shh… don’t cry.

this was a city ruled by a queen who had taken the throne only to find that a crown did not come with endless gold, the treasury a gaping wound that refused to heal.

rhaenyra had looked at her council with a desperation that mirrored the people in the streets, her eyes pleading for a solution that didn't involve more taxes on people who had nothing left to give.

the war had swallowed everything.

shipments were delayed. the riches hid their wealth. the treasury that had once seemed impossible to empty now felt frighteningly small. every day brought another report, another number, another desperate request from the people who had nowhere else to turn to.

rhaenyra had listened to every one of them. she was desperate too, her eyes shadowed by the weight of a city that was eating itself alive. but then a thought crossed her mind.

there was a man called ser dyron horden. he had once served rhaenyra's father, viserys the peaceful and knew where the hidden caches of the crown were tucked away in the provinces. and you had been the only one who knew how to track a man who didn't want to be found.

the problem was that the man had fled to tumbleton, and tumbleton was currently under the suffocating grip of the hightower army.

"send a raven to lord ormund." rhaenyra ordered, her voice thin from lack of sleep. "tell him we do not seek the town, but the man. tell him that ser horden is of no use to him as a prisoner, but of immense use to the crown. offer him a trade of terms for the man's release."

"what sort of trade, your grace?" you asked. "we have nothing. not even a handful of grain to offer as a gesture. and what is stopping him from using ser horden as a leverage point to demand our surrender?"

"let him try," rhaenyra replied, a flicker of the old fire returning to her eyes. "we still have the advantage of the dragons. his refusal will be met with fire, but his cooperation will be met with mercy when the war is over."

"your grace... why not simply send someone to smuggle him out of tumbleton?" you had suggested, but the queen's resolve was as hard as the iron throne itself. rhaenyra wanted a formal negotiation, a paper trail of legitimacy. she wanted the world to see that she could command the cooperation of the hightowers without burning their fields to ash.

so, you were the one chosen.

a raven was set out with a letter sealed with a red wax stamp. the journey was a blur of muddy roads and the lingering scent of smoke. by the time you arrived at a salt-stained inn tucked between the marshes and the city walls which was the agreed designated neutral ground, your whole body was vibrating with nerves.

your queen was counting on you. the starving people of king's landing were counting on you to succeed. you took a lungful of deep breath before pushing the door open.

you had expected lord ormund, a cunning man of predictable pomposity. you had expected a battle of wits against a man who viewed you as a mere servant of the crown.

you did not expect gwayne hightower.

he was downing his second cup of ale when you walked through the door. gwayne didn’t stand nor looked at you. he simply leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. he looked exhausted, the kind of weariness that came from spending too many weeks listening to ser criston cole's endless, circling rhetoric. his armor was dusty, his cloak was frayed at the edges, his auburn hair was slightly mussed and his eyes rimmed with a deep fatigue. and yet he still carried himself with the arrogance that came with the hightower name.

"you aren't ormund," you stated, your voice cutting through the silence of the common room.

"disappointed?" he repeated, the word barely a whisper as he downed the rest of his ale.

"where is he?" you demanded. "the letter was addressed to lord ormund. i was promised a meeting with lord hightower, not his cousin."

"busy." he answered simply, his voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken in hours. he didn't move to greet you. gwayne looked like a man who had reached the absolute limit of his patience with the living, and you were merely the latest inconvenience in a long line of them.

"busy? what could he possibly be too busy for?" you snapped, crossing your arms.

gwayne sighed, a heavy, rattling sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest. he was still not looking at you but instead focusing on the way a single drop of condensation slid down the side of his flagon.

"busy counting the ways he can irritate me into an early grave," he murmured. "ormund decided that since this is a matter of diplomacy and nuance, a man of his particular temperament was too precious to risk on a muddy road."

"and he sent you in his stead?" you scoffed, stepping closer to the table. "he sent a man who looks like he’s about to fall over from a nap to negotiate the release of a royal asset? the audacity of your house is truly boundless."

gwayne's eyes snapped up, flickering with irritation. he stood slowly, the chair screeching against the floorboards like a dying animal. he wasn't tall, but he occupied the space with a heavy, oppressive presence.

"my audacity is matched only by my patience, which is currently thinner than the soup they serve at this gods-forsaken hovel," he countered, stepping into your space. "you come here with the smell of flea bottom still clinging to your skin and think you can lecture me on the propriety of my house?"

you didn't flinch. you had been born in the dirt, a nobleman’s sneer was nothing compared to the roar of an empty stomach. you stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his, your voice dropping to a lethal, quiet hiss. "the smell of flea bottom is the smell of the people who actually keep this kingdom running while you lot play at war in your gilded gardens. if you have any shred of honor, you'll stop insulting my origin and start discussing the terms for ser horden."

gwayne’s lip curled, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. an irritation mixed with curiousity. the fire in your stance intrigued him, somehow.

you slammed the scroll of rhaenyra’s terms onto the scarred wooden table, the parchment snapping like a whip. "lord horden's release in exchange for a guaranteed ceasefire of the trade routes leading into tumbleton for one moon's turn. it is a generous offer, considering your cousin's current lack of supplies."

gwayne didn't even blink. he didn't even reach for the scroll; he simply stared at it as if it were a particularly boring species of insect. "generous. how quaint... but no."

"no?" you spat, the word vibrating with disbelief. "why in the gods' name is it 'no'? your supplies are dwindling, your men, despite occupying the homes of the people of tumbleton, are eating horsemeat and sawdust. a ceasefire on the trade routes would allow you to actually move goods without risking a dragon's breath every ten leagues."

gwayne finally reached for the scroll, not to read it, but to flick it with a dismissive finger, sending it sliding across the table. he stepped around the table to close the distance between you. he smelled of old leather, stale ale, and a sharp, masculine musk that felt intrusive in the small room.

