his face. “Since when... have you become so sharp-tongued?”

“Since I realized pretty words are wind and noble lords are fickle liars,” you provoked, leaning forward until your tangled hair brushed his cheek, your breath hot against his ear. “Now, are you content to let me rule your bed just as Highgarden rules over you?”

Crafty little lady. That was his breaking point.

With a low roar, Ormund seized control. He didn’t unseat you—instead, his hands locked onto your hips like iron clamps, guiding your body into a bruising rhythm that completely shattered your cool. He drove up into you with fierce thrusts, proving with every deep stroke just how formidable he truly was.

The smug defiance bled out of you, replaced by needy gasps of pain as he chased your peak, drowned in his carnal dominance until the world blurred into a haze of white-hot heat and mutual ruin.

. . .

When it was over, the heavy silence of the chamber returned, and you woke to find yourself tangled in his arms.

Ormund lay with his eyes shut, his broad, bare chest pressed against you, holding you fast.

His hair was disheveled, his eyelashes were long, and for a moment you saw your first love again, who stood tall amidst the rose gardens.

How is a man well-known for his faith lure you into thinking of sins?

You immediately tried to pull away as your pride demanded that you re-establish your distance. However, when you moved to swing your leg off him, a sudden ache between your thighs made you wince slightly.

Ormund noticed instantly as his eyes fluttered open. He shifted beside you, his voice unusually soft in the dim light. “Are you sore?”

“I am perfectly fine,” you snapped, brushing his arm away as you reached for the sheets to cover yourself, trying to regain a semblance of independence.

You had expected him to either offer an argument or wear that infuriating smirk. He did neither. Instead, he quietly rose from the bed, and you watched him, expecting him to leave you be.

However, a moment later, Ormund returned to the bedside. He gently pulled back the linen sheet and before you could protest, the soothing, comforting heat of a warm towel pressed against your inner thigh, wiping away the slick remnants with tenderness.

You froze, the sharp retort dying in your throat.

His touch was gentle, devoid of the lust from moments ago and completely stripped of the smugness he wore by day.

“Do not coddle me, Ormund,” you croaked, your voice tight as he pressed another clean, warm towel gently over your lower abdomen for comfort, before pulling the sheets over you.

“You ride like a wanton, yet you are far from used to it,” he sighed softly, as if lamenting. “I would have been gentler, if I had known.”

You fell silent as shame coiled in your chest—a mirror of when you were just a young girl vying for his attention only to face the news of his impending wedding to another woman.

But he is taking care of you now, and you have become his lawfully-wedded wife. And in this quiet gesture, a dam broke in your memory— of a young man who draped his coat over your shoulder as you basked amidst the roses of Highgarden.

“You must be cold. Go inside already,” he would say, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

You used to dream of his touch, his love, his everything. It was bittersweet how he was yours now, but you were torn between heartache and a desire to pay him back in full for what he had inflicted on you—the bitter, humiliating pain of not being chosen.

“Must you hate me that much?”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. Ormund met your gaze with a certain sternness you had rarely seen from him.

“...to the point of hurting yourself?” he went on, his brow furrowing as he looked down at you. If you were bold enough, you would presume that it was concern that you saw in his eyes.

Yet… it only made that part of your heart clenched instead.

Why now? Why only after you had hated him enough to last a lifetime? Why only after you had spent nights crying yourself to sleep that he finally turn his eyes on you?

It was so fucking unfair.

“You presume too much, Ormund Hightower.”

Your response was biting cold, yet so soft and whispery. He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you,” you continued, your lips curving into a cruel smile. “Other than with my body.”

To your relief, not a single muscle in his jaw twitched, burying whatever thoughts your words had stirred in him.

He shook his head lightly, finally breaking your gaze, a ghost of a smile returning to his lips, though it never reached his eyes.

“So be it then,” Ormund murmured, his voice dropping to a low baritone that carried no warmth, only the absolute finality. “How regrettable though. One may mistake you as the rose, whereas you have long since become its thorns.”

Without waiting for your answer, he straightened, turning his back on you to dress, leaving you alone in the quiet wreck of the bedsheets.

You have done it. You had ensured that his affection would forever remain beyond your reach.

That may be so, but it did not mean the physical hunger between you regressed in the slightest

You had laid with him a few more times afterwards. Each encounter in his chambers was an exercise in numbing hearts— he took you with a demanding dominance that left you breathless and slick with sweat and pleasuring you as if you were the only woman he worshipped.

Yet, as soon as the sun rose, Ormund was back to his cynical self, his crooked smile and calculating gaze ever keen on you. He kept you at an arm’s length though since that night, strutting through the halls of the Hightower as the proud lord he was.

You truly believed you could kill that fragile part of your heart that still yearned for him, matching his coldness with your own pride.

Until the turn of the moon, at least.

“My lady... this is strange.”

The pale morning light filtered through the arched windows of your solar as your maid, Ellyn, tugged firmly at the laces of your corset. You stood before the tall silver mirror, waiting to be cinched into your dress.

“What is?” you asked, feeling how her fingers slipped on the laces.

Her hands smoothed over the small of your back as she tried once more to force the edges of the bodice together. “The laces simply won’t meet. It is as though it has shrunk.”

“Do not be foolish. Pull harder.”

“I am pulling, my lady, but...”

Ellyn hesitated, her eyes shifting to your reflection. Slowly, a realization dawned to her as she stepped to the side. “Oh, my...”

You looked at your reflection then, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

There, beneath the unlaced corset, your normally slender waist held an unmistakable curve—a slight protrusion in your belly that had not been there a moon ago.

“Bless the Mother,” Ellyn whispered, her hands dropping away as a smile broke across her face, entirely unaware of how your breath had caught in your throat. She beamed at you, asking:

“My lady... your courses— when did you last bleed?”

. . .

“We will march for Tumbleton.”

You were pulled from your daze at the dining hall when Ormund’s voice broke your thoughts.

“You, however, are to remain in Oldtown,” he continued, adjusting the signet ring on his finger. “You know the city and the ledgers. I need a steady hand to rule it in my stead.”

His words passed by at first.

“I’m bringing my ward Daeron and his beast. I have also arranged for the merchant boy to have his hair dyed to stand in his place—”

“A double?” you asked, almost in disbelief. “If anyone notices the deception—”

“They won’t,” Ormund interrupted smoothly, a cold smile touching his lips. “People see what they expect to see. Silver hair, a fine cloth, and the right escort would do to make one a prince. It keeps the boy safe, and more importantly, it keeps our leverage intact. I’d wager sooner or later they’re going to demand his head.”

It was this exact cunning that had captivated you. He was a man who saw the board three moves ahead, possessing an intellect forged for the cruelties of war. The fact that your child would have him as father brought a wave of reassurance, somehow.

