SUMMARY: You come home from work and find yourself having sensory overload from everything. Joel comes home and takes care of you.
Man vs. Bear
SUMMARY: Joel does everything in his power to get back something of sentimental value to you that your ex discarded like it was nothing.
SHORTS:
A Fruitful Union
SUMMARY: Joel is trying to find out who is leaving the best produce in the community garden box.
✧ 𝔻𝕚𝕟 𝔻𝕛𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟
ONE SHOTS
Mine
SUMMARY: Your employer is pissed when you come back from getting information about a bounty with a bruised hand mark around your neck.
Envy on Endor
SUMMARY: Din gets jealous when you cuddle an ewok.
HISTORY, HUH?
SUMMARY: When you get injured by a bounty, Din takes you to Mos Espa to get help from an old comrade. AKA; Din gets jealous when he finds out you and Boba have history.
Bolts & Beskar
SUMMARY: You tend to Din’s injuries caused by a weapon you didn’t know he was carrying. In the process of cleaning his wounds, he learns something new about you too.
✧ 𝕄𝕠𝕠𝕕𝕓𝕠𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤
Going on a big mission with the boys - RDR2 John/Arthur/Charles
Cowboy - Joel Miller
Day One: Leaving the QZ - Joel Miller
MMA Trainer - Will Miller
✧ ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤
Falling for you at the boxing gym - Will & Benny Miller
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader (She/her)
Summary: As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.
Warnings: Protective father Daemon, excessive fluff, family teasing, arranged betrothal, brief insecurity about not having a dragon, one deeply inconvenienced Gwayne Hightower, and a very spoiled princess. caraxes being a spoiled brat
note: just a super long and fun one shot. mostly daemon pov, we die on the hill that he was born to be a girl dad.
masterlist
One shot
The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger.
“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.
“She will grow into it.”
“She cannot even hold up her own head.”
“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”
The dagger was confiscated.
The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.
The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.
The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.
By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.
By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.
By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.
“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.
Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.
“She is a princess.”
“She does not need a ship.”
“She liked it.”
“She liked the carving.”
“And now she has both.”
Rhaenyra sighed.
Daemon smiled.
There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.
You had always been one of them.
You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.
You apologized when servants bumped into you.
You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.
You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.
Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.
He protected it viciously.
The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.
An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.
It had never hatched.
A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.
It remained cold.
When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.
None did.
You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.
You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.
Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.
He lowered himself beside you without speaking.
For a while, you both watched the flames.
“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.
Daemon’s expression darkened.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
The words were barely audible.
They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.
Daemon turned toward you.
“You have never disappointed me.”
“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”
“You are my daughter.”
You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.
“That should make it worse.”
“It makes it irrelevant.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else is not you.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”
Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.
“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”
It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.
The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.
Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.
The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.
You stopped.
Daemon did not.
Caraxes had always known you.
When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.
Your first word had not been father.
To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.
You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.
Caraxes had never been yours.
Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.
That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.
You placed a trembling hand against his scales.
Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.
“He knows,” Daemon said.
“Knows what?”
“That you are upset.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I wish he had chosen me.”
Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.
“He did.”
You looked back at him.
“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”
Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.
Daemon’s mouth curved.
“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”
You laughed and obeyed.
The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.
“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.
You hesitated.
“Now?”
“The sky does not close at night.”
You looked from him to Caraxes.
“But I am not his rider.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”
He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.
Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.
The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.
Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.
The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.
Caraxes climbed higher.
You laughed.
The sound carried into the night.
Daemon lowered his head beside yours.
“Still believe you have no dragon?”
You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.
“No.”
After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.
Which was often.
He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.
You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.
He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.
The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.
He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.
Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.
Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.
“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.
“I did nothing.”
“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”
“He showed restraint.”
“The boy wet himself.”
“I said restraint, not mercy.”
The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.
You never understood why.
You had Caraxes.
You had your father.
And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.
Then came Gwayne Hightower.
The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.
Daemon nearly overturned the table.
“A Hightower?”
King Viserys closed his eyes.
“It is a politically advantageous match.”
“It is an insult.”
“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”
“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”
“Daemon.”
“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.
“This is not about my ambitions.”
“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”
“Father,” you said softly.
Daemon turned.
You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.
You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.
Daemon’s face softened by a degree.
“You do not have to marry him,” he said.
Viserys sighed.
“She has not even met him properly.”
“Then she is already better off.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.
“What?”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“I am behaving like a father.”
“A deeply irrational father.”
“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”
Otto lifted his chin.
“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”
“He wears green.”
“Green is our house color.”
“Exactly.”
You pressed your lips together.
Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Your shoulders shook.
The sight did nothing to improve his mood.
The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.
Entirely on purpose.
“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.
Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.
“Has he?”
“You know he has.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Father.”
“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”
“Being married to me?”
“Being married beneath my supervision.”
When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.
He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.
“My princess.”
“Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes met yours.
For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.
Gwayne smiled.
It was not the polished smile of a courtier.
It was warm and slightly nervous.
You smiled back.
Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“So,” he said.
Gwayne looked at him.
“So?”
“You wish to marry my daughter.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Gwayne glanced at you again.
Daemon noticed.
His scowl deepened.
“I have admired the princess for some time.”
“Admired what?”
“Her kindness.”
Daemon blinked.
It was not the answer he had expected.
Gwayne continued carefully.
“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”
You stared at him.