"you assume ormund cares for the stomachs of his men as much as he cares for his own vanity," he explained, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "he doesn't want trade routes, my good lady. he wants a concession. he wants rhaenyra on her knees kissing his feet. and as for me, i find the idea of a 'generous offer' from a flea-bottom rat to be an insult to my intelligence."

"that is to assume you had any in the first place, hightower." you smirked, the words tasting like venom.

but gwayne appeared to be a man who was not easily deterred by venom. he let out a sharp, jagged laugh that didn't reach his eyes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.

"a rat with a tongue like a razor," he mused. "perhaps that's why the queen sent you. she knew a highborn lady would be too terrified of the mud to actually make a demand."

then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "my people are enduring, my lady. your people are starving. do not mistake my exhaustion for weakness, or your desperation for leverage. and your 'generous' offer is a thinly veiled attempt to slip a spy into our lines under the guise of the master of coin. ormund isn't blind, and neither am i. the man stays."

"absolutely not," you spat, the word hitting him like a slap. "the man is a civilian. he—"

"you said he was a master of coin, so he is a tool of the state," gwayne interrupted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the narrow space between you. "civilian is a word for people who don't know where the gold is hidden. he is a map, and ormund doesn't give away his maps."

"the people in king's landing are starving, hightower. there will be no crown to bear, no throne to sit upon, no kingdom to rule if the city burns from the inside out," you snarled, your voice shaking with a fury that felt like it could crack the floorboards. you didn't care about the political chess anymore, you cared about the hollow-eyed children you'd left behind. "you sit here in your dusty armor playing games while people eat rats to survive. give me the man, or so help me, i will walk back to the queen and tell her that the hightowers are too cowardly to negotiate with a woman."

gwayne’s eyes darkened, a flash of irritation finally piercing through the veil of his exhaustion.

"cowardly?" he murmured, the word tasting like a threat. "you come here with a handful of promises and the stench of desperation and have the nerve to call us cowards because we know the value of the asset you're begging for."

"the value of the asset?" you hissed, the words vibrating between your lips. "you speak of a man as if he were a piece of livestock! you hightowers are pathetic."

gwayne’s jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. for the first time, the boredom had vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged energy. "the master of coin stays in tumbleton," he declared. "and you will return to your "queen" and tell her that her 'generosity' is as empty as her treasury."

before you could reply, a thunderous crack split the sky, shaking the inn’s rotting foundations. the rain followed instantly, not as a drizzle, but as a violent deluge that turned the road into a river of sludge within seconds. the elderly couple who ran the establishment hurried forward, their faces pinched with worry as they shuttered the windows against the wind.

"it'll be a night of it," the old woman murmured, her voice a dry rasp. she looked between you and gwayne, her eyes lingering on the way your body was still practically vibrating with rage.

"so be it. this negotiation is over." gwayne said, though he didn't move an inch away from you. you stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact, but the heat where your chests had touched lingered like a brand.

"your horses won't survive the storm, ser, or the treacherous roads back wherever you two came from." the old man grunted, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better decades.

"that won't be a problem for me," you snapped, though the sight of the rain hammering against the shutters, turning the world outside into a grey, drowning blur, suggested otherwise.

"a lady is not fit to travel these roads in a deluge," the old woman said. "and the horses are already spooked. you'll stay."

you glanced at gwayne, who looked as though he’d rather be burned by dragonfire than spend another minute in your presence. the thunder rolled again. the road back to the was already a river of sludge. to attempt it now would be a suicide.

"the good woman is right," he muttered, though his tone remained clipped. "the road is a river. you'll be swept into a ditch before you reach the first milestone."

you glared at him, your fingers curling into fists. "i would rather drown in a ditch than spend another moment breathing the same air as you."

"as if i'm particularly keen on the prospect of your company." gwayne retorted, his voice flat, though his eyes drifted downward to the curve of your hip.

"the room is ready," the old woman announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "only one left. the roof leaked in the west wing, and the east is full of merchants who beat the storm."

"only one? absolutely not." you shot down. you looked at the old woman, then at gwayne who looked as if he had just been told he had to spend the night in a cellar with a swarm of bees.

"it is one bed, or it is the mud," the old woman replied simply, her voice devoid of any inclination to negotiate.

"she'll take the bed. i'll sleep in your barn." gwayne muttered, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt as another crack of thunder shook the inn's foundation. 

you were quite surprised that he even had the heart to let you take the room all for yourself.

"the barn is flooded," the old man called out. "the roof gave way an hour ago. everything in there is swimming in muck."

you looked at gwayne, who looked back at you with a level of misery that almost made you feel pity. he looked like a dog that had been kicked too many times, yet he still possessed that stubborn, ingrained pride that refused to let him admit defeat.

"is there any other inn within here?" you asked, your voice hopeful and desperate.

"the next one is a three-hour ride through a swamp," the old woman replied. "unless you've found a way to walk on water, you're staying here."

"i am not—" you began, but the word died in your throat as a sudden, violent gust of wind slammed against the shutters, rattling the heavy oak frames with a sound like a siege engine.

gwayne let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a snarl. "fine," he snapped, his voice tight. "we share."

"no! i will not share a bed with a man—a hightower at that—who mocks a woman's origin while her people starve!" you snapped, though the thunderous reply from the heavens makes the floorboards beneath your boots shudder.

"believe me, my lady... the prospect of spending the night tangled in the linens with a woman who possesses the temperament of a cornered cat is hardly something i desire. but i prefer my sleep to be dry." he muttered before turning his heels to the narrow stairs.

the room was small, smelling of old lavender and damp stone, with a single candle flickering on a bedside table. the bed itself was a narrow, sagging thing of straw and linen, just wide enough for for two adults.

the silence between you as you stepped inside was deafening, heavy with the remnants of your shouting match. you didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you, both of you preoccupied with the sheer, absurd indignity of the situation.