But at the same time, dread creeped in— with the news of his departure, the secret beneath your skirts suddenly felt twice as heavy.

Ormund paused, his sharp eyes narrowing as he caught the hollow look in your eyes. His lips crooked.

“No counsel to give? You already wear the expression of a widow grieving a husband lost to the war.”

The barb pierced through your fog, sparking a sudden flash of ire as you gave him a look. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“That’s more like it.” He rose from his seat with a low chuckle. He didn’t see the ghost that seemed to settle over you, nor the way your hand instinctively wanted to press against the fabric of your skirts.

There were barely two days before his banners moved out, and somehow you didn’t have it in you to let him go without any parting words.

“May the Seven guide your path.”

The hollow blessing tasted like ash in your mouth, but it caught his attention. Ormund paused and turned back to face you.

However, there was no warmth in his expression—only an expressionless stare that bore straight through your soul.

“I thank Her Ladyship for her blessing,” he said, his voice dropping into a formal cadence. “Though I find it unnecessary.”

Three weeks had passed since then, and even the air in Oldtown was thick with the apprehension of war.

With Ormund riding out to lead his host, the governing of the city fell upon your shoulders. While it was your first time doing so, you found that you possessed the head and patience for it.

And thankfully, it kept you busy enough to keep the ghost of him out of your thoughts.

Yet at the same time, unbeknownst to you, your devotion to the city made you a conspicuous target.

It happened on a gray morning while you were overseeing the distribution of rice near the harbor. Before your household guards could even draw their steel, men in dark cloaks had surrounded you and cut down the soldier closest to you—

“Lay down your swords!” you screamed, trembling as the smallfolk were sent into a cries of horror after the man’s blood splattered across the cobblestones.

The crowd erupted into a panicked frenzy, scattering like birds before a hawk. Your remaining guards hesitated, their blades shaking in their hands as the cloaked men closed the circle around you.

From the shadows of the docks, a man stepped forward. He wore a dun-colored cloak, his brigandine bore the banners of Targaryen black and red. Men loyal to the Queen Rhaenyra.

“Yes, yes...” the leader sneered, his voice cutting through the screams of the fleeing smallfolk. “Tell them to keep their steel sheathed, Lady Hightower, or we will turn these docks into a slaughterhouse.”

“You dare bring violence to Oldtown?” you demanded, your voice finding its steel despite the frantic pounding of your heart. “Lord Ormund will have your heads on spikes before the moon turns.”

The man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh don’t you know, my lady? Lord Ormund bit off more than he could chew. Even as we speak, he lies dying in a pool of his own blood in Tumbleton.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, leaving you hollowed out by an icy shock. Without thinking, your hand flew to your abdomen, your fingers pressing firmly against your velvet gown, trying to find something to hold.

Dying. The word echoed in your mind like a funeral knell. The fortress of ice you had built to protect your heart shattered. For all your vows of indifference, the thought of him bleeding into the dirt tore a jagged wound through your chest.

Your captain of the guards stepped in front of you, his sword raised. “My lady, we can take them. Run for the gates!”

“If a single blade is drawn, my men will cut these peasants,” the leader warned. “We will burn these docks, and every innocent soul on them will die because of your pride. Come with us quietly, or watch Oldtown bleed.”

You looked at the terrified faces of the very people you had spent weeks watching— the women holding their children close, the old men trembling behind the grain carts.

For years, Ormund had protected them as their lord. Even if he is now— No matter how, you couldn’t let his city fall.

You placed a firm hand on your captain’s arm , forcing his blade down. “Lower your sword,” you commanded quietly.

“But my lady—!”

“I said, lower it.” You stepped past him, lifting your chin, refusing to let these dogs see you tremble. Looking at the leader in the eye, you spat, “I will go with you. Spare the city, and let these people go.”

He gave a mocking bow. “A noble choice, Lady Hightower. The realm will remember your piety.”

A rough hand seized your arm, dragging you towards a waiting carriage. The smallfolk of Oldtown wept aloud as they watched their lady—the sweet rose who had looked after them these past few weeks—spirited away into a cage.

Only when the heavy door slammed shut and the iron bolt clicked into place did the stark reality finally crash over you.

Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks as you cradled your belly and struggled to breathe under the crushing weight of the very possibility that the man you had once again fallen in love with might well be dead.

There were many things, in truth, that Ormund favored in you.

You always smelled of sweet roses— out of everything, that was probably what he liked the most.

The vast gardens of Highgarden suited you, and he remembered the girl you used to be, the one who had been too timid to look him in the eye at first, but who had beautifully worked herself up to be able to do so.

He knew of your affections— he has always known. It flattered him, though none but himself and the Gods would ever know that he, too, harbored a quiet fondness for the innocent Lady Tyrell.

His little rose. In truth, he had believed that someone so young and sweet as you shouldn’t be bound to a man like him. His late wife—rest her soul, for he had been fond of her too, though it was never a blind, consuming love—had been different. She had been compliant, and more than ready to submit herself to her wifely duties, and she was who he needed when he first took on the mantle of the Lord of Oldtown.

The Gods are cruel, as all men know, especially when his dutiful wife died in a tragedy and he had to turn to House Tyrell to aid his house in its conquest for the throne— only to find you, his rose, still very much beautiful and unwed.

However, that sweet rose has grown thorns. So sharp the thorns that he has almost forgotten how soft the petals are.

You no longer stuttered and conducted yourself with pride that both vexed and captivated him. In the beginning, he had been intrigued by the woman you had become because he was convinced that the gentle little lady of his memories was still there, waiting to be coaxed out.

That was why on the day he took you to his bed and realized the truth—that you were merely performing and he had been anything but gentle—he drew the line.

But you merely looked at him with eyes as cold as winter.

“Rest assured, in this very contractual marriage of ours, I have no intention of feeling anything for you.”

Every time those words echoed in his mind, it felt as though a dagger were piercing his lungs.

. . .

“Lord Ormund! My lord! Thank the Gods you’re back!”

Tumbleton had been a bloodbath, and he barely survived it himself—a blade having pierced his armor and a hair’s breadth from his heart. But the market city had fallen, the Blacks had been broken there with the betrayals of two of their own dragonriders, and in the grand game of thrones, that was all that truly mattered.

However, the moment he stepped his foot back at Oldtown after six weeks, the atmosphere in his own home were grim— his household servants were openly relieved, some almost weeping, as if he was a ghost returned from the grave.

“They told us you were dead, my lord,” the head guard told him somberly. “We thought all was lost.”

“A blatant lie made to weaken our morale,” Ormund hissed, his hand dropping to the pommel of his sword as his wound ached. “Tumbleton has fallen, and I’m far from the grave.”

Still, he sensed something dreadful had occurred by how mournful the maidservants were—

“My lord!”

