⋆༶⋆Are You Still Awake?⋆۰˚☽

As a Targaryen, you were accustomed to getting your way—or fire and blooding your way through those who stood in your path. Yet, here you were, bound by a political decree to marry Ser Gwayne Hightower. A man whose pristine armour matched his equally pristine, frustratingly smug attitude.

The feeling was entirely mutual. From the moment the betrothal was announced, your interactions consisted of sharp glares, venomous masked insults disguised as courtly pleasantries, and a profound, simmering hatred.

Gwayne Hightower was everything you detested: impeccably groomed, insufferably dutiful, and fiercely loyal to a faction that viewed your family as an existential threat. He thought you a reckless, arrogant dragon; you thought him a rigid, sanctimonious knight.

When your hands were joined before the High Septon in the Great Sept, your skin crawled beneath the heavy silk of your gown, the ceremonial ribbons feeling less like a holy union and more like iron shackles. Later, at the wedding feast, when he leaned in to press an obligatory kiss against your cheek, his lips were ice. His jaw was clenched so tightly you genuinely wondered if his teeth might shatter under the strain of his compliance.

"Try to smile, my lady," Gwayne murmured smoothly through a fixed, public grin. His breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to his chilling demeanour, even as the lords of the realm raised their goblets in a roaring toast to your long life together. "The court is watching, and you look as though you've just been served a cup of nightshade."

"I would prefer the nightshade," you shot back, keeping your own smile perfectly, deceptively radiant for the court. "At least it would kill me quickly, rather than boring me to death over a lifetime."

Even once the bedding ceremony was announced, the two of you flatly refused to participate. When the drunken lords and giggling handmaidens finally shoved you both into your marital chambers and barred the heavy oak doors from the outside, the festive atmosphere vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.

The massive canopy bed sat heavily in the center of the room, lit by dozens of flickering candles. Gwayne stood near the edge of it, his hand hovering awkwardly near the fastenings of his breeches, his green eyes cold and tightly guarded.

You didn't give him the chance to speak.

"If you take that cock out, I will cut it off," you hissed, your voice dropping dangerously as you stood rigidly in your rumpled wedding shift. "I want no part of your seed infecting me."

Gwayne’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in sheer shock before narrowing into slits of pure fury. Slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, taking a single, step toward you. 

"Infecting you?" he repeated, his voice pitching up at your sheer audacity. The polite, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man whose patience had been stripped entirely raw. "You speak as though my blood is a disease, my lady, when it is your house that carries the plague of madness to the realm.”

He leaned down slightly, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "Rest assured, I have absolutely no desire to plant my seed in a field as barren and venomous as you. You want no part of me? The feeling is entirely mutual. I would rather couple with a pit of vipers."

"Then we are agreed," you spat, refusing to back down an inch, your eyes flashing with Targaryen fire.

You turned on your heel, violently ripping the heavy furs off the mattress and flinging them toward the far corner of the room. “You can take the settee.”

“I will not,” he growled, refusing to be displaced from his own quarters by a defiant dragon. “These are our shared chambers, and I will not sleep on the floor like a dog to appease your arrogance.”

You huffed, climbing onto the mattress and pulling the remaining silks up to your chin. “Then ensure you stay on your side. If any part of you crosses the center line, you will find that part missing by morning.”

Gwayne let out a harsh, dry laugh, watching you adjust the pillows with furious, aggressive movements. "A charming threat for a bride on her wedding night. Truly, the Seven have blessed me with a fortunate match."

He marched over to the opposite side of the bed, ripping off his heavy, embroidered doublet and threw it to the floor, betraying just how deeply you had gotten under his skin. He climbed into the bed fully dressed in his linen undershirt and trousers, turning his back to you.

"Goodnight, wife," he bit out into the darkness.

"Go to the seven hells, husband," you bit back, staring at the canopy above as the candles slowly burned down to ash.

The first weeks of marriage were a silent war of attrition. You occupied opposite sides of the massive chambers assigned to you, speaking only when absolute necessity demanded it. In public, you traded barbed pleasantries; in private, you weaponized a freezing, unyielding silence. But hatred is an exhausting emotion to sustain in isolation. Soon, the cold resentment turned into something far more volatile.

It started innocently enough. Gwayne was down in the training yard, unarmored but sweating through his training shirt as he ran through gruelling sword drills with the City Watch. He was, infuriatingly, a spectacular warrior—fluid, powerful, and possessing a sort of grace that made it impossible to look away. You watched from the shaded gallery above, purposely sitting beside a handsome young knight of the Kingsguard.