"take the floor." you told him, your voice clipped. it wasn't a request; it was a command.

gwayne didn’t even look at you as he let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter. "and what makes you think i would ever consent to sleep on a floor of rotting pine while you lounge in the linens?" he asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

you knew the "i'll sleep in the barn" was merely an act in front of the elderly couple. typical hightower.

he didn't move toward the floor. instead, he began to unbuckle the straps of his armor, the metal clinking slow. "you are a guest in this space by the grace of my tolerance, and i have spent the last three days listening to ormund's voice. i will not spend the night with a tick in my spine."

you watched him strip, all the way to his under tunic, and the sight of his shoulders and the lean muscle of his chest under the thin garment made the air in the small room feel suddenly thin. the anger was still there, a hot coal in your gut, but it had morphed into something else that made your skin itch beneath your travel-worn clothes.

before he could catch you staring, you turned first, stripping off your outer layers with what was left of your energy and the journey here and the debate match with gwayne. you didn't care for modesty, not when you were shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and something else that you redused to acknowledge. you climbed into the bed, claiming the far edge, leaving a sliver of space between you that felt like a canyon. the linens were coarse and smelled of old dust, but they were warm at the very least.

"stay on your side and do not attempt to touch me," you warned, your voice a low vibration in the dark. "if you so much as breathe on me, i will find a way to ensure you never sleep comfortably again."

gwayne let out a tired scoff, sharp enough to cut through the room as he climbed in beside you. the bed groaned under his weight, the mattress dipping violently and pulling you toward the center. you instinctively braced yourself against the edge, but the narrowness of the bed made a boundary impossible. every time he shifted, you felt the heat of him radiating through the linen and seemed to fill the entire room.

the silence was not peaceful. every breath you took felt too loud, every shift of the straw mattress sounded like a landslide. you lay rigid, staring at the dark ceiling, while the rain continued to lash the shutters in a relentless rhythm. beside you, gwayne was a mountain of radiating heat, his presence an intrusive weight that made the small bed feel like a coffin.

something happened and it started with a stray movement. a shift of his leg that brushed against yours. you jerked away.

"stop twitching," he muttered with his eyes closed, his voice a low gravelly vibration that seemed to hum against your skin.

"stop moving then. what are you, a fish out of water?" you snapped back, your voice a sharp whisper in the dark. you turned to face him, and in the dim, amber glow of the dying candle, you saw the way he huffed in irritation.

a couple minutes passed where the only sound was the rain and the harsh, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. you couldn't sleep. you couldn't even move. the air felt thick, like honey, pinning you to the mattress. the thunder rolled again, a low, guttural groan that seemed to echo the tension in the room.

when you glanced, gwayne was seemingly already asleep. you sighed, mind running wild over the failed negotiation the look of disappointment on rhaenyra's face. but as you shifted to find a more comfortable position, your leg brushed against his thigh. it was a momentary contact, only a sliver of heat, but it acted like a spark in a dry forest. you felt him stiffen, his breath hitching in a way that wasn't accidental.

"still twitching, are we?" his voice was a low, dangerous rumble right beside your ear.

he hadn't been asleep. he had been lying there, acutely aware of every inch of you pressing against him, this whole time.

feeling brave, you didn't pull away this time. instead, you turned your head, your nose brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw.

"perhaps i'm just trying to find a sliver of space that isn't occupied by your ego." you retorted.

something in him snapped the moment those words left your lips. gwayne moved swiftly, rolling over so he hovered above you, his hands trapping either sides of your head. the movement was so abrupt it knocked the breath from your lungs, pinning you beneath the weight of his body. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, searching your face for a sign of retreat that you were too stubborn to give.

"you are far too bold for a woman in such a precarious position," he said, though it sounded restraint.

"and your patience is far too thin for a man of your standing," you shot back. you didn't flinch as his chest pressed against yours, the thin fabric of his tunic doing nothing to hide the hard plane of his muscles.

"you talk... so much," he murmured, his voice a rough, jagged edge. "always talking, always demanding. i wonder if that tongue of yours is just as sharp when it's not being used for insults."

your throat went dry at his last words. you weren't stupid, nor lack the knowledge of what he was insinuating, being a low born girl who had seen the underbelly of the city where desire was bought and sold in every alley. and yet, having it directed at you by a man who looked at you with such irritation mixed with lust made your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.

you didn't give him the satisfaction of a stutter any further. instead, you reached up, your fingers curling into the collar of his tunic and pulling him down until your lips were a mere breath apart. "why don't you find out, hightower? or are you too exhausted to handle a girl from the gutters?"

gwayne didn’t kiss you so much as he collided with you, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger that felt less like romance and more like a punishment. you groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single molecule of air left between your bodies. he tasted of bitter ale and salt, and most importantly he tasted like the enemy he was, which only made the sudden surge of heat in your belly more violent.

gwayne groaned into your mouth as you fisted into his linen. he pinned your wrist beside your head and swallowed a small gasp of yours, his tongue sweeping against yours with an aggression that mirrored the storm outside and as you arched your back, pushing your hips into his, you felt the heavy, hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the layers of cloth.

he broke the kiss to trail a line of searing heat down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collarbone. his hand left your wrist, sliding down to rip open the front of your bodice. buttons flew, clicking against the floorboards like rain on stone. gwayne didn't wait. he dipped his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast with a hunger. you let out a sharp, ragged moan, your head hitting the pillow as he sucked the peak of your nipple, his teeth grazing the flesh in a way that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

"fuck, you are as loud as you are arrogant," gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a low, distorted growl. he didn't stop, his mouth returning to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple with an intensity that left you breathless.

he pushed your dress to your hips impatiently, his eyes scanning your body with in hunger. there was no softness in the way he looked at you. it was the gaze of a man claiming territory, and you met it with a defiant glare that only seemed to spur him on. his hand travelled to your cunt, his fingers grazing the damp heat of your folds.