Before Ormund could demand what had happened in his absence, a shrill voice cut through. Ellyn, your faithful handmaiden, pushed past the other servants, her eyes were red-rimmed from days of crying.

She fell to her knees, clutching desperately at the hem of his traveling cloak.

“You must help her, Lord Ormund! You must bring her back!”

A cold knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He looked down at the trembling girl, his brow furrowing deeply.

And the words she uttered next, as she looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, made his blood run colder than when he saw dragons burning Tumbleton.

“The lady! Three weeks ago, while the city was fooled by the news of your death, the false queen’s men took her away!”

They had taken you to Tumbleton.

The market city was ravaged beyond repair. For three weeks now, they had held you hostage in a makeshift holdfast. They gave you barely enough bread and water to keep you alive, and as the days bled together, your hope withered to nothing.

Your unborn child, who grew heavier by the day beneath your heart, was the only thing left to give you the strength to survive this madness.

And as if your situation weren’t desperate enough, through the timber door of your cell, the muffled voices of your captors reached your ears. They were conversing in frantic, hushed tones.

“The smallfolk are rioting in King’s Landing. They’re storming the Dragonpit. The Queen is fleeing!”

“Then what of us? What of the woman?” another rasped.

“Leave her. If the Hightowers find us here, they’ll flay us alive. Set the fire. Let the ashes cover our tracks.”

Alarmed and struck by a sudden, feral terror, you flung yourself against the door.

“Let me out!” You screamed for help, your voice raw, hitting the wood until your knuckles bled.

But the only response was a thud, followed by the crackling of fire and pitch. Smoke and heat began to seep through, as the chamber was slowly being consumed. You were trapped.

Realizing you would soon meet your demise, the strength left your legs, and you collapsed into the dirt, trembling with tears.

I would die, Ormund already did, and I have never told him.

You bitterly regretted never telling him that you were with his child.

As the heat grew unbearable, your mind drifted away to the sun-drenched rose gardens of your home, where you and Ormund Hightower had first met.

He is devilishly handsome and gentle. Your first love who had broken your heart once, but still owns it to this very day, when you would breath your last.

The black smoke filled your lungs, choking the breath from your throat. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into darkness as you surrenderred to the Stranger.

Then, through the flames, a sudden, violent crash echoed— the sharp ring of steel slicing through. Through your fading, tear-blurred sight, a figure burst through the burning doorway.

You could have sworn you saw the shimmering edge of Vigilance cleaving through the smoke, its blade gleaming. That was the Valyrian steel your husband wielded.

Was it a cruel figment of your dying imagination?

But then, the heat of the fire was eclipsed by the fierce, solid weight of heavy arms wrapping around you, lifting you from the ground. And right against your ear, came a trembling voice you recognized:

“I have you,” Ormund whispered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before.

“Hold on to me. I have you, dearest.”

The next time you awoke, you were in his bedchambers in the Hightower.

The suffocating stench of smoke and pitch was gone, replaced by the familiar, comforting scent of the crisp sea breeze blowing off the Whispering Sound. The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.

He was staring down at you, his dark eyes ringed with exhaustion, but shadowed with a profound relief. He was only in a loose linen tunic that showed the bandages wrapping his chest.

“Ormund...?” your voice was a broken rasp. You reached out a trembling hand, terrified your fingers would pass right through him. “Are you... are you truly here? T-they told me you were slain—”

His eyes softened, and he smiled. Not the crooked one or a smirk, but the sincere, tender smile you had fallen in love with ten years ago.

“I’m here,” he assured, his deep voice and scent wrapping around you as he took hold of your hand.

Your first tear fell, and your voice broke into a sob then. Ormund pulled you gently but fiercely into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you clung to him, burying your head into his chest, weeping for the horror you had survived and the miracle of his embrace.

Slowly, he pulled away. His hand moved from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face up. The sorrow in his eyes flared into something primal— and he pressed his lips to yours in a deep, passionate kiss.

He drank you in as if you were the only life-giving water in a world reduced to ash, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. You had the man you loved returned to you, and he had the sweet rose he cherished safe in his arms.

When he finally pulled away, both of your breaths coming in ragged gasps. The tender silence stretched between you, but then Ormund’s gaze drifted downwards.

His large, warm palm rested against your belly, a knowing look in his blue eyes.

“Must you hide so many things from me?” he asked softly, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip.

“I... I was—”

“Would you continue to do so if I told you that now, it is you who holds my entire heart and soul in the palm of your hand?”

You didn’t even dare to blink, and he held your gaze and a bittersweet smile touched his lips.

“I have always longed for that lady amidst the field of roses,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough, impassioned whisper. “Even though she knows nothing of it, even though I know she is too pretty for the likes of me, and even though I have broken her heart... I still selfishly wished I could have her for myself.”

“Ormund...” Your lips wobbled, ingesting every word as the tears pooled fresh in your eyes.

“So know that even if roses bear thorns,” he continued, his thumb brushing a fallen tear from your cheek. “I would gladly suffer a thousand cuts from now on, so long as I am the only one who gets to hold you.”

That was everything you needed to hear. You surrendered yourself to his embrace again, letting him kiss the crown of your head.

Dragons might continue to dance and the kingdoms would burn, but in that fleeting moment within the walls of the Hightower, the bloodstained game of thrones ceased to matter—

“Are you mad?” His jaw clicked when he tenses the joint.

“Are you?” Your brow raised and you positioned yourself to face his side of the bed where the matters dips “Is it not normal for a child to meet their grandsire and grandmother?” You challenge.

“You won’t go.” He settled, “I’ll not risk you.”

“Risk?! I want a real reason.” Your arms cross over your chest. “A good one as well.” You mutter with a dramatic exhale through your nose.

Maekar, who had worked hard to let you adjust to your new reality without sight, was struggling with the idea of you outside of Summerhall navigating these challenges was hard enough here, where he felt you were safe, where he trusted people to assist when needed and then there was the other concern, the one that ate had him more than you taking a turn incorrectly. “There will be many lords there…”

Your brow raised “yes and what would be the problem with that-“

“They will look upon you!” That sounded honest, it sounded like his throat had struggled to let the truth out. “Other lords. They will look upon you and if they hold desire for you in their eyes you shall not know!”

That was far too flattering. “Any lord will surly know I’m a taken lady…the child holding to my skirts may tip them off husband.”

“no…i cannot go and therefore you will not either. I must be there with you for these things now Wife, I trust not in the men of this realm. They’ll see you, recognize that you cannot view their intentions and-“ his voice cut out. It came back deeper when he cleared it. “ if I am not there they will think you easy to harm, they will think my wife is theirs to peer at”

Maekar rarely gave you that much insight.