You knew Gwayne had noticed you. From below, his jaw clenched as you laughed a little too loudly at a joke the young knight made. Testing the waters, you leaned in closer to the Kingsguard, letting your hand rest conspicuously on his silver armoured forearm.

Below, Gwayne completely missed a parry. His opponent’s blunt training sword struck his shoulder with a heavy, echoing thwack. He didn't even flinch. Instead, his green eyes locked onto yours from across the yard with a burning intensity. The polite facade cracked, replaced by a dark scowl that promised retribution.

Two nights later, at a grand feast hosted by the Queen, Gwayne executed his counter-move. He spent the entire evening in a candlelit alcove, attentively pouring wine for a beautiful, doe-eyed lady-in-waiting from the Reach. He laughed—a genuine, amused sound you had never once heard him utter in your presence—and leaned in close to whisper something that made the maiden blush furiously and swat at his chest.

A sharp, hot spike of irritation flared in your gut. You didn't care for him, you reminded yourself. You hated him. But the sheer audacity of him flaunting another woman in front of the entire court—in front of you—was a direct insult to your Targaryen blood.

You immediately retaliated by inviting a charming stormlander lordling to dance, pressing closer to him than decorum allowed. Across the crowded hall, you caught Gwayne’s gaze. His grip tightened around his silver goblet so fiercely that his knuckles turned stark white.

From that moment on, the silent treatment was replaced by a silent war. Over the next few weeks, the animosity didn't vanish— it simply began to change. the Red Keep became a chessboard of manufactured jealousy.

If Gwayne spent an afternoon openly escorting a beautiful lady of House Tyrell through the godswood, handing her a winter rose with a theatrical bow, you would ensure he saw you the next morning at the tilting grounds. You would be draped over the gallery railing, tying your silk favour around the lance of a dashing young Royce, ensuring you were caught perfectly in the sunlight.

To formal dinners where you knew he would be seated directly across from you, you began wearing gowns with daringly low necklines, only to spend the entire evening conversing exclusively with the eligible lords to your left and right. In response, he would return from the training yards dripping with sweat, purposely unbuttoning his linen shirt to expose the damp line of his chest while recounting, in vivid detail, the flattering compliments paid to him by the highborn maidens in the gardens.

It was madness. It was childish. It was the only time either of you felt truly alive. The original hatred had evaporated, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension that left you both breathless and constantly on edge. You were playing with fire, forgetting that while dragons thrive in the heat, Hightowers were the ones who lit the beacons.

The explosion finally came on a stormy night, deep within the belly of the castle.

You had spent the evening at a private supper, deliberately sitting next to a dashing southern lord who had spent the night praising your beauty. Gwayne had sat directly across from you, acting as a silent, brooding sentinel. His grip remained white-knuckled around his goblet, his entire posture radiating pure, unadulterated malice.

When you finally returned to your shared chambers, the heavy oak door had barely clicked shut before the storm broke inside.

"He was practically drooling into your wine," Gwayne snarled, ripping off his heavy velvet cloak and hurling it onto a chair. The polished, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man possessed by a seething fury.

"Who, Lord Lannister?” you asked airily, unpinning your heavy collar with practiced indifference, though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs. "I found him delightfully attentive. A refreshing change from the sour company I am usually forced to keep."

"Attentive?" Gwayne strode across the room, his boots thudding ominously against the stone floor. He stopped mere inches from you, looming over you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "He was looking at you as if he wanted to tear that gown off your back. And you let him. You smiled at him. You touched his arm."

"And what if I did?" you challenged, tilting your chin up as your Targaryen pride flared to match his rage. "Are you going to forbid me? You, who spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon letting Lady Tarly press her favours into your hand? I saw the way you looked at her, Gwayne. Don't play the wounded husband with me."

"I don't give a damn about Lady Tarly!" Gwayne roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the candles flicker.

"Then why do it?!" you screamed back, finally losing your grip on your composure. The weeks of built-up tension, the longing disguised as spite, the agonizing game—it all came crashing down in a single torrent. "Why look at them? Why smile at them? Why do everything in your power to drive me mad?!"