"fuck, you're already dripping," gwayne muttered, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. he rubbed your clit with somehow a precise pressure that made you cry out. "all that fire, all that screaming in the common room, and you're just a fucking mess for me, aren't you?"

"shut up and touch me," you gasped, your fingers digging into the lean muscle of his shoulders.

"have you been with a man before?"

you let out a sharp, jagged laugh, the sound half-smothered by a moan as his thumb continued to circle your clit. "i grew up in the gutters, hightower, as you so often mentioned. we don't have the luxury of sheltered innocence that you lot cultivate in oldtown."

he smirked, a dark, predatory expression that made your heart gallop. "good. because i have no intention of being gentle with a woman who thinks she can outwit me."

he didn't waste another second. gwayne slid two fingers deep inside you, the sudden invasion making you gasp and arch your back off the mattress. he was thick and calloused, his movements rhythmic and demanding, driving into you with a relentless pace.

"look at you," he groaned, his thumb pinning your clit down and grinding against it with an intensity that pushed you toward the edge. "begging for it. a little rat from the slums, having her cunt stretched open by a hightower. do you like it? do you like how it feels to have me inside you?"

you couldn't even form a sentence, not only because you were biting down your lip from giving him the satisfaction of hearing you beg, but because the sheer friction of his fingers was turning your insides to liquid.

"nothing to say now, is it?" gwayne mocked, his voice a jagged rasp. he shifted his weight, his thumb pressing harder into your clit, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. "tell me you want it. tell me you want this highborn prick to ruin you."

his words should disgust you. they should feel like an insult to everything you had fought for, a reminder of the gap between a girl who scavenged for scraps and a man born to a spire of gold. not to mention the war. rhaenyra did not send you here to fuck the enemy, she sent you to secure a man who could save a city. but as gwayne’s fingers worked you, the only thing you felt was this aching need to be filled.

"i want it," you gasped, the admission feeling like a surrender. "fuck, gwayne, just... put it in."

the way his name fell from your lips, broken and pleading, already made him addicted. "say my name again."

"gwayne," you whimpered, your voice sounding foreign and fragile in the small, dimly lit room. "please, gwayne."

he let out a sharp exhale, his chest heaving against yours. he didn't waste another moment of hesitation, he yanked his trousers down in one fluid, freeing himself. his cock was thick and pulsing, a heavy weight that seemed to mirror the intensity of the room. he grabbed your thighs, hoisting your hips higher off the sagging mattress to create a steeper angle, and positioned himself against your entrance.

he entered you slowly, much to your surprised, his eyes locked on yours as he sank into your heat. you let out a sharp, strangled cry, your head snapping back against the linens as he filled you completely. it was a heavy, stretching sensation that drowned out the sound of the storm, replacing the chaos of the rain with a singular, thrumming focus on where your bodies joined. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

"you're so tight," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "fuck, you're trying to squeeze the life out of me."

he let you adjust to him for a second, his gaze searing into yours. then he began to move slowly, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. it wasn't the frantic pace you had expected. he wanted you to feel every single ridge of him, every millimeter of the friction as he stretched you open. you let out a whimper, your hips instinctively trying to chase him, to close the gap, but he held you firm, his grip on your thighs like iron bands.

"gwayne..." you whimpered, the sound breaking as you tried to pull him deeper. your legs were locked around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back, trying to force a momentum that he was stubbornly denying. he continued that agonizingly slow pace, his hips grinding into yours with a heavy, deliberate pressure that made your nerves scream. every time he retreated, you felt the sudden, cold void of the air, only for him to plunge back in with a slow, rhythmic thud that resonated in the very marrow of your bones.

he was watching you, his eyes dark and focused, savoring the way your face crumpled with desperation. "not so loud now, are you? where is all that fire, little rat? where is the woman who called me a coward?"

he shifted his angle, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your vision spark white. you let out a strangled cry, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, begging for a speed that would end this torture.

"gwayne, please," you sobbed, the word barely a whisper against the roar of the rain. you were shaking, your body a taut string vibrating at a frequency that threatened to snap. his pace was a cruelty of its own. he was savoring the friction, the way your walls clamped around him in a desperate, pulsing rhythm. he stayed in that slow, agonizing orbit, his hips rotating with a heavy precision that kept you perched on the very edge of a climax you couldn't reach.

you arched your spine, your chest heaving, as he pulled back until he was barely grazing your entrance before sinking back in with a slow, thudding weight. the sensation was too much and yet not enough. you were starving for the release, your clit screaming under the pressure of his pelvis grinding against you. you didn't care about pride anymore. you didn't care about the political divide. you just needed the friction to turn into a fire.

"faster," you gasped, your voice cracking. "fuck, gwayne, go faster. please."

"beg again," gwayne commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your collarbone.

"please," you whimpered, your voice breaking into a sob of pure frustration. "please, please."

when he finally decided to grant your request, it wasn't with a sudden rush. he began to hammer into you with a rhythmic, punishing force that stole the very air from your lungs. gwayne’s composure broke with the pace, his breath coming in jagged, guttural snarls as he drove himself deep into your heat, his hips colliding with yours.

"that's it," he groaned, his voice raw and stripped of all nobility. "take it all. take every fucking inch of it."

you were drowning in the sensation, your eyes rolled back as you clung to him, your nails leaving red crescents in his shoulders. the friction had become a blinding white light, a heat that started in your core and radiated outward until every nerve in your body was screaming.

“is this what you came for?” he growled. “rhaenyra’s little rat spreading her legs for a hightower cock?”