You had not known he had noticed any of those things.
“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I believe loving her might.”
The room fell silent.
Daemon leaned back.
“You have met her twice.”
“Four times.”
“You were counting?”
“Yes.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.
“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.
Daemon glared at both of you.
“No one asked.”
The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.
Daemon tried.
He tried with admirable dedication.
He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.
Gwayne returned the next morning.
Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.
Gwayne listened patiently.
When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.
You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.
Daemon did not find it amusing.
Gwayne remembered the names of servants.
He thanked cooks.
He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.
He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.
He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.
When you spoke, he listened.
When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.
He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.
He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.
He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.
Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.
“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you liked it.”
The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.
Gwayne’s brows rose.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.
Rhaenyra followed his gaze.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I tolerate his continued existence.”
“He reminds you of yourself.”
Daemon looked offended.
“He does not.”
“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”
“The lord deserved it.”
“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”
Daemon turned back toward you.
Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.
He looked perfectly content.
Daemon frowned.
“He is holding it incorrectly.”
“Of course.”
Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.
Gwayne was less enthusiastic.
It was not that he was a coward.
He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.
Daemon took great pleasure in this.
The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.
Gwayne stopped walking.
Daemon smiled.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You have gone pale.”
“It is warm.”
“It is never warm in here.”
You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.
“He will not hurt you.”
Caraxes released a rumbling growl.
Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.
“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”
“He is only curious.”
“He appears hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.
Gwayne glanced at him.
Daemon smiled wider.
“Mostly.”
“Father,” you chided.
Caraxes lowered his head toward you.
You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.
Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.
You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.
Caraxes was careful with you.
Almost impossibly so.
“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.
Daemon’s smugness faded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever try to bond with her?”
“No. His bond is mine.”
Gwayne nodded.
“But she is part of you.”
Daemon looked at him.
Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.
“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.
Daemon studied the knight for a moment.
“You understand dragons better than I expected.”
“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”
“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”
You turned.
“Gwayne, come closer.”
He hesitated.
Caraxes stared.
You held out your hand.
Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.
Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.
Still, he moved toward you.
Slowly.
Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.
Gwayne stopped.
You reached back and took his hand.
“He is protective.”
“So I have gathered.”
“He needs to know I trust you.”
“And how do we convince him of that?”
You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.
“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.
Gwayne shot him a look.
“That is tremendously helpful.”
Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.
Caraxes’s growl faded.
Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.
The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.
Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.
He remained standing.
After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.
You beamed.
“He likes you.”
“He tolerated me.”
“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”
Daemon crossed his arms.
“He has poor judgment.”
Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.
Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.
You did not bother disguising yours.
A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.
Daemon had invited him to observe.
Invite was perhaps the wrong word.
Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.
The implication was clear.
You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.
Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.
Daemon looked over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.
Gwayne’s heart stopped.
The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.
Your laughter reached the cliffs.
Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.
You looked small against him.
Small, but not afraid.
Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.
As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.
You looked radiant.
Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.
Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.
When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.
Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.
Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.
“Well?” you asked Gwayne.
He stared at you.
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
“I think I understand why poets struggle.”
You blinked.
Daemon groaned.
Gwayne stepped closer.
“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”
Your cheeks turned warmer.
Daemon moved between you.
“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”
“Father.”
“What?”
“You invited him.”
“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”
The days passed more quickly after that.
Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.
It felt like walks through the gardens.
It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.
It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.
It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.
It felt like laughter.
It felt, increasingly, like love.
One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.
You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.
“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.
You knew immediately whom he meant.
“Caraxes?”
“Yes.”
You considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“And now?”
You smiled.
“No.”
Gwayne leaned beside you.
“Why not?”
“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”
His gaze settled on your face.
You continued watching the sky.
“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”
“But you love him.”
“Very much.”
“And he loves you.”
“In his own terribly loud way.”
Gwayne smiled.
You turned toward him.
“Does it concern you?”
“What?”
“That I have no dragon.”
“No.”
“Your family may prefer—”
“My family is not marrying you.”
His answer came without hesitation.
Gwayne reached for your hand.
“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”
Your eyes stung.
“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”
You lowered your gaze.
Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”
He kissed your hand again.
“I would choose you if you had none.”
Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.
He looked up.
Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.
And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.
The wedding was held on Dragonstone.
Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.
“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”
Otto objected.
Daemon was delighted.
The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.
Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.
Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.
“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.
Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.
“It is.”
“There are six hundred guests.”
“I excluded several houses.”
You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.
Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.
Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.
A gift from your father.
When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.
You smiled nervously.
“Is something wrong?”
He said nothing.
His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.
For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.
“Father?”
“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened.
Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.
“I can still end this.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”
“Because you will send him away?”
Daemon looked toward the window.
“Something like that.”
You took his hand.
“I love him.”
His jaw tightened.
It was not anger.
Not truly.
Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.
Now you had found something beyond his keeping.
A life that would carry you away from him.
“I know,” he said.
“And he loves me.”
“I know that, too.”
“You admit it?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
You kissed his cheek.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.
“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“If he displeases you, come back.”
“Father.”
“If his family displeases you, come back.”
“I will.”
“If Oldtown is too cold—”
“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”
“Then if it is too warm.”
You laughed against him.
Daemon sighed.
“Visit often.”
“I promise.”
When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
Rhaenyra stood nearby.
“What?”
“He looks frightened.”
“He looks in love.”