You were still frustrated, but at least now you knew why this ate at him. “I won’t go, this time” You relent shifting onto your knees and crawling over the bed until you hit his legs and move to straddle him. Your hands rubbing up and down his chest. Bare. Just as you preferred. “But you will one day need to let me beyond this hall. Into a world where there are other men.” The entire time you’re telling him this you also are leaning forward to kiss at his neck.

“You are mine.”

“I am aware.” He could hear the smile on your lips as you kissed below his beard. This was no chuckling matter to him.

“who,” his hand grabed some hair at the spot behind your ear and pulled you from his neck brining your face up to his. “Who is your husband?”

Your smile faded as his grip trembled.

“you.” You exhaled, hand rubbing his wrist and down his arm until your reached his head and your fingers gently ran through his beard. “I’m yours Maekar.” You swore to him as he leaned to you to kissed roughly at your jaw.

“Aye, you are mine.” He kisser your lips finally and you melted into his chest, his hand not releasing his hold on your hair but is other did grab at your night dress and gathered it up, tucking it up between both of you and your hand reached down to his lap. He was quite hard, and also sticky against your fingertips. His breeches already opened. Perhaps he was right? There were still things happening around you, in the same bed as you that you had no idea was happening.

“Come here, up.” He grunts, hand giving your bottom a mild swat so you’d rise up on your knees, giving his cock just enough room to be able to hook against your wet slit. His possessive tone always made you embrassingly aroused.

“I cannot suffer you being away from me so long. From our home- our life.” He glides his tip against your clit. “I wager neither can you? Hm my wife? Can your cunt go without me?” He taunts and you shake your head no. Eyes squeezed shut and nose wrinkled while your stomach knotted.

“n-no!” You got out, having to put more force behind your words when they started to come out in a wavering tone. The loudness of your assurance earned a light chuckle of amusement from your husband as he directed his cock to your dripping core. You were more than prepared for him already.

The desire that was constantly strung between you both was so intense, so deep, it was wonder that either of you managed to get anybting done throughout the day.

“oh gods,” you exhale as he helps guide your hips down. You were no maiden, nor new to your husband’s manhood. He was large and the fit was snug but you took all of him, that was how you both enjoyed it. His tip barreling against your sore cervix and his stones half smushed against your bum. “F-fuck!” You only swore in the privacy of your chambers, it was a habit you got from him, the fowl language. You just did not know any other words that indicate what you were feeling in these moments better than that sort of language.

Your head leaned back when you felt the neat blunt bottom edge of Maekar’s beard nestled against your neck, one of his strong hands curled around your hip and his other braced your weight at your arse to help with the riding motion. It was more of a frantic humping in truth because both of you kept to tight it a grip for you to really move that far up and down his veiny length.

“gods woman-“ he bit at your collar some, his grip getting tighter and you groaned feeling how he twitched within you. “You’re so good for me, feel so good for me.” He slured out quite a few more vulgarities, and his words got more possessive the closer his release got. “You belong here, around me. In my bed.” He grunts ramming his hip up against your thighs now. You were half limp fighting to be able to keep a grip on his shoulders because you always got soft and weak as a climax tore through you.

“filled with my babes,” he kissed the side of your mouth and you let out a long low moan of agreement. “My wife, mine…m-my woman.” You cried out when he finally filled you, his seed plugged within you as you clenched around him and shook in his lap as your peak was rode out as well.

You remained in his lap. Breathless and sweaty and when he eventually kissed the top of your cheek and started to do the normal, In his head, discreet checks to ensure you were alright you trailed kisses over his shoulder.

“When this next babe is born,” you smiled. “You’ll take me to my family’s seat and let them meet their new grandchildren.”

Maekar smiled and his hand ghosted against your stomach. “The next babe?” You could hear the pride in his tone.

“aye, husband.” You giggled fingers moving to feel his lips, confirming he did currently wear a proud little grin.

Maekar Masterlist, Prompt Masterlist

King Viserys' and Queen Aemma's second daughter, as fierce and beautiful as Rhaenyra, with your father’s kindness and your mother’s temperament. And perhaps your sister’s mischief. 

And the first Targaryen Princess to be married.

You were both only children then, fresh faced and blushing in the eyes of the court. And yet, you and Gwayne found one another naturally, not from arrangement or calculation, but from pure attraction. He sought after you from the very moment he was introduced at his father's side from Oldtown, green eyes casting across yours with a unique politemess. The Hand of the King’s son.. The first time he had taken your arm was mere weeks after his arrival, a feast celebration held in the Great Hall for your mother's upcoming birth.

The music had softened into something slower, gentler, the kind that filled the spaces between conversation instead of drowning them. Laughter drifted through the hall beneath the glow of a hundred candles, their flames dancing against polished stone and silver goblets.

There was peace there.

For once, no whispers of succession. No sharpened glances, no blood yet staining the future that none of you could see. Baelon still lived inside your mother’s belly, the realm still believed that tomorrow would resemble that day, and everyone drank as though happiness were permanent.

You hid a smile behind the rim of your goblet as your sister traded another clever remark with a lord twice her age. The wine was sweet enough to dull the noise without stealing your senses, and only the music filled your ears until you heard him.

"Princess..."

A single voice came from your side, poignant and certain.

Your head turned almost as quickly as your feet did, skirts whispering across the floor as you faced the speaker.

Ser Gwayne Hightower.

And you knew the face long before you knew the man. Across tourney grounds and council feasts, across the crowded courts where neither of you had ever found reason, or courage, to cross the distance. He had always seemed carved from Oldtown itself with his proud posture and emerald stitched into every thread of his doublet, auburn hair catching every stray beam of light.

So appeasingly handsome.

That night however, he looked less like a knight before a princess, and more like a man wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

"I mean not to impose," he said, offering a respectful incline of his head, "though I wondered if I might have this dance." For a heartbeat, the world continued around you while your own stood perfectly still. You let your gaze linger on him, amused by the faint uncertainty hidden beneath practiced confidence, tempting to look around to study if your father’s were perhaps watching.

But no one was, far too taken with their own celebrations, even the snaking advance of Otto Hightower had been shadowed by his son’s chivalry.

"So," you said at last, lowering your goblet into the waiting hands of a servant, "you've finally decided to stop staring from across the court."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before a reluctant smile answered it.

"I had hoped," Gwayne admitted, extending a hand toward you, "that when I did, I might say something considerably more impressive."

Your lips curved despite yourself, taking his hand as you set the goblet down onto an empty table. They slotted into his with a shiver up your spine, the warmth of his swarming your hand gently.

And as a well trained Knight and son of the Hand, word swept faster than either of you knew.

Sweetness across feasting tables soon became hushed kisses in the library and whispered promises, where he asked you to first be his. And you had accepted, spending the weeks and months that passed dreaming of a future that would not come so simply.