"you arrogant prick." you managed to gasp the words out, but they were stripped of any real venom. you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him so deep that there was no space left for air or pride.

gwayne let out a sound that was half laugh and half groan. "so loud in the common room, so fierce with your demands... and here you are, shaking under me, taking every inch of my cock like you're starving for it."

the words should have sting, should have felt like an insult to your dignity, but in the heat of the moment, they only served to fuel the fire.

"you’re so fucking wet. do you have any idea how much i’ve wanted to shut you up since the moment you opened your mouth? to see you break like this?" he groaned, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrated against the shell of your ear.

he didn't wait for an answer, his pace becoming a frantic, bruising rhythm that left you breathless. "tell me, does it feel good to be ruined by the man you hate? does it feel better when i'm deep inside you, stretching you out?"

you couldn't find the words to argue, only a series of broken, high-pitched sounds that spurred him on. you gripped his biceps, feeling the lean muscle twitch under your palms as he hammered into you. "yes," you sobbed, the word lost in a gasp. "yes, fuck, gwayne."

you were nearing the edges of the world, your breath coming in shallow hitches as gwayne’s pace became frantic. he didn’t let up, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising force that threatened to push you right off the sagging mattress. he shifted his weight, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pinning you firmly against the sheets while the other hand found the small of your back, arching you up to meet every deep thrust.

you felt the internal pressure build, a coil of tension tightening in your gut until it was almost unbearable. gwayne sensed it. he felt the way your walls began to spasm around him in. he let out a guttural sound, his pace becoming sloppy, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder as he drove himself into you.

"come for me," he commanded, his voice a raw, distorted growl. "come for me, you stubborn little thing."

the command was the final spark. you shattered, your entire body arching violently as a wave of pleasure crashed through you, pulling you under. you screamed his name into the crook of his neck, your internal muscles clamping around him in desperate, rhythmic contractions that felt like they were trying to pull him into your very soul. the world dissolved into a blur of amber candlelight and the suffocating heat of his skin, leaving you gasping and blind as the orgasm ripped through your frame in jagged, electric pulses.

gwayne didn't stop. he let out a low, animalistic sound, his movements becoming uncoordinated as he chased his own release. he hammered into you with a final, bruising intensity, his chest heaving against yours, his eyes locked on your flushed face with a hunger that seemed bottomless. with one last, deep plunge that felt like it hit the very base of your spine, he stiffened. a guttural groan ripped from his throat, his head falling into the hollow of your shoulder as he spilled himself inside you.

the silence that followed was heavier than the storm with the ragged gasps of the two of you being the only sounds that filled the room. gwayne remained slumped against you for a long minute, his weight an oppressive yet grounding presence. the heat of him was still radiating, his sweat acting like a glue that bound your skin together. slowly, the adrenaline began to dissipate, leaving behind a hollow, dizzying exhaustion and the sudden, sharp return of reality.

he withdrew from you with a slow, wet slide that made you shiver, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and exposed. gwayne didn't immediately move away. he rolled to the side, his chest still heaving, his eyes staring at the ceiling with a look of profound disorientation. the arrogance was gone, replaced by a stillness. he looked less like a lord of a great house and more like a man who had been blindsided by a blow he hadn't seen coming.

you laid there for a long time, the damp sheets clinging to your skin like a second, colder layer of clothing. the rain continued to lash against the shutters, a rhythmic drumming that felt far too loud in the sudden vacuum of the room. your muscles were trembling, a lingering aftershock of the climax that had nearly stripped the breath from your lungs. you could feel the sticky heat of his seed beginning to cool inside you, a visceral reminder of the transgression you had just committed.

"gwayne—"

"do not," he interrupted, his voice still a jagged rasp, though the cruelty had vanished. he didn't look at you. he remained staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, as if he were trying to reconstruct the walls of his pride around him.

"just... sleep. we shall discuss this in the morning." he added, his tone returning to a resemblance of nobility, though the cracks were still visible. he didn't move to leave the bed, and neither did you. instead, you shifted, your skin sticking to the linens, and felt the sudden, sharp prickle of shame and triumph.

you had not secured the master of coin, but you had dismantled the composure of gwayne hightower.

you knew that the discussion won't happen because when morning came, both of you were eager to be the first to leave. the dawn didn't break with a golden glow, but with a stale grey light that filtered through the grime of the inn's windows. 

gwayne was fastening his belt, his movements sharp and jerky. he didn't look at you, and you didn't look at him, though you could feel the weight of his gaze whenever he thought you weren't watching. the shared bed, which had felt like a battlefield of lust only hours ago, now felt like a crime scene. the sheets were twisted and damp. you dressed quickly, your fingers trembling as you fought with the buttons of your bodice, feeling the lingering ache in your thighs and the sticky evidence of his conquest still clinging to your skin.

he approached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the heavy iron latch. for a heartbeat, you thought he might turn back, might say something that acknowledged the way his voice had sounded when he begged you to call his name. but gwayne hightower was a man built of stone and tradition, and the stone was already sliding back into place.

"i accept rhaenyra's terms."

your hands that were busy fixing your bodice froze. you looked up at him, the grey dawn light casting a sharp silhouette of his frame against the door. 

"what?" you breathed, your voice still raspy from the screaming of the night.

"under one condition." he breathed. "lord horden is to be escorted by a hightower soldier while in king's landing and is to be returned back to tumbleton the moment the funds are secured," gwayne said, his voice regaining its polished edge, though he still wouldn't meet your eyes. "i would not have him simply handed over to a woman who thinks a few trade routes are a fair exchange for a man's loyalty. but... i find myself suddenly inclined to be merciful."

you stared at him, your mind racing. this was a victory. a massive one. rhaenyra would be pleased, and the people of the capital would finally see bread and gold.

but still, the victory felt jagged. you looked at gwayne and saw the slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the door handle. the distance between you was only a few feet, yet it felt like a chasm.