“Similar conditions.”
Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.
He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.
As though the music had faded.
As though you were the only thing left in the world.
Daemon placed your hand in his.
He did not release it immediately.
Gwayne waited.
Daemon tightened his grip.
“Father,” you whispered.
“I am considering my options.”
Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.
Finally, Daemon released your hand.
“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”
Gwayne nodded solemnly.
“I assumed as much.”
“If she is unhappy—”
“Father.”
“—Caraxes will find you.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
The vows were spoken.
The cloak was placed around your shoulders.
When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.
Daemon did not clap.
He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.
At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.
He brought you wine, though you had not asked.
He moved your chair away from the draft.
He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.
Daemon watched all of it.
Rhaenyra leaned toward him.
“You approve.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during the vows.”
“There was smoke from the torches.”
“You were standing outside.”
“It traveled.”
“Of course.”
Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.
The sea spread dark beneath them.
Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.
Gwayne approached cautiously.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Daemon did not turn.
“For threatening you?”
“For trusting me with her.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You allowed the marriage.”
“Viserys allowed the marriage.”
“You could have stopped it.”
Daemon glanced at him.
They both knew this was true.
Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.
Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.
“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”
“No one is.”
“I agree.”
That earned Gwayne his full attention.
“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”
Daemon remained silent.
“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”
“Home?”
“Here.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”
The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.
Gwayne swallowed.
Daemon stepped closer.
“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”
“There is nothing missing from her.”
Daemon studied his face.
“No?”
Gwayne looked through the open doors.
You had noticed them now.
Your eyes found his across the distance.
You smiled.
Gwayne smiled back.
“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”
Daemon followed his gaze.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Still smiling.
Still safe.
Still loved.
“Take care of her,” Daemon said.
“With my life.”
“If she misses Dragonstone—”
“I will bring her.”
“If she wishes to stay for months—”
“I will wait.”
“If she asks for a dragon—”
“I will remind her that she already has one.”
Caraxes released a low rumble.
Gwayne glanced toward him.
“Two, perhaps.”
Daemon almost smiled.
Almost.
“Welcome to the family.”
Gwayne’s expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“I was speaking to Caraxes.”
The dragon huffed.
Gwayne laughed.
Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.
Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.
“Gwayne!”
He turned immediately.
You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.
“Come dance with me.”
Gwayne bowed to Daemon.
“Prince Daemon.”
“Hightower.”
Gwayne returned to you.
You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.
Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.
You whispered something that made your husband laugh.
Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.
“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”
the end.
-----------------
Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor
Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.
It was not Oldtown—not yet.
Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.
He pretended the decision had been practical.
You knew better.
The estate was beautiful.
The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.
He had filled one room with books.
He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.
He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.
You loved your new home.
Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.
On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.
“You miss them,” he said one evening.
You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.
“A little.”
“Your father or the dragon?”
“Yes.”
Gwayne laughed.
“You know we can return whenever you wish.”
“We visited last week.”
“Then we will visit again.”
“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”
“Your father already thinks that.”
You smiled.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head.
A deep roar shook the sky.
Every bird in the trees scattered at once.
You sat upright.
Gwayne went still.
Another roar followed.
It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.
Your face brightened.
“No.”
Gwayne stared toward the horizon.
A red shape moved through the clouds.
“No,” he repeated.
You were already on your feet.
“Caraxes!”
The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.
Servants screamed.
Guards scattered.
Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.
Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.
Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.
“This cannot be happening.”
You ran toward the courtyard.
Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.
He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.
You laughed.
“Caraxes!”
The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.
You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.
Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.
“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.
His golden eyes drifted closed.
Gwayne approached with extreme caution.
Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.
“Lower those,” he ordered.
One of the men stared at him.
“My lord, the dragon—”
“Belongs to my wife’s father.”
Caraxes opened one eye.
Gwayne corrected himself.
“And apparently also to my wife.”
The guards lowered their weapons.
Gwayne stopped beside you.
“Did your father send him?”
“I do not think so.”
“You think he escaped?”
Caraxes huffed.
The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.
You looked up at the dragon.
“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”
Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.
Gwayne stared.
“Is he answering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“That he has no regrets.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.
Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.
“Never mind.”
A rider arrived less than an hour later.
He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.
“My princess!”
You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.
The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.
The messenger stumbled toward you.
“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”
Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.
“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”
“The prince is on his way.”
Your eyes widened.
“My father is coming here?”
The messenger nodded breathlessly.
“He said—”
The pounding of another horse interrupted him.
Daemon entered the gates at speed.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.
His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.
Daemon placed his hands on his hips.
“Caraxes.”
The dragon did not move.
“You disobedient beast.”
Caraxes closed his eyes.
“Do not pretend to be asleep.”
You covered your smile with your hand.
Daemon pointed toward the sky.
“Dragonstone. Now.”
Caraxes remained exactly where he was.
Gwayne looked between them.
“Does this happen often?”
“No,” Daemon snapped.
You raised a brow.
“Father.”
“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”
“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”
“An oversight.”
“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”
“Poorly secured chains.”
Gwayne stared at the dragon.
“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”
Daemon looked offended.
“Obviously.”
Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.
You laughed, placing both hands against his face.
“I missed you, too.”
The dragon purred.
Daemon sighed.
“You have spoiled him.”
“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”
“They deserved it.”
Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.
“How do we convince him to leave?”
Daemon studied Caraxes.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to tell him.”