You wore your house colours on that day, stark crimson and white, as he did his own, graced in a black cloak that bore the royal sigil, as you wore his. Your mother and father present has smiled on proudly, your sister at their side at last ready to take your arm to share the joy. And Gwayne, he looked upon you with such a blinding adoration you had not known where to look, but when he had kissed you at the altar, all else seemed to fall away.

It was where you belonged.

Such happiness that shouldn't have ended like this, where only darkness loomed in the present. Where Queens passed to another and your younger brother with her, leaving only choices of heirs and legitimacy remained.

The Dance of Dragons divided everyone in its path, renouncing Princess Rhaenyra as heir, and the state of the realm overtaken by your husband’s house. Trust and loyalty faltered where you were at a loss, cradled behind court and torn from your marriage and family entirely.

And that’s where it began.

—

King Viserys’ death had succumbed the realm to a deep sadness, perhaps not the strongest or fiercest, but their good King was gone. But that was not all for you, he was your father, your leader, and though the family had grown through the years, you and your sister had dealt with it only together.

Snakes snuck fast around the court, ever more lurching their way closer to you both, because as your father’s last breath was breathed as the years had passed, it was said that your older sister’s name was not on his lips, but your younger half brother Aegon.

He was but a boy, callous and cruel and unnamed by your father, other than by the word of Alicent Hightower.

Gwayne held you that night, the whole time you had wept for him, for your sister and the news that swept faster than any false rumour. He did not speak, but his arms stayed around you, feeling your betrayal as much as rage thundered in his chest. Because there was nothing to be done.

Neither of you were in the position to change it or revoke their decision, only stand idly by as the Red Keep made way for their new ruler. And when the news had reached Rhaenyra by your Raven, before any other, the war had truly begun.

They had usurped her throne.

Though only more death was to come. Where Lucerys' death fueled the fire, Jacaerys’ stoked it into an abcess, shifting the realm into finally. And with your sister to take King’s Landing, to journey back home and sit upon the throne of swords that was at last to be hers, you were to be at her side.

Standing proud, no matter how fractured.

But you couldn’t leave him, not yet. Even as he stood far away distantly on battlefield in a sea of green, wiping away your very dynasty, you were not enemies, nor traitors to your alliance, you were simple torn. 

Letters were passed for as long as they could be, after leaving court for good, you had decided to reside with your sister and nephews, Gwayne alas being called upon to raise the Hightower banners. And he did, reluctantly and wrongfully, he hung his head low the last time he had kissed you, watching you take to the skies across the narrow sea.

That was beyond a year ago, the last word you had received before they had began getting lost, by death or payment to burn them, was that he was settled at Rook’s Rest.

It was no secret that the pair of you were a danger, the union that once delighted the realm, now a tear in the very structure they had wanted to built. Even as you stood at her war table, speaking strategy and warding soldiers their way, you thought of him, and even your Rhaenyra looked upon you with despair.

Because she knew, and more than most.

You held each other for those nights that surrounded you in darkness and fear more than anything else. Through every loss, every upset and worry, you bore those burdens together in the privacy of her solar, hidden away from the rest of the world just as you would when you were girls.

And just so, she did not speak a word, not even as you had finally had enough, succumbed to the worry, the need to find him. Grief had overwhelmed her enough, and Rhaenyra did not stop you, but not because she had been weak, because she knew you’d be back, and she knew where you were going.

More so, who you were going to.

—

Long slender silver wings spread through the sky, gliding through the misted clouds as blue casts a shadow beneath the stars.

Grey Ghost.

And he lives true to his name, flying low in silence, keeping beneath the valley and into the cover of trees. Moonlight strikes the sharp membrane of his body, curving with the wind from head to tail, but you remain out of sight. Wind catches your hair, tangling the strands that fall, the shine reflecting onto your face as you duck into the saddle, fingers tight around the rope.

He keeps quiet as he is known to, reserved and patient but somehow now a tense silent. There is no rumble, or loud screech of excitement that passes through the air around you. The flight was less than a mere hour, driven swiftly by your held and held from the memory that he had last given you direction to.

Rook’s Rest.

In the heart of the Crownlands and seated on the northern shore of Blackwater Bay, the encampment lo and behold lit up through a sparse in the trees, surrounded by sconces and hundreds of tents camouflaged by tree cover.

“Māzīs, Grey Ghost.” Approach, Grey Ghost.

You called out to him, flying in a turn far above them into a small break in the woodland, diving out of sight and settling with a thud to the ground as his feet planted into the earth. You slid from him carefully, steadying yourself as you patted his side, rubbing along the silver scales gently, clasping your hand around the dagger at your side with the other.

Restless nights come frequent in battle, leaving men tossing and turning in their cots from aches and sore backs. But that did not keep Gwayne awake. Nor was it the watch he was put on in the early hours that did so, it was the sound. The soft whooshing that echoed through the treeline and around the camp, swaying the bushes with it. Many would call it the wind, or a storm rolling in and nothing more, but he had been around enough dragons and their riders to know the difference.

The way you had taught him years ago.

“No their wings are here..” Your hand placed over Gwayne’s own, pressing gently to the beast’s belly, “his underside is hardly noticeable. It keeps us from harm, shielded and invisible to attackers.”

“But the sound is unmistakable, even in ambush. It is low, guttural, far more effective than your canons or torches.” You continued, feeling the heated brush against your fingertips as the dragon bristled.

He studied them ever since. At a distance and far from the depths of the dragonpit, he watched on. Every ride you’d take with Grey Ghost, every conflict that required them to fly out in their hoards. They were a power unlike any other in the world, a force of be reckoned with, and one that still shook his bones whenever he had been faced with one, but there was something familiar.

His fingers drop from the quill and ink, sliding the parchment aside on the small desk, lit only by two candles, casting shadows as he goes to stand.

His eyes dart every direction as he exits the tent, to and from and back again heeding the snores and dying rumbles of drunkards in the nearby pavilions. But he pays no mind, that isn’t what he follows. At first it was a guess, only a thought but he picks up the pace when he sees it.

The great silhouette that hides expertly behind the tree wells, long and slender, and far too big for a horse. His hand clasps around the pommel of his sword, keeping it tight to his waist as he stalks nearer. From this angle it’s hard to tell. The size was large enough to stand out but not as large as Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not one of their own.

Its colour is blank in this light, no shine, and no scale and his eyes go to squint sharply to make it out, but he barely makes it another step before.

Crack.

A twig crunches from behind, spinning on the spot onto his heel to catch a shadow moving beyond the creature. His grip tightens around the steel as he stalks around, a heavy exhale spilling from the beast’s nostrils, almost annoyed.

But the shadow was heading so swiftly through the trees Gwayne had no choice but to chase it. If it were the enemy, they could burn the whole encampment with a single command. And the thoughts run through his head before he can stop himself, “Who goes there?”