"mercy," you repeated, your voice regaining its sharp edge, though it lacked the venom of the previous evening. "or perhaps you simply couldn't bear the thought of me leaving this inn without knowing you'd finally given in."

"just accept it, will you?" he said in an exhaustion that sounded almost like a plea. he finally turned his head, his gaze flickering across your face, lingering for a fraction of a second on your swollen lips before he looked away. "i cannot stand the thought of another hour in your company. the air in this room has become... intolerable."

you wanted to snap back and remind him that he spent the night with you just fine but decided against it.

"is this a plan to have the hightower escort spying on rhaenyra and report back to ormund?" you asked, stepping forward, your voice regaining its professional weight.

"no, it is not. i can assure you." he answered confidently.

"how can i trust you?"

"because the escort will be myself."

oh.

you blinked, your brain momentarily failing to process the implications. gwayne hightower, a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours treating you with a mixture of disdain and hunger, was offering to personally escort the master of coin into the heart of the enemy’s capital.

he will be in king's landing. where lord horden goes, he will follow. which includes the red keep, and most likely, the very rooms where you spent your days strategizing for rhaenyra.

you and gwayne hightower will be in same room again.

is he implying what you think he is implying? the thought flickered through your mind, a spark of curiosity. the escort of a high-value prisoner was certainly not a task for a man of his rank. yet, gwayne stood there, his posture rigid, his eyes finally meeting yours with a look that was no longer mocking, but something far more complicated. it was a gaze that held the memory of the mattress, the sound of your voice breaking, and the way your nails had carved paths into his skin.

"you are remarkably quiet," gwayne noted, his voice regaining that irritating timbre from last night. "has the gutter-girl finally run out of things to say, or are you simply calculating how much of my dignity you can strip away once we are within the walls of the keep?"

"you planned this." you said instead, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "the noble lord of oldtown, suddenly burdened by a sense of duty to personally escort a master of coin. it's almost as if you've realized that the walls of this inn are too thin to contain whatever this is."

gwayne stiffened. but the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, though he fought to keep it hidden behind a mask of indifference. "do not flatter yourself, my lady. it is a strategic move. i trust no one else to ensure lord horden isn't bribed or spirited away by your queen’s agents before the gold is accounted for."

"and yet you did not offer this yesterday," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest. the movement made you acutely aware of the soreness in your muscles. "you were quite content to let him rot in tumbleton."

gwayne finally let out a short, dry huff of laughter. it was not the mocking sound of the common room, but something almost fond, though he quickly masked it. he stepped toward you, his presence filling the small space of the room once more. "yesterday i thought i was negotiating with an enemy."

"and today?" you asked, not moving he closed the gap.

gwayne stopped just inches from you, the heat of his body radiating through his armour. he didn't touch you, but the air between you crackled, thick with the residue of the night's wreckage.

"today," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your throat where a faint, reddish mark lingered from his teeth, "i find myself wondering if the red keep has enough corridors for us to avoid each other. or if it has enough locked doors to ensure we do not."

the tension broke not with a kiss but with gwayne stepping back, his hand reaching for the knob once again.

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

You find Gwayne and Daeron first. Both of them are bruised, bloodied, and covered in ash, but whole all the same. The younger boy helps his uncle slump against the broken remains of the wall behind him, while the auburn-haired man squints through the blood trickling into his left eye from a deep cut in his brow.

“Ormund,” you say in lieu of a greeting when you approach the two of them. His name comes out in rasps from the smoke hanging thick in the air. “Where is Ormund?”

Daeron looks over his shoulder at you, round cheeks dirty with soot, and shakes his head in wordless response.

Gwayne lifts his head to look at you. His porcelain skin is coated in a thin layer of gore; his auburn hair is stringy with sweat; his pale eyes are bloodshot and watery. A humorless laugh sputters rough from his dry mouth. “Ask your gods,” he spits. “You were so certain of them before, weren’t you?”

You do not flinch at his ire. You only nod.

“Yes, my lord,” you tell him in an even, gentle voice despite the massacre all around you. “I still am.”

You continue on through the remains of the day, until at last you reach the collapsed ruins of the eastern wall. A small glint of silver, half-buried in the rubble, catches the light bleeding through the smoky sky — Ormund’s pomander, you realize, cracked down the middle but still attached to its chain.

You rush towards it without thinking, dropping to your knees beside the fallen timber and stone before clawing at the wreckage with bare hands. “Help me,” you call in a ragged voice to the men limping slowly behind you. Gwayne winces through his own injuries as he and Daeron help you drag the broken beams aside until the man beneath it is revealed.

Ormund lies amid the rubble — one leg bent at too awkward an angle, dark red blood covering half of his face and turning to paste from the ash. The dirt beneath him turns a darker brown color from the pool of crimson underneath him, from a wound you cannot yet see. 

But his chest still rises and falls with weak, shallow breaths under the scratched armor he wears. So you crouch at his side and take his dirty face in your palms and tap gently at his cheek in an attempt to wake him from his unconscious state. “Ormund,” you call to him, voice splintering. “Ormund, wake up, c’mon—”

His eyes are slow to open. 

His lashes flutter across his cheeks before he blinks slowly awake. He squints at the blinding light overhead as his pale gaze comes slowly into focus — more confused than truly aching, too far deep in shock for the pain to hit him truly. When his eyes finally settle on you, concern twists his stained face.

“You’re hurt…” he rasps through a dry throat when he sees the blood splattered across your face. Because even on the verge of death, he is still more worried about you. 

You catch his blood-stained fingers twitching feebly at his side, wanting so desperately to reach but being far too weak to do so. You take his hand in yours instead, and reassure him with a smile. “It’s not my blood.”

That seems to soothe him, if only for a moment. Until his gaze drops down the length of his body, at least, and he sees the damage down to him. He cannot feel the pain from the wounds in his sides exactly, but he can feel the warm blood slowly weeping from them, and the way it wets the ground beneath him. The scent clings to his nose and the very back of his throat — the inherent stench of death.