"Because you were already driving me mad!" Gwayne yelled, reaching out to grab your upper arms. His grip was firm and unyielding, but careful not to hurt you. His green eyes were wild, dilated, searching yours with a desperate sort of need "From the moment we wed, you looked at me like I was dirt beneath your shoe. I wanted to see you look at me. I wanted to see you care! Even if it was anger, even if it was jealousy—I needed to know I could affect you the way you affect me!"

The admission hung heavily in the air, sudden and shocking. The storm outside lashed violently against the stained-glass windows, but inside, the silence was deafening.

"You..." you breathed, your voice instantly losing all its venom, leaving only a raw, exposed vulnerability. "You want to affect me?"

"You have no idea," Gwayne whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, breathless register. His gaze dropped to your lips, his hands trembling slightly where they held your arms. "You sit there, so proud, so beautiful, looking at everyone in this wretched castle but your own husband. It's torture. I hate it. I hate how much I want you."

The last string of your restraint snapped.

You closed the distance between you, fisting your hands into the heavy, embroidered lapels of his doublet and hauling him down into a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn't a gentle kiss, nor was it a surrender; it was a physical extension of the brutal war you two had been waging on for weeks. It was fierce, bruising, and born of a desperate, mutual starvation.

Gwayne let out a low, ragged groan against your mouth. His arms wrapped around your waist like iron bands, lifting you completely off your feet and slamming you back against the heavy, reinforced oak of the chamber door. The impact jolted through your spine, but the pain only fuelled the fire. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, anchoring him to you, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you, your fingers tangling into the thick waves of his auburn hair.

His hands were everywhere now, stripped of all chivalric restraint. They tore at the intricate laces of your gown, bruising the soft skin of your hips, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with a frantic, possessive urgency that demanded a lifetime of retribution for the weeks of forced distance. He kissed you as if he were trying to consume you from the inside out, to brand his name into your very soul, and you answered him with an equal, fiery Valyrian ferocity, biting his lower lip until you tasted the faint, copper tang of blood between you.

"You are mine," Gwayne growled against your throat, his voice a primal promise as his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, marking you and making you arch into his broad chest with a gasping, breathless sob. "Tell me. Say it."

"I am yours," you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, your heart frantic, your mind finally clear of any future schemes. You pulled his face back up to yours, your eyes flashing with a warning fire. “And you are mine, Gwayne. If you ever look at another woman like that again, I will burn this whole keep to ash."

Gwayne pulled back just enough to look at you, a dark, breathless, utterly ruined smile breaking across his handsome face. The green of his eyes was bright with a dangerous, triumphant fire.

"Let it burn," he whispered against your lips, and carried you to the bed.

Inside the marital chambers, the aftermath of the storm lay scattered across the floor—shredded silk, a discarded doublet, torn laces, and the heavy scent of crushed winter roses and sweat.

When you and Gwayne finally emerged into the outer corridors the following afternoon, the transformation was staggering. The icy distance that had defined your marriage for weeks had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of mutual possession. You did not walk a step apart as you usually did, maintaining the stiff, courtly boundaries of rival factions. Instead, Gwayne’s large hand was wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown and keeping you flush against his side as if daring the world—or his own family—to try and wedge itself between the two of you.

But it was the physical evidence that truly set the whispers ablaze.

The court of King's Landing was a nest of vipers, trained to notice the slightest shift in a lord's posture or the subtle tear in a lady’s sleeve. Today, they didn't even have to look closely; the signs of your mutual destruction were proudly on display. Gwayne, usually the very picture of immaculate, highborn decorum, wore a high-collared doublet that failed spectacularly to hide the deep, purple bruises blooming high on the side of his neck. The illusion of his pristine nature was shattered further because you had playfully, yet possessively forced him to undo the top two buttons of his attire before leaving your chambers, making the marks impossible to miss. His lower lip was slightly swollen, bearing the faint, dark split from where you had bit him in the heat of your desire.

You fared no better, and you made absolutely no attempt to hide it. You had deliberately chosen a Targaryen-red gown with a wider, daring neckline, exposing the trail of marks and the faint, dark shadows of his handprints on the pale skin of your collarbone and shoulders.

The way you walked, slow and languid, spoke of a physical exhaustion that had absolutely nothing to do with sleep. Every lord, lady, and sycophant you passed in the gallery looked, widened their eyes in sheer shock, and quickly looked away under Gwayne's fiercely protective, lethal glare. The court was accustomed to seeing the two of you trade icy daggers with your eyes; they were entirely unprepared for the unified defiance that now radiated from your joined forms.