He calls through the night. Not loud enough to wake the others, but enough it was direct, but no answer came, so he follows, brushing branches out of his way as he catches up. And then his arms fall in front of him, feet quickening as the silhouette grew more human.

“Hey—“

His arms clamp as hard as he can, twisting the unknown figure in his grip as he seethes. The breath burns in your throat as you plant your fist in front of you, colliding with the pad of tunic, kick fighting toward the man’s shins. It collides with a crack, heavy and thick through boot.

Gwayne barely staggers before his reflexes catch hold, his free hand seizing your wrist while the other circles your waist, dragging his supposed attacker’s momentum into his own. You stumble backward together, boots tearing through damp earth until your back meets the rough trunk of an oak.

His sword is half-drawn, ready to raise just as moonlight slips delicately through the branches. A low screech responds, short and quiet, bristling through the hedgerow hair behind. And that’s when he sees it. Eyes wide with the same shock reflected in his own.

“…Gods.”

His grip loosens at once, standing before you just close enough that his knees don’t buckle.

“You?”

“Gwayne?” You whisper breathlessly, his name leaving your lips in disbelief, a cold shiver wracking your body as you catch your breath.

He shoves his sword back into its scabbard with more force than necessary without so much as a look, the hand at your waist loosing its hardened grip, but holding you closer by instinct.

“What,” he demands, voice caught somewhere between fury and relief, “in the Seven Hells are you doing here?”

You only frown, easing your wrist from his hand to slide the dagger back between your belt.

“I might ask you the same.”

“I am stationed here.”

“And I am merely visiting.”

“Visiting?” he repeated incredulously. “You flew into an active war camp in the middle of the bloody night.”

“I landed well beyond it.” You counter, gesturing to Grey Ghost lowering himself to tuck into the dirt.

“Beside it.”

“There is a difference.”

“There is not.”

Before either of you could speak again, the trees behind you shift, a great pale head emerging from the darkness with uncanny silence, its silver-grey hide almost disappearing beneath the moonlight. Grey Ghost regards Gwayne with calm, intelligent eyes before lowering his great snout beside you, as if to confirm you were unharmed.

The knight scarcely looks at the dragon now, bowing his head back without blinking, eyes still wild and shocked as they turn back onto you. His attention settles entirely on you, the hand at your waist drawing into you by the slightest .

“What possessed you?”

The sharpness had left his voice, and he rethinks his words where only fear remains now, stepping closer, searching every inch of your face as though to look for hidden wounds and blood.

But there is none.

“When the sentries reported news of a dragon encroaching..” His voice drops rougher. “I thought it was an advance scout. I thought Rhaenyra or Daemon had come to us.”

You hold his gaze, breathing steadily where it threatens to hitch.

“I heard there was a Hightower encampment from your letter.” You answer him, pausing before you continue.

“I only wanted to see if you truly were here.” Your voice threatens to break, shaking as you begin to feel the warmth of his palms around you.

“You could have sent word.” Gwayne argues, and it’s a blunt instrument, one of no use of fire in it, one he only attempts not to take you into his arms right away.

“And if it had been intercepted?”

“I would rather receive intercepted letters than news that my wife had been killed wandering through enemy woods.”

Silence passes between you then, wind whispering through the pines, carrying the distant sounds of the sleeping camp far below. You lookedown for only a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I had to see you.”

Four simple words you give him and they strike him harder than any blade. His jaw tightens at that, his other hand raising slowly, carefully to your face, only hovering.

“But if someone sees us…” he says quietly, glancing back towards the camp. “If anyone finds you here-“

The look you give him then isn’t defiance or stubbornness, it’s with longing.

The sort that comes from too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered prayers, and too many days waking alone. The ones you had both spent far too long inside of, a nightmare. There’s a desperation in it, an ache that neither dragons nor crowns can soothe. Gwayne simply stares at that and you see the conflict unfold in him, everything that has been expected and ordered of you both.

Duty and reason and fear, but something more.. love.

Each emotion wrestles the next until the rigid lines of his features fracture beneath their weight and his mouth parts as though to argue again, to tell her you that should leave, like he should do, that all of this is madness.

But no words come and he can’t bring himself to speak them. Instead, something inside him gives way, his hands rising almost hesitantly, rough palms cradling either side of your face, afraid that you might disappear if he held holds you too tightly.

He exhales a breath, surrendering as he thumbs at your cheeks, drawing you to him. He bends without another word, his forehead brushing your own for the briefest instant before his lips finds yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the separation. It’s gentle despite the urgency behind it, the sort of kiss that speaks every word he couldn’t say before, if he’d ever have you again.

His eyes never leave yours, not even as he pulls away.

“…How I’ve missed you, my love.”

And it’s real, the closest thing to the reality you’d lost years ago that you’d longed to hear. Your eyes flutter close at his whisper, holding onto the words as he stands breathing, alive in front of you.

“You underestimate me, husband.”

A groan bites low in the back of throat. Husband.. That word, that title that has been shoved too far behind all else. The knight, the man, the commander.

But here he was, your husband. The one you could joke with, the one would only underestimate himself before he ever would you, because he knows better. And yet it’s the only thing that you can manage, a jest.

“Perhaps for a moment.” He admits through a teary smile.

“Then you are the idiot.”

Your noses nudge together as a smile finds your lips from his own, your arms reaching around his middle.

“Indeed I was.”

His grip grounds you back into the tree bark, your turn to groan as you mouth at his lip, teeth tempting to bite into the plush flesh. Something growing beneath the shock and the longing, something hungrier.

“Not here.”

And as he takes your hand again, leading you through the dark, you feel the thumping in your chest, the once regret of your decision falling to nothingness.

—

"How I've missed you my love.."

His words ring in your ears, loud and clear as you pass through the trees, ducking and stalling behind bushes until you find the tent. His own. In the distance wings flap quietly, carrying on the wind just further out of reach, to safety knowing that you are once again.

Fingers clutch at the sides of your arms, bracing through the thick fabric and taking you under the draping entrance of the tent. Smoke and burnt incense fills the space, filling your nostrils with a burn, all adorned in shades of emerald green, but that isn’t what catches your attention. It’s the warmth, the dirt beneath your feet on the measly carpeted floor where he urges you backwards.

“I have not wanted to wait..” You moan into his mouth, a gasp escaping your lips as your back braces into the wooden beam at the pavilion’s center.

One hand roams higher, cupping your cheek with a delicate fondness, tearing away from your lips hesitantly with a tremble. Like doing so pained him.

"Then I shall not make you.” He breathed against them, warm air tickling your jaw and sending a shiver through your body. He was so close, so real, and near, for the first time in a long time. It felt like it had.. “For tonight.. you have me."

"I always do." You corrected with a hum, bracing your back further into the bite of the worn wood, fingers resting along the stitchings of his doublet.