You looked at the dragon.
Caraxes looked at you.
“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”
Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.
“Of course.”
“He can remain for supper.”
Gwayne stared at you.
“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”
“He was excited.”
“He also crushed the roses.”
“They will grow back.”
Caraxes released a pleased trill.
Gwayne looked toward Daemon.
Daemon shrugged.
“She wants him to stay.”
“You are her father.”
“Yes.”
“Tell her this is unreasonable.”
Daemon’s expression became confused.
“Why would I do that?”
Gwayne closed his eyes.
By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.
Daemon remained for supper.
He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.
“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.
“You married my daughter.”
“I married a woman without a dragon.”
Daemon took a drink of wine.
“And yet.”
Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.
Gwayne watched through the window.
“I will have a platform constructed.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.
The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.
“I am happy here,” you assured him.
Caraxes rumbled.
“Gwayne takes good care of me.”
The dragon glanced toward your husband.
Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.
Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.
“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”
“Caraxes is thorough.”
Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.
“Come.”
You turned.
“Where?”
“Caraxes will not leave without you.”
Gwayne’s brows rose.
Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.
“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”
Gwayne stepped forward.
“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”
Daemon stared at him.
Gwayne stared back.
You looked between them.
Caraxes growled softly.
“No one is fighting,” you said.
Neither man moved.
You sighed.
“Gwayne may come with us.”
His face went pale.
Daemon smiled.
“Excellent idea.”
The three of you mounted Caraxes.
You sat before Daemon.
Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.
“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.
“I am holding on.”
“To something secure.”
“I am.”
Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.
“That strap is decorative.”
Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.
You burst into laughter.
Daemon looked deeply offended.
“Remove your hands.”
“You told me to hold something secure.”
“Not me.”
Caraxes launched into the air.
Gwayne shouted.
You laughed harder.
The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.
You looked back at Gwayne.
His eyes were tightly closed.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“I have not looked.”
Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.
“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”
“Fly straighter!”
“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”
Caraxes roared in agreement.
You laughed until tears filled your eyes.
Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.
Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.
Your father’s arm was secure around you.
Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.
Caraxes flew happily beneath you.
Perhaps the court had been right.
You had never claimed a dragon of your own.
But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.
I swear chapter one of the War of Hearts fic is almost done, I got side tracked by an intense depression episode and I just got a new job which I am incredibly stressed about 🥲 but also a little excited...🫠
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Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.
Song inspo: ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3
Part two
Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.
It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.
Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.
The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.
Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.
No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.
He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.
His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.
"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."
It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.
No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.
By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.
Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?
-
By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.
It was hardly the first time.
The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.
Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.
You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.
Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.
Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.
So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.
That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.
You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.
Just a little farther...
"You appear to be losing your battle."
The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.
You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.
A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.
You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.
You were in far too much of a hurry.
"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."
His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.
"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."
You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.
"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."
"You are trying to do something."
"I am not."
"You are."
A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.
"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."
"I am simply a guest in the Keep."
The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."
There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"
You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."
"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."
His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."
You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."
"Are you?"
"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."
A beat passed.
"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."
You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."
"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"
A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."
You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."
The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."
You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.
Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.
"...It's you."
The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.
He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.
When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."
The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"
You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."
Silence settled between them.
Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.
You did not look mad.
Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.
More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.
Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"
He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.
You said nothing.
For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.
His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"
You instinctively stepped back.
"I only jest," he said quietly.
Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."
Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.
Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.
I've dreamt of you.
Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.0k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: MDNI, Fluff, Smut, Forbidden Love, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension.
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Gwayne Hightower has spent months restraining himself from the princess's advances. Tonight, you decide to test just how strong his honour really is.
: ̗̀➛ [𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧] [𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱]
𝐚/𝐧: this has probably been done before but here it is anyways, because i could not get the idea of my mind.
As Rhaenyra’s younger sister, the court has never quite known what to make of you.
Where she is fire and defiance, you are the hush that follows a storm. The Realm's Delight burns bright and bold, a dragon in human skin—you, by contrast, are the candlelit glow that softens every sharp edge, the cool hand on a fevered brow. You are poised, graceful, perfect in every way they demand you to be. You are the very portrait of a princess they can understand.
But perfection is a cage, and you have long since memorised the bars. You know the precise weight of your gaze to make a lord nod in approval. You know the exact angle of your smile to disarm a suspicious lady-in-waiting. You know the weight of your crown—figurative though it may be—and you wear it with the practised ease of a woman who learned to perform before she learned to speak. You have honed this mask until it fits like a second skin.
Only a handful have ever glimpsed the woman who paces her chambers at midnight, who laughs too loudly in private, who speaks truths that would curdle the milk in the court's golden goblets. And of that handful, only one has ever made your pulse stutter with something sharper than mischief.
Gwayne Hightower knows you.
He knows the real you—the one who hides behind porcelain smiles and demure silences. He has seen you crack a joke so improper that even Ser Harwin choked on his wine. He has watched you roll your eyes at a lord's tedious monologue and then turn to him with a look that said, save me from this, and he had—he always had, with a gallant and utterly doomed excuse that whisked you both away. He knows you, and that knowledge is precisely what makes this game so dangerously, exquisitely entertaining.
There was a time, in the earliest days of this dance, when you doubted yourself. You wondered if you had imagined the tension—if the heat you felt was merely your own desire reflected back at you by wishful thinking. You are a princess, after all, and he is a Hightower. The wall between you is not made of stone; it is made of duty, of oaths, of the thousand invisible chains that bind a man of honour to his station.