As you neared the small council chamber, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadow of a carved archway. It was Lady Tarly. She was dressed in a gown of soft, maidenly blue, holding a small silk handkerchief she had undoubtedly intended to offer Gwayne as a favour for the upcoming afternoon drills. Her face was bright with a practiced, flirtatious smile—a smile that died the absolute second her eyes landed on your husband.

Lady Tarly’s hands flew to her mouth, the blue silk fluttering uselessly between her trembling fingers. Her wide eyes darted from the deep, unmistakable bruise on Gwayne’s neck to his swollen, split lip, her expression a mix of genuine horror and mounting panic. To an outside observer unversed in the language of the flesh, he looked as if a wild animal had savaged him in the dark, and she looked as though she were about to call for a maester, the City Watch, or the Kingsguard itself.

She gasped in shock, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Ser Gwayne, by the Mother... what happened? Are you alright? Who did this to you?”

Before Gwayne could even open his mouth to offer a courtly redirection, you stepped forward, tightening your grip on his bicep. The heavy fabric of his sleeve bunched under your fingers, an unyielding, territorial hold that drew Lady Tarly’s panicked gaze straight to you.

"Ser Gwayne is perfectly well, Lady Tarly," you said, your voice dripping with a smooth, lethal satisfaction. You leaned heavily into his side, ensuring the low, daring neckline of your Targaryen-red gown shifted just enough to give the young maiden a flawless, unhindered view of the dark, possessive marks and handprints decorating your own neck and collarbone. "In fact, I don't think my husband has ever been in better spirits. Or better hands."

"My wife speaks the truth, my lady," Gwayne murmured, his tone rougher and deeper than usual, a lingering remnant of the night's exhausting passions. He covered your hand with his own, his large fingers locking yours against his arm, cementing the unified front. "I assure you, I am entirely unharmed. Though... I admit the dragons of House Targaryen are far more feral than the histories lead one to believe."

Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked rapidly between the two of you, the scandalous pieces finally clicking together in her mind with the force of a sudden blow. The colour drained from her cheeks, replacing her initial shock with a burning, mortified blush as she realized exactly what—and who—had left those violent, passionate marks. The pristine, gallant Hightower knight she had been trying to court for weeks had been thoroughly, aggressively claimed.

“Was there something you needed from my husband?" you purred, the word husband leaving your lips like a final, devastating claim of possession.

Gwayne didn't even glance at the Tarly girl. His gaze was fixed entirely on you, his jaw relaxing into a dark, smugly satisfied grin as he felt the fierce, protective grip of your fingers on his arm. He loved it. The realization that you were actively, publicly marking your territory sent an intoxicating thrill straight through him.

Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked from your grip on his arm, up to the dark marks on Gwayne's neck and then yours, and finally to the unmistakable, lethal look in your eyes. The colour drained from her cheeks, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her handkerchief.

"I... I merely wished to ask Ser Gwayne if he required a new favour for the tourney grounds, Your Grace," she stammered, her voice losing all its previous confidence, shrinking under the suffocating weight of your stare.

Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles as he finally looked at her. "That is most kind of you, Lady Tarly," he said, his voice deep, rough, and entirely devoid of the polite warmth he had used to tease her just days before. "But I have already been thoroughly provided for. My wife has made it explicitly clear that I am to wear no one's colours but her own from this day forth."

He leaned down slightly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of your hair, his eyes never leaving the disgraced lady-in-waiting.

"In fact," Gwayne murmured, his eyes shifting back to you, burning with the very same fire that had consumed your chambers the night before, "I doubt I shall have the energy for the training yards today at all. My lady wife keeps a very demanding schedule."

"I... I see," she stammered, stepping back into the shadows of the archway, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace, Ser Gwayne. I did not mean to intrude upon... your morning."

"No intrusion at all," you replied, offering her a sweet, razor-sharp smile that promised absolute ruin if she ever dared to look his way again. "But if you'll excuse us, the Small Council awaits. And after that, my husband requires a great deal of my personal attention to heal from his... recent exertions."

Lady Tarly offered a hasty, deeply embarrassed curtsy, murmuring a fractured excuse before turning on her heel and practically fleeing down the corridor, her silks rustling loudly in the quiet hall.