"You torture me.." He whispers into your lips without protest, not against, into, across, a brand into your skin, burning hot and searing before he captures them again.

Hotter and more desperate, anchoring you with his body as his hand clutched at the layers of fabric around your waist, his tongue sweeps across your lip to allow him to pass. And you do, kissing him back with the same eager ferocity you have held back for longer than you can remember. Your fingers tighten around the nape of his neck just to drag him into you, his knee pressing between the damp heat of your legs.

You remember this. The push and pull, where the nights drew long and heated, and where the only terror was the thought of someone seeing. The blush crept up his neck often at the thought, abandoning all honour just to have you. Where alcoves in corridors would become your greatest sin and he would whisper promise and vows into your ears, running hot beneath layers of steel and armour.

His true desire, his fatal flaw. The one he’d abide all laws just to feel you against him once more. And now he has you, there’s no holding back. Gwayne’s eyes flutter shut as he takes every moment to linger over your skin, lips worshiping along the hollow of your throat, slowing to feel the thrumming rush of blood, kissing at your jaw as his teeth bare at your collarbone. His fingers follow, unclasping the ties of your armour just as patiently he undoes you.

A gasp leaves you as the material falls away, cool air pebbling your nipples and dimpling the rest of your skin, your hands bracing against the broadness of his shoulders to steady yourself.

He opens his eyes when his knees finally met the floor, glancing up at you with materials strewn in piles across the floor, his own shirt hanging open and unkempt in the low light, green tunic long discarded. From here you can see him, not the soldier or the enemy, but truly, the knight, the man you’ve known for far longer than any of this. The one that bent the knee to you without question, the one that had kissed your hand at every meeting, the one that had held you through every dark night.

That look hasn’t changed, only hardened with the lines on his face and the faint dirt that clings to his brow. But green eyes are blown, tender and starving, his mouth hanging open as his hands trace the flesh of your calf up to the plush of your thighs.

He hooks his fingers around the riding leather of your trousers, tugging slowly to shuffle them to the floor, inhaling with a sarcastic grimace, uncaring of the ash that falls away from them despite himself.

“Never will I become accustom to that.” A smile cracks across your face, nodding your head back against the wooden beam with a creak. Dragon back has always had its scent, like fire and smoke and the faintest tinge of blood. But he didn’t care for that now, not even while it dusted his fingers and filled the air, the knot of fingers tangling into his hair only drawing him closer. Hungrier.

“Unlike this..”

He places your leg over his shoulder with a careful bend, shuffling closer, bracing his palm onto the wood behind you. He purses his lips at the skin of your knee tenderly, mouthing sharply while locking eyes with you. Heat pools in at your core, a sudden rush of blood with his breath ghosting over your legs.

“My beautiful..” He placed a kiss, right over the bend of your leg, his eyes fluttering closed once more, “sweet..” Another right at the apex of your thighs, and again for every scar and blemish that he passes, stopping short just to glide his hand up the rest of your body, steadying at your stomach to hold you in place, “wife..”

Shades of green blink up at you, lidded and glazed over, nosing at the flesh of your thigh. Gwayne looks almost angelic in this light, as if gazing up at you, shivering and wanting above him, could wash away every wrongdoing and crime duty had made him commit.

“My undoing..”

He whispers low in a rasp, grazing over your mound with his teeth as he breaths cool air onto your cunt, lips parting breathlessly as he kneads the backs of your legs, beckoning you closer. You don’t speak, not yet, but your face flushes a deep crimson, the back of your neck burning as you buck your hips absentmindedly. He hears you, listens without needed a word. And he wastes no time, because that’s all he needs, the broken, pitched whine hitching from the back of your throat.

You have me.

Gwayne plants one last kiss at your navel, resting up on his knees as his tongue licks a heavy, flat lick through your folds. He traces every curve, gathered the arousal as it drips down onto his mouth, parting your heat with the drag of wet muscle and his want. A groan rumbles out deep from his chest, fingers grasping tighter to anchor you to him, the taste of your sweetness makes him lose all control of sense.

Your teeth bite hard into your lip, piercing near enough to draw blood just to stop yourself from making sound. Your hips buck into him again, this time caught by grip of his hands, circling attentively at your waist as he sucks swirling teases around your swollen pearl, dragging it between his lips only to hum into you as your hand clamps over your mouth.

“Give it to me, my love..,” He centres himself not even a breath away, dragging two fingers from your middle to tease along your slit, scissoring them around his tongue as he dips in again, “let me taste you.”

But he doesn’t pull then, not once, not for air, nor for any sound that passes by the tent. He’s fixated, wholeheartedly, and utterly on you. His feet plant deeper into the dirt, tugging you further to him to nuzzle himself into your heat, his nose dragging across your clit as his tongue plunges at your entrance, dipping into your hole with one sharp flick. The length of his fingers curl tight into the spot inside you that makes you reel, your head rocking back as his mouth slips between, collecting the wetness that pools from your drooling cunt.

“My love..” You whisper through a whine, eyes darting around the space blindly before landing back onto him, sucking in a breath as to feel your thighs begin to shake. That familiar slow pull of your body falling and losing control, the muffle of moans into your palm heightening your need.

And he was nothing if not dutiful, and now he was determined. He palms your thighs apart, leaving space only for him, fucking you onto his tongue as he hooks an arm at your legs, undeniably and shamelessly worshiping you at your feet, like a septon would at the altar, praying with every dragging promise of his tongue.

You arch your back, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, fighting silently to keep your voice muffled, but the sensation is too overwhelming. Every deep, swirling lap of his tongue feels like a spark igniting a fire in your gut, sending you closer and closer to the edge. But he only uses it, propelling his face deeper into your heat, tongue lavishing with one final swirl around your bud that sends your release crashing over you.

Your eyes clamp shut, sudden and burning as white blots behind your eyes, your vision blurring while his gaze only stirs on you. Auburn hair sits mussed and unkempt, a blush across his cheeks as you drip deliciously from his lips.

"That's it, sweetling... let it go for me," He coaxes it from you, a soothing command, without stopping. The tremors break shivering through your legs, hips rocking back into the beam and into his firm hold as slowly stands, keeping his lips pressed into you, tasting your release, tongue swirling over your swollen clit for every drop of pleasure he can drink in. His breath stays hot and heavy, guiding you through your peak, your body beginning to feel boneless.

Your breath hitches as you feel it. The devoted ascent, the worship with lingering, wet kisses he had claimed before. Once to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hip, stubble grown over months in battle grazing deliciously over your skin as he works his way back up.

His tongue traces the line of your navel, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, pausing as he tempts to stand, latching his mouth around your breasts, swirling with his tongue across your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive under his touch. Gwayne traces the trail from your chest to your neck with murmurs, rasped words spilled only for you. Missed you, missed this.. They continue until he captures your mouth once more, resting his forehead against your own, in a deep, hungry kiss, tasting himself and you on his tongue.