But you watch him now with sharper eyes, and the truth is undeniable.
You see it in the rigid set of his jaw when you enter a room, as if he must physically brace himself against the sight of you. You see it in the way his knuckles go bone-white where he grips his sword belt, the leather groaning under the pressure. You see it in the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand rests on his arm a moment too long—that tiny, betraying stutter that no one else would notice, but you have memorised like a prayer.
And you see it most of all in what he doesn't do.
Oh, he wants you. That much is as clear as the morning sun through the Red Keep's windows. But more than that, he knows you know. And that knowledge is a slow poison in his veins. He is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a son of the Faith, a Hightower. He has sworn oaths and signed pacts and built a life on the sacred foundation of his honour. He cannot act on his desires. He cannot even acknowledge them.
So you push.
You push because you can. Because there is a peculiar, intoxicating power in knowing that you are the sole architect of his torment—that a single brush of your fingers against his sleeve can send him spiralling into a silence so deep it borders on prayer. You are the sculptor of his suffering, and you wield your chisel with the precision of a master.
You push because he lets you. Because for all his oaths and his honour and his desperate, clinging restraint, he never once tells you to stop. He never walks away. He never asks you to leave him be. He simply stands there, a man made of stone and duty, and lets you carve your name into his fractures.
You do it in the training yard, when you appear at the edge of the lists with a goblet of water and a smile that says I brought this for you, Ser Gwayne.
His sparring partner stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden presence of a princess where one has no business being. Gwayne does not stumble—he is too disciplined for that. But you see the way his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic, the way his grip on his sword goes white-knuckled. You see the way his gaze darts to you and then away, as though looking too long might burn him, might sear through his carefully constructed walls and leave him bare.
You wait until he has lowered his blade, until the other knight has retreated with a bow and a mumbled excuse, before you step closer. Close enough to count the sweat on his brow. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.
"Your form is impeccable," you say, soft enough that only he can hear, as you press the cup into his hands. Your fingers linger on his—not a graze, not an accident, but a deliberate, unhurried caress that lasts three heartbeats too long. "Then again, I've always admired how controlled you are."
The word lands like a blade between his ribs. You see it in the slight flare of his nostrils. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, a muscle leaping beneath the skin. You see it in the way his thumb twitches against the goblet, as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.
His swallow is audible. "Princess," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, like gravel smoothed by too much restraint. "You should not—"
"Should not what?" You tilt your head, all innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "Compliment a knight on his skill? How dreadfully improper of me. I shall have to write to the High Septon and confess my sins immediately."
A ghost of something—frustration? longing?—flickers across his face. "You know that is not what I meant."
"Do I?" You take a step back, just enough to make him lean forward unconsciously, just enough to prove your point. "Then perhaps you should be clearer, Ser Gwayne. I am, after all, only a simple princess. I cannot be expected to read minds."
His eyes darken. There is a storm in them now, a tempest he is fighting to contain. "You are many things, princess," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "But simple has never been one of them."
The admission costs him. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, in the way his knuckles are white around the goblet. He has said too much. He knows it. And you know he knows it.
You smile—slow, satisfied, victorious—and you walk away before he can take it back.
You push him at the feast, when you dance with him—because you arrange it, because you are a princess and he cannot refuse, because you have learned exactly which strings to pull to make the court's expectations align with your desires. A word here, a smile there, a subtle mention to the right lady-in-waiting that you would so enjoy a turn about the floor with Ser Gwayne Hightower, and the pieces fall into place as neatly as stones in a mosaic.
He knows what you have done. You see it in his eyes when he approaches you, summoned by the queen's own hand, his expression a careful mask of courtly composure. He knows he has been maneuvered. He knows you have trapped him in a web of propriety and expectation, and he knows he cannot escape without causing a scene.
And you revel in it.
You take his hand, and you let him lead you to the floor, and you press closer than propriety allows. Your chest brushes his. Your thigh slides against his as you turn. You are a shadow against him, a whisper of silk and warmth, and you feel the tremor that runs through him like a plucked string.
"Relax, Ser Gwayne," you whisper against his ear, your breath warm on his skin, your lips so close that you almost—almost—brush the shell of his ear. "The court is watching. Would you have them think you cannot stand the touch of your own princess?"
His hand tightens on your waist—just for a moment, a reflexive clench that speaks of longing more than any words could—and then he forces it to loosen. You feel the effort it costs him, the way his fingers uncurl one by one, as if he is peeling them away from something precious.
"They would think nothing of the sort," he grits out, his voice so low it is barely more than a vibration against your skin. "They would think a Hightower knows his place."
"And what place is that?" You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief, with challenge, with the knowledge that you hold all the power here. "At my side? In my shadow? Beneath me?"
His step falters. Just one beat, a stumble so small no one else would notice—a catch in the rhythm that lasts less than a breath. But you notice. You always notice. You catalogue it like a victory, like a trophy, like another stone in the fortress of his composure that you have so carefully chipped away.
His eyes meet yours, and there is something dangerous in them now. Something hungry. Something that looks, for just a moment, like he might forget every oath he has ever sworn.
"You play a dangerous game, princess," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something frayed at the edges, like a rope that has been stretched too thin for too long. "One day, you will push too far."