You watched her go, a small, triumphant smirk curving your lips as you tasted the sweet thrill of total victory. But before you could fully savour it, Gwayne stopped walking. With a sudden, fluid movement, he turned his body, using his broad shoulders to trap you against the cold stone wall of the gallery, effectively shielding you both from the main thoroughfare behind a heavy, ancient Targaryen tapestry.

"Satisfied?" he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek as his eyes tracked the rapid, telltale rise and fall of your chest. The smugness was back, but it was laced with a deep, breathless hunger.

"For now," you countered, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his tunic, resting right over the steady, frantic beating of his heart. "Feral, am I? Is that what you're telling the court, Ser Gwayne?"

"Utterly," Gwayne breathed, his thumb tracing the elegant curve of your jaw before resting right over the racing pulse at your throat. "And I have absolutely no intention of ever letting you be tamed."

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

"really," he nods and pays you no mind, he tries to take the goblet from your hand but your grip is tightened around it, the bone of your knuckles threatening to break through your skin. "give it here, stupid girl." he moans and you swing the rest of it down, thrusting the empty cup in his direction with an insane grin plastered on your face.

"what is so special about that boy anyways?" he huffs, eyes darting across the room to where your vision has frozen in place. "he's most likely still hung up when i unseated him from that horse of his long ago."

"it could also be our damn brother marrying his sister," you sigh, "that itself is," you pause, sickness filling your stomach, "loaded." there's silence between the two of you as you stand in the shadows, the beat of music looming over you and the party continues. daemon replaces your cup with one filled with water but you make no move to consume it; how could you when every cell in your body has stretched and expanded beyond normal to fit in thoughts of gwayne hightower.

"daemon," you whisper, "he's just so pretty." your slurred confession is almost pathetic and your brother breaks the intense staring competition to place a hand on your shoulder in awkward reassurance. "like a deer," and your eyes shine an alarming amount, streaks of moonlight glittering across your iris. god, you are a goner.

"not that pretty," he scoffs, "you are prettier."

"you say that because we share the same mother," you roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder. the compliment from him is born from his distaste of the hightowers and maybe a twinge of fondness for you as he ruffles your hair in return.

"true, but you do have such foul taste in men. of all possible sorts, a hightower?" his brows raise incredulously, "really, is there no other man in this realm?"

"no, not for me," you shake your head in a daze, everythings starting to appear fuzzier, softer but you can still make out the small smile painted across his pink lips so clearly. you wonder what itd be like to touch them up close, to feel them against your own, on your bare skin, on your sheets, just anywhere for you.

"oh no," he groans in desperation, "i beg you to find some sanity, even just a shred of it. no, in fact, find some dignity and if you truly must then bed him and be done with it," its mortifying in a sense for him to say this to you, his younger sister but you are in dire need of saving yourself before ypu melt entirely defenseless to this one-sided love.

"you cannot just bed a man like gwayne hightower!" you hiss quietly in annoyance, "look at him," your eyes dart to his direction once more, "no, it will not do. i must marry him," you declare and daemon snorts out, the cackle leaving his lips in a proud twist and he turns to you.

"you have gone mad, dear sister, truly mad," maybe not mad, but definitely drunk, he gathers. but you can't focus on him. not when you've caught the eye of the pretty red-head and you have never been so grateful to have such an annoying brother. you wave, fingers dancing in a slight tease and you watch as his brows knit together in a small scrunch. he then turns his attention back to the kingsguard as if it had never happened. as if he hadn't just knocked on your heart, entered and laid to rest before slicing you inside out.

oh.

"he definitely hates me," your lip wobbles with each word, eyes glassy with dejection and pure heartbreak. daemon looks at you horrified, unsure of what to do with you in this emotional and heightened state.

"come sister," he tries to usher you away from the table and in the direction of the hallway, "we can always let caraxes have her fun, hmm?"

"you'd hurt him?" your eyes widen comically and daemon can make out the heavy breaths heaving from your chest with great concern. oh god, he's just making things worse for himself.

"send me to the seven hells, no! no, of course not," he drawls, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and trying to keep you moving, "maybe just a little," he murmurs but you catch it and push off of him instantly.

"but i love him," you gasp, and daemon sighs. its like having a child, truly.

"love who?" comes the voice of alicent hightower and the two of you turn. daemon shakes his head at the sight of her brother making his way over and landing inches away from the two of you.

"you," you whisper to him and its a moment too soon before daemon can smother your lips with the heavy weight of his palm.