A low, guttural groan sounds in the back of his throat as he tips his heavy head back against the ground, chiseled jaw clenching tight. “Am I...” he attempts to ask, then swallows hard through the invisible hand choking him. “Am I going to die?”

His weary eyes flit back to yours. Even as the life slips slowly from the soft blue of them, you can see the hope glinting faintly in his gaze — waiting for you to tell him no; waiting for you to work one of your miracles, just like you always have. 

You only give him a weak smile in return. “Yes, my love,” you coo with a slow nod. “You are going to die.”

You feel Gwayne and Daeron go very still behind you.

Ormund’s breath catches beneath his heavy chestplate, as his features crumple with a boyish sort of grief — the grief of a man who’s followed your every word like spoken scripture, only to be abandoned by you in the very last of his moments.

“But you— You said—” he stammers out, choking on his own blood as his eyes dart wildly between yours. “You said that we would… You promised me this war—”

“I promised you victory,” you tell him, smoothing a thumb over the blood and ash on his cheek; as gentle as The Mother, as firm as The Crone. “And I still do.”

His breath trembles through his weak body. Blood rises heavy up and throat and sits thick on his tongue, splattering warm across his chin when he coughs. You cradle his face in your hands as he shudders slowly into death, leaning close enough into him that your foreheads nearly touch — close enough that you may be the very last thing in the world he sees before the darkness takes him.

“Sleep now, my love,” you whisper gently to him. “I’ll see you when you wake.”

You press your mouth to his, tasting the copper and smoke stained on his lips while Ormund goes limp in your hands. His blood stains your mouth when you part from his suddenly still form, turning over your shoulder to face the men standing behind you — their dirty features twisted with similar looks of horror.

The softness you’d had moments ago slips now into a sterner look. 

“Help me with him,” you command.

And no one dares refuse.

You drag Ormund back to the sept, laying his limp body onto a cold, concrete altar in the depths of its crypt. The stale air there is thick with ghosts and time gone by. The wet, dark cobbles around you glow with the weak candlelight Gwayne fixes onto the walls. Shadows dance in the corners, swallowing the edges of the ancient chamber. Every sound — every drip of water, every scrape of shoe on stone — echoes back twice over.

Ormund’s body is slack and already cooling by the time you get to work on him. Your fingers move with a practiced grace as you unbuckle his ruined armor — piece by shattered piece. His smallclothes follow; you tug the stiff and bloodied fabric from his skin, made a much tougher feat from his heavy and unmoving weight. And when he lies bare before you on the stone bier, you take a cloth and a basin of water Daeron had fetched from the cistern and wash him clean.

The ash and blood fade beneath your hand to reveal the pale, broken canvas of his golden skin underneath it. His chest is bruised a sickly green-purple. He sports a number of gashes score deep along his ribcage from where a sword had cut so mercilessly through him. And his leg, bent wrong at the knee, snaps back into place with one brutal snapping sound beneath your steady hands.

Only when he is clean — washed truly from dirt and sin alike, and left glittering beneath the torchlight — do you take a small knife to a lock of his dark, matted curls. You toss the tendril into the brazier burning low in the corner, and let the orange flame hiss beneath it. Then you draw the same blade across your palm, letting the blood well and drip into the fire beside the offering.

Daeron and Gwayne watch silently from the corner of the dark crypt as you return to Ormund’s body and begin to chant. “We ask the gods to shine their light, and lead a soul out of darkness,” you say in High Valyrian, the foreign language sounding low and thick in your throat. “We beg the gods to share their fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

Gwayne shakes his head as he watches with a jaw clenched tight. “This is madness,” He mutters to Daeron. “Chanting over a corpse like some Essosi hedge-witch—”

The boy snaps his head in the older man’s direction, still too deep in his boyhood for his glare to be as intimidating as he means. “You haven’t seen her do the things I’ve seen,” Daeron scolds, still gentle in his way even in his defense of you. “Do not mock her. Not now.”

You pay no mind to the bickering as you focus completely on the pale-blue body before you. Your palms rest flat over Ormund’s marred skin as you inhale a deep breath through your nose, grounding yourself upon him as though you were trying to draw something from the very marrow of his bones. And then you wait.

The chamber falls silent, except for the low crackle of the torchlight. The minutes that pass seem to last an eternity as you wait for Ormund to warm again beneath your palms. He does not. 

No answer comes from the darkness. There is only a suffocating silence, mocking you with everything it refuses to give back. And for the first time, you feel your faith begin to splinter with doubt.

Your eyes burn with unshed tears when the grief you hadn’t let yourself feel before finally hits you. You turn to face the men behind you; the older one smiling cynically, the younger one heavy with a dwindling grief. “I— I’m sorry,” is all you can manage out before you turn sharply on your heel and head back towards the stairwell you entered from. 

Your skirts drag heavy and blood-soaked behind you as you plan to return to the wreckage, and give yourself to the dust.

“Well…” Gwayne hums from behind you in a biting monotone that sears straight through your chest. “Even the great prophetess has her limits, it seems—”

A sharp gasp cuts through the quiet chamber like Valyrian steel.

You freeze mid-step. Your head snaps hard behind you, where you find Ormund’s nude body trembling on the cold, concrete altar. His eyes fly open, wide and wild in the torchlight. His broad chest heaves with violent, rasping breaths as his lungs drag desperately for air. 

“Ormund!” His name tears suddenly through your throat as you rush back to him, nearly tripping over your skirts as you go. Your hands fly to his face, his chest, his scarred ribs — anywhere you can reach to prove to yourself that he’s real, that he’s alive — while Daeron scrambles for the velvet emerald cape discarded by the armor to throw hastily over his uncle’s bare body.