"And what will you do then, Ser Gwayne?" You smile up at him, sweet as poison, innocent as sin. "Will you finally catch me?"
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You see the war in his eyes—duty against desire, honour against want, everything he has been taught against everything he has come to crave. You see him imagine it: reaching for you, pulling you close, forgetting the court and the oaths and the thousand eyes that watch.
You see him remember himself.
He does not answer. He cannot answer. The words are trapped in his throat, caught between his teeth, held back by a lifetime of discipline. But his eyes tell you everything—that he is drowning, that he is burning, that every moment spent in your presence is a war he is steadily losing.
And you, sweet princess, have never been one to surrender.
You let the dance continue. You let him lead, let him pretend he is in control, even as you feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge. You let him hold you, let him spin you, let him guide you through the steps with the precision of a man who is using every ounce of his focus to remember where his hands are allowed to be.
And when the dance ends, you do not let him go immediately. You keep your hand on his arm, a moment too long, and you lean in to whisper one final blow.
The evening ends with Gwayne Hightower excusing himself early, pleading a headache, and you watch him leave with a knowing smile that curls at the corner of your lips like a secret shared with no one but yourself.
Your sister finds you moments later, eyebrow arched, a goblet of wine in her hand and a knowing glint in her eye.
"What did you do to him?" she asks, and there is no accusation in her voice, only amusement. Only the curiosity of a woman who knows her sister too well to be fooled by innocence.
"Nothing," you say, innocent as a lamb, wide-eyed as a dove. "I simply danced with him."
Rhaenyra snorts, a sound most unladylike and utterly familiar. "You danced with him the same way a cat dances with a mouse.”
You smile and say nothing, because she is not wrong. Because she has never been wrong about you, not really, not when it matters. Because she knows you better than anyone, and she knows exactly what you are doing.
But she does not stop you. She never does.
Tonight, you have reached a brazenness you would otherwise not think yourself capable of.
But that is the thing about walls—once you have chipped away at them long enough, they do not so much crumble as dissolve, leaving you standing in the ruins of who you used to be, marveling at the woman you have become. And tonight, that woman is not content with whispers and glances. Tonight, she wants to hear him break.
You know he stands guard outside your chambers. You know it as surely as you know the beat of your own heart—that steady, traitorous rhythm that quickens every time you so much as glimpse his silhouette in a crowded hall. You can picture him there now: broad-shouldered and impossibly still, his silhouette backlit by the sconces that line the corridor. The flickering torchlight catches the copper in his hair, burnishes the sharp lines of his jaw. His hand rests on his sword hilt in that familiar, easy grip that speaks of decades of discipline—but you know better now. You know the tension that lives in his shoulders like a second skeleton, a permanent weight he carries because he refuses to let it go.
His jaw will be set in that maddening line of stoic resolve as he surveys the darkened hallway. The perfect knight. The unshakable sentinel. A man carved from stone and oaths.
You intend to shake him until he crumbles.
The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the stone walls, painting the room in shades of gold and crimson. The night air has turned cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from the open window—the first promise of a storm rolling in from the Blackwater, the distant rumble of thunder a fitting prelude to the tempest you are about to unleash. You left the door unlocked. Not ajar, not obvious—just unlocked. A test. An invitation. A trap baited with silk and sin.
You let your shift slip from your shoulders.
The silk pools at your feet like water, a whisper of ivory against the cold stone floor, and the cool air kisses every inch of your exposed skin—raising goosebumps across your chest, your stomach, the sensitive flesh of your thighs. You shiver, but not from the cold. Never from the cold. You are burning from the inside out, a furnace stoked by anticipation, by the knowledge that he is just beyond that door, that he can hear everything.
You lie back on your bed, the sheets soft and rumpled beneath you, and you let your hand drift lazily down the plane of your stomach. You are deliberate in your slowness. You are an artist, and this is your masterpiece—a performance meant for an audience of one, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even if he stands rigid and unyielding, pretending he cannot hear, pretending you do not exist beyond the role of princess to his protector.
But he can hear. And he does exist in the space between your thighs, whether he knows it or not.
You make no effort to stifle the sounds that escape you.
They begin softly—small, breathy sighs that could almost be mistaken for restlessness, for a woman turning in her sleep. A whisper of pleasure, barely audible, a thread of sound you let hang in the air like silk. You test the waters, waiting, listening for the telltale creak of leather shifting outside your door. Nothing. Not yet. He is made of sterner stuff than that.
So you push harder.
Your fingers find the heat between your thighs, and you trace slow, aching circles around that sensitive peak with practiced precision. You know your own body like a map you have studied in the dark—every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. And you let yourself feel it, truly feel it, because this is not merely performance. This is want. This is hunger. This is the fire that has been building since the first moment he looked at you like you were the sun and he was desperate for a taste of the burn.
A moan escapes you—low and throaty, the kind of sound that belongs in a shadowed alcove, in the tangle of sheets, in the quiet space between two bodies that have given up pretending. It is the sound of a woman who has stopped caring about propriety, who has abandoned the mask of the perfect princess and let the woman beneath claw her way to the surface.
Another. This one sharper, catching on the edge of a whimper as your fingers press harder, faster, chasing something that feels perilously close to release. You arch your back against the pillows, letting your head fall back, your hair spilling across the linens like a white halo. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, and you do nothing to quiet them. You let them swell and crest, filling the chamber with a symphony of your own making.