"me?" gwayne speaks with great confusion, he has no recollection of whats been said before thankfully but his sister sends you a knowing look, a mischievious glint in her eyes as she smiles. you've always thought of alicent as oddly sisterly. she's been kind to you when others have not, she's given you chances when others have paired you with your chaotic brother and some part of her wishes that the two of you couldve been greater friends despite the fate that had been forced upon her.

gwayne looks to his sister, hoping for some explanation and almost misses how you bite down on daemon's palm. the elder pulling back with a curse and a wince as you shoot him your most dazzling smile. its earth bending, soul shattering downright gorgeous the way you look in your black beaded gown; a princess of the night and defender of the realm that gwayne allows himself the mercy of letting his gaze linger longer than it needs to.

"hello, you," the excitement is gathered in your voice and gwayne's eyes narrow in. theres a softness in your shoulders, the relaxed state of your posture, the wind in your hair and the wildness in your features.

"are you drunk?" alicent beats him to the question and he inhales slowly, exhaling slower trying to gather restraint and patience. sober you he has been able to handle. he approaches you with nothing more than polite kindness. he knows the way your soul seeks him out in every room he walks, he knows you ask after him, how you wait at the gates anytime he is planned to return to kingslanding and hes very fond of you.

he also knows the family you come from. the cruelty, the power, the damn dragons that give you the ego boost to demand what you have and take what you must no matter the expense. he despises your brothers particularly and though he tries to be fair to you, he knows its easier to create the distance. to be noble gwayne and play his part in this deathly game.

but drunk you? the adrenaline rushing through your body and mind, no gwayne doesn't know how to handle drunk you when he just about keeps hold of his facade of barely tolerating sober you.

"unwell," daemon corrects her without a second glance, "she is unwell and i was just escorting the princess to her chambers, she is rather tired," daemon stresses, keenly aware of how you're minutes away from embarassing yourself and him by extension silly.

you hold up four fingers cheekily and scrunch your nose in delight, "four cups!" you cheer and alicent lets out a laugh.

"is that all?" she grins, taking in your amusement.

"is that all?" daemon scoffs, "anymore and you will find her at the bottom of the barrell," that instantly has you shaking your head in defiance.

"you will find me on the dance floor!" your eyes widen with pure joy and childish excitement, buzzing through each of your veins and you break free from daemon's hold in the direction of the main party again.

you probably make it two steps ahead before a certain knight blocks your path, "princess," his hand is held up, palm outwards, a silent request for yours to join him and you do. he brings your hand to his lips and the second he presses a soft fleeting kiss you are airborn. its only a greeting but you float, rising and lifting and lord can nothing bring you down. its a manifestation of your earlier thoughts and you are purely giddy.

"ser gwayne," you swoon and its the first of a teasing smile you're met with. youre sure hes reserved this just for you.

"oh fuck me," you brother moans, palms smacking against his face in pure embarrassment but gwayne ignores him entirely, his gaze fixed on solely you.

"are you well?" he murmurs just for your eyes, pure honesty and earnest and you somehow melt even more.

the air softens around you and you're not sure your knees are working, everything feels so light and like heaven. "i dunno," you are stunned, your response incomprehensible as you focus on the invisible print of where his lips have scorched your skin. he lets go of your hand and yours drops to your side. no force or willpower to hold it open, no you are molten.

"might i escort you back to your chambers? perhaps for some rest?" he's hopeful. he catches daemon's deathly stare from behind your back, boring holes straight into him and for a second he's nervous. however, he can sense the hesitation of daemon and the need to get you to safety in this state. youre unguarded and though gwayne would never let anything happen to you now or never, it seems wiser to let you sleep this state off. roaming drunk is not ladylike and he doubts you care too much of what the other noblefolk think, he for sure knows that you are out of control with your actions as you usually like to be and that? that unnerves him incredibly.

"i am perfectly able to do so," daemon cuts in but you pat your brother's chest, cutting off his sentence halfway with a mischievous grin.