“My sweet girl.” He rasps, hands swarming your body all over with warmth as he rests himself into you, unlacing the collar from his shirt to fall away. It leaves only his breeches, now tented so painfully hard you could see it, brushing your thigh as your eyes flick between you.

He would have no protest if that were all he had from you, to give and pleasure you all the ways he saw fit. But he had to have you, this was different, this was craving and months worth longing. And so he gives you everything he takes.

You taste yourself from him, glistening sweet on his lips and chin, pressing back into yours with a growing desire. And without breaking it, his arm slides beneath your knees, the other firmly at your back. It’s effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, damp heat pressing against the rough fabric of his breeches as you rock yourself back down onto him. The furs curl at your back, sticky and hot as he lays you onto the bed.

"Gwayne please, I need you," You plead, breaking the kiss to reach down and place your hand over his clothed cock, rubbing over the thin fabric to feel him. He shrugs it away with a groan, nuzzling into you as he frees himself, your fingers grasping as you take his cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb delicately over the sensitive head, smearing the precum around the aching slit. He kisses your cheek and temple to kiss your cheek, mumbling into your hair as he stutters in your grip.

"Please.." You beg again, tugging your hand around his length to draw him toward your entrance as he settles over you.

"I know, I know..." The bed dips as Gwayne places one last kiss to your lips before sitting back onto his legs, peering down at the sight of you, so undone and beautiful before his hands are on your thighs. He strokes the soft skin, curling over you as he takes his cock into his own hand, resting the tip of him hovering over your weeping cunt, “My poor wife.. I've kept you waiting for too long, hm? So wrong of me...”

You whimper quietly as his hands find the backs of your thighs, splaying out fully as he holds them open, angling them back toward your head, the breath knocking from your lungs as you moan.

“It has been too long for both of us..” He confesses in a groan, sliding himself closer that his cock nestles itself through your folds, throbbing against you as you grip the sheets.

A hand draws to your face, catching your head before it lulls backward, gently making you look at him, his gaze bearing into you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His hips flick, one careful thrust that settles himself all the way inside of you, the head of his cock nudging towards your cervix. The angle sucks him so deep you feel him there, your mouth falling open as his length nestles deep into your womb.

His mouth drops open in a thick, broken groan of your name, for the first time not a whisper, but a breath as he used to, without hiding and with pure affection, “Seven hells.. "

He settles further over you then, the hard lines of his chest bracing just above your breasts, skin catching along skin as he captures you in his arms, caging you with a hand curling at your nape. Only then does he move, the rhythm slow and torturous as he slides inside of you, body curving with the drag of his hips.

“Gwayne..”

“That’s it.. say my name again.”

And you do, over and over in pathetic, mumbled whimpers that pitch from the back of your throat. The pale muscle of his legs inch you back into him, slapping with every drive he gives you, his palm smoothing over your thigh to hook it to his side. It’s an anchor, your other leg locking around him as you take him.

“Yours.. take me, sweetling. Take all of me..”

“Thought I already had it.”

“You do..” An arm circles underneath your waist, pulling you up and into him, rising onto his haunches as he settles you into his lap, your legs sliding around his back. The angle hits deeper there, his length sinking inside of you tight to the plug of your cervix, keeping you into him as he fucks up into you, “Gods you do.”

He rocks himself then, head lulling into your forehead as you whine, the air punches from your lungs with every thrust he gives you. It’s fast and messy, rolling his hips with every pass just to grind and feel more of you, to nestle himself right where he belongs. His groans press into your ear, breath hot across the mussed hair at the corner of your head.

Your hands claw along the strain of his back, long streaked lines that make him hiss, driving deeper into you as he takes heavier grasps at your hips, locking your legs around his middle. The sheets ruffle beneath you, tangling with the weight and force of what you can only feel.

All of him.

The pressure burns bright in your belly, walls clenching around his thickness with every thrust that mercilessly drives harder into you.

A sheen coats your bodies, along the crook of your back and between you, dripping with arousal at your core around him and a swear between your breasts. His tongue catches it, tasting the salty sweetness between you in a train to your neck.

“Divine you are.. every part of you.”

Your moans muffle into the clutch of his hand, and his face shifts, a broken look in his eyes and across his features. How he wants to hear you properly, to let the it fill the space the way it used to, the way it should. But the risk is too much, and so he settles for the feeling, the vibration of you into his skin and the convulse of your body drawing closer to your edge beneath him, the tears pooling at your eyes simply from pleasure that makes you both lose it.

“Not leaving you, not now.. or ever.” He proclaims it like an oath, more than just want it declaration, it buzzes against his skin as he stutters over you. Tears pool in your eyes, his breath hot at your ear while his eyes close tightly, breathing you in, making what he can last.

His movements grow frantic, pulsing with a desperate need inside of you while his hips slam faster and needier, your walls convulsing around him in one heavy snap. The orgasm rips through you, harder than last time, squeezing him like a vice as you bite into the flesh of his hand, moaning his name and curses that follow.

He coaxes you through your release in tandem with his own, hushing against your lips gently, cooing as you whine through the sparks igniting inside of you. his hips stutter all at once, faltering as the flex of his arms threaten collapse, but he catches himself, dragging the length of his cock deeper and deeper, guttural sounds mingling with your breath as he spills.

But neither of you stop, even while spent. You only still, resting into the rise and fall of each other’s chest heaving into one another.

“I love you..” You manage out through the tingling and twitching in your body, coming down from a high that only seems to reignite with his touch. He stays nestled inside of you, rocking gently as he fills you, spend leaking around his length onto the bed.

“And I love you, more than anything.”

He settles you onto the throw of plush pillows before he enters you fully again, this time sliding behind you as his chest slides up your back. And he didn’t leave you, not once, taking you over and over until the candles had burned low and the sheets lay damp and worn between you.

—

Both of you knew that you could not stay.

Tomorrow, you would be on either side of the war.

You would be needed at your sister’s side, flying in on Grey Ghost’s back to command an army and take the city of King’s Landing. And he would remain. Vigilant and honourably, with his sword drawn and waiting. The pair of you both uncertain what was to happen, uncertain when, if, you would ever see one another again, or how it would ever happen.

But for now, alliances and sworn oaths did not matter, the only one that did was your own, the vows you laid before the septon years ago.

The rise and fall of his chest lulls you, your fingers tangling and combing tenderly into the damp strands hair falling into his face. His hand traces the dip in your back, hushing you as a familar rumble echoes from the distance, slowly calling you back. But you don’t rise, not yet..

Histories would write of victories, of gory deaths and betrayal, however in between it all there were lines of dotted ink written of something else. Of the two people that stood vigilant between the Greens and the Blacks.