And you know he can hear you through the oak of the door.
You bite your lip, frustration coiling hot and heavy in your belly. Is he truly that steadfast? That unmovable? That infuriatingly honourable? You have given him every invitation, every provocation, every whispered temptation. You have stripped yourself bare, not just of silk but of pretense, and still he stands there like a sentinel carved from the very stones of the Red Keep.
You press harder, faster, your breathing growing ragged as you chase the thought of him—his hands instead of yours, his mouth on your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself imagine it is him touching you, him drawing these sounds from you. You imagine his breath hot against your ear, his voice rough with desire, whispering all the things he cannot say in the light of day.
The silence from the other side of the door is absolute. No shuffle of boots. No sharp intake of breath. No telltale clink of armour betraying a shift in stance. It is as if he has turned to stone, as if he has willed himself into a statue of duty and denial, carved from the same unyielding marble as the Seven themselves.
You are about to give up. About to abandon this foolish game and finish what you started in bitter, solitary frustration—when—
Knock. Knock.
"Princess?" His voice is low through the door, carefully measured. Painstakingly neutral. The voice of a knight addressing his charge, nothing more. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard... sounds of distress."
You almost laugh. Distress. How perfectly proper. How adorably chivalrous. If you weren't already so wound up, so aching and empty, you might find it endearing. But you are far past endearing. You are past patience, past games, past pretending that the heat between you is anything less than a wildfire waiting to consume you both.
You do not answer.
Instead, you let your fingers slide deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet chamber. You let a moan spill from your lips—deliberate, wanton, unashamed—knowing he can hear every shameful, beautiful note of it. You arch your back, let your breath catch in a sharp gasp, and you let his name fall from your lips like a prayer you have forgotten how to stop praying.
"Gwayne..."
"Princess?" His voice is sharper now, edged with something that might be worry—or might be something far more dangerous. The careful mask is slipping. You can hear the crack in his composure, the faint tremor beneath the steel. "I'm coming in. Forgive me."
The door swings open.
He stands silhouetted in the firelight, one hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats—for assassins, for intruders, for anything that might explain the sounds that have been tormenting him for the past quarter-hour. His body is coiled and ready, a predator prepared to strike, every muscle taut with the promise of violence.
Until they find you.
And then he falters.
Everything about him goes still. His hand falls from his sword, limp at his side, as though the weapon has become an afterthought, as though every lesson of his training has been rendered meaningless by the sight before him. His chest, rising and falling with quickened breath, seems to freeze mid-inhale, the air trapped in his lungs like a prisoner. His eyes—those lovely, terrible, agonized eyes—trace the curve of your body, the arch of your back against the rumpled sheets, the slow, indolent movement of your fingers still buried between your thighs.
You watch the recognition dawn on his face. The moment when the sounds he has been trying to rationalize—the soft moans, the ragged gasps, the whispered invocation of his name—finally find their source. You watch him put the pieces together, watch him realize that every moment of torment he has endured tonight was not an accident, was not a dream, was not something he could dismiss with prayer and denial.
He knows he should look away.
You see it in the way his gaze flickers, just for an instant, toward the door. You see it in the muscle that leaps in his jaw, the desperate clench of his teeth. You see the war in his eyes—the battle between every oath he has ever sworn and every desire he has ever denied.
He knows he should turn. Should close the door. Should pretend he saw nothing and scourge himself with prayer and penance for the rest of the night. He should walk away and never speak of this, never acknowledge this, never let himself remember the way you look right now—sprawled and wanton and utterly, devastatingly his.
But he cannot.
His eyes travel down the column of your throat, past the rise and fall of your bare chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, to where your fingers move in slow, torturous circles. You watch him watch you, and the power of it is intoxicating—headier than wine, sharper than any blade. You have defeated the great Ser Gwayne Hightower without ever touching him. You have brought him to his knees without ever leaving your bed.
He swallows. You watch his throat work, watch the struggle play out across his features—the desperate, agonizing push and pull of duty against desire. "You—" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again, the words scraping past his lips like broken glass. "You said you were in distress."
"Did I?" You tilt your head, all mock innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "I don't recall saying anything at all."
He flinches as if you have struck him. "Princess, I—"
"Gwayne." You say his name like a command, like a plea, like a prayer. You hold his gaze as you slowly, deliberately, begin to move your fingers again—a languid, unhurried rhythm that you know he can see, that you know he cannot look away from.
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and charged. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The fire pops and crackles. The rain patters against the window, a soft percussion against the stone. The world goes on outside, oblivious to the cataclysm happening within these four walls.
And then he breaks.
It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. One moment he is standing there, frozen in the doorway, a man carved from stone and oaths. The next, he has crossed the room in three swift strides, and suddenly he is there, standing over the bed, looking down at you with eyes that have abandoned all pretense of restraint. His chest heaves. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but they are shaking now, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.
Your fingers graze his wrist, and he shudders.
The contact is electric, a spark that leaps between you like lightning, like the first crack of thunder before a storm breaks. You feel the tremor that runs through him—the way his muscles jump beneath your touch, the way his breath catches in his throat like a man who has been drowning and has just been offered air. His control shatters.