"no, ser gwayne will," you order, you clap your hands in delight and press a lazy kiss to your brothers cheek and then one to alicent. "goodnight brother, goodnight alicent, i shall see you both in the morrow," you throw out your arm for gwayne to take and he chuckles at how overly confident you appear before him now. how miliseconds have hardly passed and you stand with great eagerness before him. its a downright straight ego boost and soar to his chest.

sober you is usually more refined, more subtle and reserved for only the right people. gwayne's not spent much time in kingslanding to meet your close aquaintance but theres some things he can gather from afar. like the way you hold yourself with a rare gentleness from a targaryen he's sure its because of you that halaena has grown to be so fond. you take pride in the way you dress and carry yourself, you are friendly with the animals. you tend to the gardens and so often he finds you in the company of the cooks. yet you are still strategic when helping stage coups and plan attacks, you listen attentively to the working folk and despite what you come from, gwayne is intrigued by who you've become.

you hold yourself looser now, slightly leaning into his side as he carries most of your weight. its evident in the slower steps he takes, the silence he finds himself in in an attempt to catch the slow rise and fall of your breaths. he wishes the two of you were so much more than your last names because all he can see is how perfect you fit at his side. he must do a terrible job at conveying it because you stop so abruptly that his body moves in great whiplash, attending to you immediately.

"is something the matter, your grace?" unlike you, he hasn't drank the slightest drop and is so acutely aware of his environment his senses have heightened. your stance surprises him as he takes you, your fists have balled at your sides with an impatience and theres hurt scrunched across all over your face. a sudden flush of dread works it way into his throat.

"yes, i think you detest me, ser gwayne hightower," and his stomach does somersaults with the way his name slips from your lips. he stutters, trying to catch his breath and mind from moving at a million miles per hour.

"detest? my, oh my, that is a strong accusation," he tries to land it in light-heartedness, the chances are you'll most likely not even remember this tomorrow but the betrayal lingering in the lines of your face has him inhaling slowly, choosing his next words carefully. he opts for a simple truth, "i do not hate you," he speaks plainly, brows jumping with each word.

"no?" you question, the bottom of your lip rests into a little pout and gwayne's eyes move like a laser, narrowing in on it.

"no," he confirms with a steadfast heart, "come," and he holds out his arm again, "let us continue."

"no," you refuse and gwayne wonders which of his sins must be in need of divine punishment right now for this to be happening. his hand drags across his face and tries to think of his next course of plans.

"okay," he shrugs, "what would you like to do?" and he watches how you light up with pure ecstasy. your arms raise in the air and he watches how you hurl your body in a poor attempt at a twirl. the drunken spin has your left foot landing wrong, catching onto the seams of your gown and you feel the world falling back.

the scream dies in your throat when youre surrounded by such intense heat. gwayne hightower is warm all over, his arms have caught you just in time, your head neatly tucked against his chest as his arms span the length of your back and waist. its almost intimate the way you can hear his heartbeat, it bounces and jumps and you'll play it as a soundtrack to your life if you could. you bring your own hands to rest onto his chest, the crisp velvet sliding against your skin as you look up.

it must be the biggest mistake of your life to look up because as soon as you do you're sucked straight in. its like the ocean has swallowed you whole, and in the midst of its vastness you can hear the quiet, you can feel the serenity and calmness hit you so gently.

"princess," his voice tries to pull you from its trance, and the throated rasp cuts you free.

"gwayne?" you whisper, and the rest of his features appear back into focus. the small freckles dancing along his skin almost disappear the way the moonlight streaks before him. the bridge of his nose, the way it slopes so perfectly, gwayne hightower must have been made and born of pure precision and patience.

you're not thinking and he's momentarily distracted by the way you've dropped his title, saving the way you've said his name into pure permanent memory. so you reach out, your cold index finger touch his nose and he freezes beneath your touch. your finger then drags, following the path of his nose and down to his lips, they pause on his bottom lip momentarily before continuing its course down to his chin and then the length of his neck. you can feel his adam's apple tense as he swallows under such intensity and then they rest teasingly on the junction where his two clavicles could meet. the small amount of skin escaped from his tunic and burned into memory.

"princess," he murmurs, trying to gather his footing and he's still holding you so tightly he's realised. "this is not proper," he manages to get out and a slow smile reaches your lips. you've done it, you've broken gwayne hightower and it has only took four cups of wine to do so.

"i wonder what five would get me," you want to touch his hair next, feel the copper strands beneath your fingers and tug on them, feel how they would be burrowed against your skin or what noises he would make if you pulled them right. you don't reach out though however, your hands travel lower to his abdomen, pushing yourself more upright and steady on your feet but gwayne tenses at the contact.

"sweetheart?" he breathes in confusion, he has no idea what you're on about or whats even happening but youre set alight. this is new. you love the way this one sounds, you want to brand it to your forehead and let the term of endearment be the only thing he's ever allowed to call you by. you stand on your own, centimetres from him and try to dust the nonexistenr fluff off your gown and even just moving has you slightly dizzy. you try to reach for a railing but gwayne's hands move quicker and he's steadying your weight once more.