Gwayne remains frozen by the stairwell with his mouth parted in shock, the color long drained from his pale face.

Ormund's eyes dart around the dark chamber in half-frantic confusion before finally settling on you. He rises off the cold stone, naked chest still heaving with shallow breaths. “Wha—" His voice comes out hoarse until he swallows thick through his throat. “What’s happened to me?"

You let out a broken, disbelieving laugh and let the warm tears spill down your ashen cheeks as you cradle his warming face between both hands.

“I brought you back.”

Ormund is still weak from the death ebbing slowly from his body when you carry him to the least ruined chamber in the eastern wing; the living quarters where the clergy used to sleep. It had survived the worst of the flame, it would seem, though the smoky scent of dragonfire remains. Ormund leans the bulk of his weight against you, with his arm thrown heavy around your shoulder, as you lay him down on the narrow bed pressed against the wall. 

No one speaks a word of what had happened in the crypt. Not now, at least. There will be plenty enough time for that in the morning, for the questions and for the reckoning of what comes after. But tonight, there is only quiet. And stillness. And the promise of another day after this one.

But his body, Ormund finds, is not quite sure how to be alive again. 

He shivers in the cotton sheets while sweat beads along his brow. He’s cold and burning all at once, like his blood cannot decide whether it belongs in a grave or in the world above it. It rushes like freezing ice or a white-hot flame up and down his being. The very marrow of him is still humming with whatever it was you’d poured from yourself back into him. His pulse hammers hard in his neck while the adrenaline surges through him — with nowhere to truly settle, now that the danger has long passed and there is nothing left for him to fight.

But it finds somewhere to go even still; in his stiffening cock that aches and throbs between his thighs despite himself — leaving him whining and rutting against the blankets twisted around his hips. 

He catches your hand when you reach down to check his forehead for fever. He peers up at you with glassy, blue eyes as he smears his mouth to your fingers in a not-quite kiss. “Please,” he rasps against your knuckles. “I need— I need something, my love. Please…”

You shake your head, torn between the ache in your chest and the ache written plainly across his face. “You’re hurt, Ormund. I don’t want to make it worse—”

“You won’t,” he swears and urges you closer with what little strength has returned to his healing body. “You’re the one who brought me back… You couldn’t hurt me if you tried…”

And you could not refuse him — in the same way you were designed by the gods to bring him back to life, you were not fashioned to deny him of anything.

So you settle over his lap with your bare chest pressed flush against his, with your beating hearts as close as you can muster, and give his adrenaline somewhere else to go. 

Your clit rubs against the coarse thatch of brunette hair at the base of his stomach as you glide gently over his scruffy thighs, careful to avoid the poultice clinging to the cuts on his ribcage. Ormund’s cock sits nestled within your velvety walls, jerking faintly within your honeyed depth while his newfound life continues to buzz through his veins. He’s made profoundly sensitive accordingly — so much so that he feels a coil tensing in his stomach already; so much so that the obvious pain in his limbs from the battle feels negligible in comparison. 

He wouldn’t care if you split every wound of his open again, as long as he got to cum inside of you now.

His wide hands dig into your hips, far rougher than he realizes with his slowly building strength, as he tries to rock your hips harder against his — never mind the stinging in his ribcage, or the throbbing in his knee. “Please,” he pants hopelessly against your mouth, his broad nose knocking against the side of yours. “I need it so bad, my love, please—”

Your fingers thread through his wild curls as you shake your head against his. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you pant, lips smudging against his parted mouth.

“Hurt me,” Ormund begs, eyes wide and pleading. “The gods gave me back to you once already… I do not fear what you’ll do with me now…”

His words knock loose something tight in your being. You begin to grind over his lap with a bit more purpose than before, with the intention of milking an orgasm from his body drop by merciless drop. 

“Yes…” Ormund slurs within a sigh when your cunt clenches tight around him. His calloused palms smooth along the canvas of your sweat-slick back — one between your shoulder blades and the other to the small of your spine — to keep you pressed wholly against his battered body. Though the pain only seems to add to his pleasure, which blooms in the pit of his tightening stomach now. He smears wet kisses along the skin of your neck as he buries his pitiful whines there. 

“Don’t stop…” he pleads. “Don’t stop, and I’ll give you all of it, I promise…” 

“Now,” you command in a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear — because you cannot stand to hurt him any more than you surely must have already. “Cum now. Cum inside me. Give me all of it—”

Ormund shudders beneath you, not unlike the way he had when he died in your arms. 

Except now, he grumbles a groan of pleasure like thunder in his chest and digs his fingers hard into your soft skin. He holds his breath and tenses for a flicker of a moment; and you feel the very depths of your stomach blooming with warmth on his next trembling exhale, as his sensitive cock twitches within your pulsing cunt. 

You pet him through every wave of his orgasm, until he settles finally just against you with his face hidden completely in your neck. His panted breaths fan warm along your skin — the very proof of his life — while you find it suddenly very difficult to stomach that you had nearly seen the very last of his breaths not so long ago.

“Are you hurt?” you ask him, and sigh hard through your nose when you feel him leaking slowly out of you.

Ormund feels a dull ache in his ribs most of all, and a panging in his knee as it sets awkwardly into the correct position, but he shakes his head against your shoulder until the words to respond catch up to him. “No,” he huffs. “I’m— I’m alright.”

He feels your hand tighten in his hair not a moment later. You urge him back from your neck and force his bleary eyes to meet your suddenly hardened ones, still heavy with pleasure but stern all the same.

“If you die on me again, Ormund Hightower, I will kill you,” you warn him in an unwavering deadpan that makes it difficult to tell how much you surely jest.

A weak, breathless laugh rattles out of him then, more felt against your own chest pressed against his than truly heard. “Then let it be by your own hand,” he pleads in a low voice. “And no other’s.”