He falls to his knees beside the bed, his hands finding your hips, gripping them with a desperate, almost bruising intensity. His forehead drops to your stomach, and you feel the hot, ragged puff of his breath against your skin—warm and uneven, a man fighting for composure and losing. He is shaking. The great Ser Gwayne Hightower is shaking like a leaf in a storm, undone by the mere touch of your hand.
"I cannot," he gasps into your skin, the words muffled against your belly, his lips brushing your flesh with each desperate syllable. "I cannot—I swore—"
"To protect me," you say softly, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft beneath your touch, copper and gold catching the firelight, and you gently scratch your nails against his scalp. He moans—a low, broken sound that vibrates against your skin. "You swore to protect me, Gwayne. Not to watch me waste away from wanting you."
He looks up at you then, and the agony in his eyes is breathtaking. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and slick. He looks like a man who has been dragged through the Seven Hells and has finally glimpsed salvation—and is terrified it will be snatched away.
"You are a princess," he says, and his voice cracks on the word, splintering like glass. "You deserve—"
"I deserve what I want." You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble that scrapes against your skin. "And I want you, Gwayne. I have wanted you since the first moment you looked at me like I was something worth burning the world down for."
His breath catches. His eyes search yours, desperate for something—permission? Absolution? A reason to stop fighting? "You know—"
"I know everything." You smile, soft and tender and achingly sincere. "I know you have been fighting yourself for months. I know you stand guard outside my door every night and pray for strength. I know you dream of me, just as I dream of you. And I am still asking."
The last of his resistance crumbles. You see it go, see the war finally end in his eyes—the way the tension drains from his shoulders, the way his hands loosen their desperate grip on your hips, the way his expression shifts from agony to something rawer, more vulnerable, more his.
And then he is surging up, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you against him as his mouth crashes into yours.
It is not gentle. It is not chivalrous. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been offered a feast. It is desperate and hungry and so full of longing that it steals the breath from your lungs. His hands rove across your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as though he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.
His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, and you open for him like a flower to the sun, letting him taste every last inch of your surrender. He groans into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through you, and you feel the last of his control slip away. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and he deepens the kiss—claiming, consuming, devouring.
You kiss him back with everything you have. All the months of longing, all the whispered fantasies, all the nights spent imagining this moment—you pour it all into the kiss, letting him feel the weight of your desire, the depth of your want. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, and you feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the rapid drumbeat of his heart echoing your own.
When he finally pulls back, he is breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still gripping you like you might disappear. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and you watch a single tremor run through him—the aftershock of a lifetime of denial finally broken.
"I am going to burn for this," he murmurs, and there is something like wonder in his voice, something like awe. "I am going to burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells for what I am about to do to you."
You laugh, soft and breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then we will burn together."
His eyes open, and the look he gives you is devastating—raw and tender and full of a love he has been too afraid to name. "You are not afraid?"
"I have never been afraid of the fire," you say softly. "I have only ever been afraid of being cold."
He kisses you again, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that speaks of promises and devotion and a future neither of you can guarantee. When he pulls back, he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Then I will keep you warm," he whispers. "For as long as you will let me."
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summary: you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you. (5k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader
contents: strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, mutual pining, canon divergent, not proofread, cw for mentions of blood and injuries, smut 18+ (MDNI): sub!gwayne, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, face riding (this man has been through enough i just need someone to take care of him okay)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Gwayne’s heavy eyes open first to a low, timbered ceiling made of clay and dry-rotted oak — certainly not the ornately embellished stone of the Red Keep, which would’ve suggested that Daemon’s army had won in their ambush and had since taken him hostage; but it wasn’t the sagging canvas of a war tent either, which also meant that no green army had yet come to his rescue. This place, wherever this place was, was small and warm and heavy with the scent of a home-cooked meal and the coppery tang of his own blood.
The hurt returns to him as slowly his consciousness does. His body aches in a way that tells him, a bit more clearly than his own memory could, that he had been long in the dying not too long ago. All of his bones feel rusted shut and heavy; each breath feels like gravel in his lungs and blades against his ribs.
“Where am I…?” Gwayne wonders aloud in a near-inaudible rasp, almost lost beneath the crackle of a fire and the soft hiss of a pot simmering somewhere close.
His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now.
Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you.
“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”
The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.
“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”
Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.
“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.
Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him.
Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.
Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.
“How did I get here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”
Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here.
He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.
“I need to leave,” he announces at once.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”
Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream.
He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries.
There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.
All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.
“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”
Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.
“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”
He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew.
“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.
There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy.
“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”
“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”
Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge.
The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised
“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”
The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.
Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.
He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.
He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.
It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.
A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”
Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.
“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”
He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh.
You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.
“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”
He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor.
You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with.
You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.
Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.
So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper.
Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.
It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.
You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.
“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.
“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.
“It hurts,” the man insists.
“It hurts because you’re squirming.”
Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”
“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”
“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”
You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.
Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”
A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.
“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”
“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”
Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.
“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.
Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”
“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”
He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.
You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.
His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.
“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.
“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”
Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”
A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…”
“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.
He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”
“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”
Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.
His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist.
“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.
Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.
“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”
Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.
“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”
He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.
He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.
Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.
“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”
You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.
“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake.
“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”
“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”
“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.
“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue.
A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back.
Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him.
“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…”
You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body. “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”
Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.”
“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.”
Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.
Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.
He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.
“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”
Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”
Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue.
He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.
He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.
You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in.
A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”
“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.”
“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”
“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