"i don't think you should move so suddenly," he warns, "you need to rest, sleep this haze off."

"i'd like to dance," he watches as your face morphs into something so fierecly determined and for a second, he's almost scared. it doesn't last very long however because a boyish laugh quietly escapes his lips at the sight of you.

youve taken a step back and your eyes are closed, your swaying so slowly and way off beat for this to be considered a dance. you imagine your partner to be there, leaving the gap empty for a body as your hands play with the air, mumbling along to the faint tune you can hear but its all so unrhythmic that gwayne almost feels sorry for you. you're going to make yourself dizzy and sick, you'll probably fall into a bush soon and gwayne decides to put his title as protector into action.

"you are," he breathes, and he steps into the gaps, his hand at your waist and the other taking charge of your outstretched one. your palms are interlocked as he moves you to a more practised rhythm. gwayne may be a knight and soldier but hes a man of nobility, a member of the court and he'd be damned if he didn't how to dance.

"mad?" you offer, opening your eyes to steal a peek at him. its so natural how your bodies align together, fit and move as one. its fluid and light, you can hardly feel your feet on the ground.

but gwayne certainly can, you've stepped on his toes twice, lopsided and lazy footing that he finds endearing, "wonderful," he corrects you with a unguarded softness, "you are wonderful," and you swoon once more.

"keep your eyes open," he whispers and you obey, and when he spins you he does it at such an incredibly slow pace in fear of you falling and your nausea rising. you're having so much fun with him right now that you don't realise you've been dancing with the knight for the length of minutes; so long that he has walked or rather cleverly danced the two of you back to your chamber.

truth be told he doesn't actually know which is yours. he ends the dance with a final spin, before holding onto the two of your hands and kneeling into a bow. he presses a kiss to each of them, so gentle that when you shoot him another smile it goes straight to his head. hes unsure of how hes still alive right now, he swells with pride at having earned so many of them tonight they ought to declare him a champion.

"thank you ser gwayne," you mumble, your hand ready at the knob of your door.

"just gwayne," he smiles and the world tilts its axis. "and if you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner then i am at your service," he drawls and a giggle escapes your lips as you open the door then lean your head against the frame tiredly. you are exhausted and want nothing more to go to bed, you also just want to stare at gwayne all night long.

"even if your partner is barely tolerable," your voice is slurred not from the wine but the fatigue now and gwayne steps forward by an inch. but an inch is all you need to feel the sheer heat radiating from his body and heart again.

"i told you," he uses a finger to trace your cheek now so tenderly it shatters all the walls youve ever built in your heart and laid entry for gwayne and gwayne only, "you are wonderful."

"wonderful," you whisper and there's moons in your eyes again.

"goodnight, sweetheart," he pulls back, clearing his throat. he sees the gears in your head turning and a faint furrow in your brow but before he can even ask what is the matter, youve stepped forward in an ambush, wrapped your arms around him in a bone crushing hug.

and to finally finish him off and send him to heaven, you aim to kiss his cheek. its lazy, off target and lands in the corner of his mouth. before he can register whats happened youre off him in an instant and the door closes.

"w-what?" he whispers to the dead of the night, his fingers come find the place where your lips met his if you can even call it that and its slightly wet. he has half a mind to knock the door down, break it with his bare hands and steal a proper one. however, you are drunk. beyond so and you need to rest.

he could bring this up tomorrow to you but theres a strong possibility that youd either not remember or would be mortified at the memory and avoid him entirely. the latter would devastate him for centeries.

hes still standing at your door, burning holes inside of it that he doesn't know how much time passes. a young jaecarys passes by and stops.

"ser gwayne?" he calls out and the elder is undeterred, his gaze still stuck on where you had once been before him that he doesnt register the onyx curls before theyre completely blocking his view.

"yes?" the trance is broken.

"what are you doing here?" jace speaks, suspicion laced in his tone.

"dancing," he mumbles, "i was dancing," he nods to himself and then lets out one last longing exhale before making a move to the opposite direction. the distance between the two of you burns as it grows but gwayne forces himself to keep moving. and despite the man not having a single drop of alcohol tonight, gwayne feels the buzz in his blood.

"drunk," jace mutters and continues his footsteps.

yeah, he is.