Myrielle

“My hero!” You gushed as Gwayne's arms wrapped around your waist, stopping you from falling into the lake below you. He pulled you over his shoulder as he moved you away from the tree trunk you had tried and failed to walk across. Gwayne grunted in response to your words, rolling his eyes at your antics. “My princess, you know not how to swim, you cannot-“

“Why not?” You interrupted, giving him a gleeful smile, as Gwayne lowered you back to the floor, his face hardened “I need not know how to swim when you will save me from drowning.” 

Gwayne sent you an exasperated look, his mouth opening to say something, but no sound came out, except for a small groan when you ran your fingers through his hair, a groan that snapped him out of his exasperation and had his face hardening even more, “I am not your sworn sword, princess, I will not be there to catch you should-“

“You always are, Gwyane.”

“What?”

“There to catch me, it’s almost like you're following me,” you taunted, a smirk playing at your lips.

“What- princess, no, I promise I’m not, it is merely a coincidence.“ he flushed, his words rushing out so fast they tripped over each other.

You hummed, as you ran your hand through his hair once more. “I wouldn’t mind if you were,” you whispered so softly that he almost didn’t hear you. He swallowed roughly, processing your words, but before a response could be given, you were rushing off, greeting your friends as they stood laughing behind a tree. 

You had never been one to follow the rules and decorum of court. You did as you wished, went where you wished and acted as you wished; etiquette and propriety be damed.  A fact Gwayne was becoming all too aware of. Most knew you, daughter to a king, the realm's menace as Gwayne had nicknamed you, you had much more freedom than most. You could do whatever you wished, and with a gaggle of ladies that followed you, egged you on and dared you to do the very things that Gwayne kept seemingly having to save you from. 

Gwayne wasnt sure how he ended up in this, as he was not your sworn sword, though he may as well be. You seemed to be in lack of one constantly, or any guard for that matter. No one seemed to watch you, to mind you or your antics: anyone but him. Your ladies urged you on, your sister seemed to care little, and the few times Gwayne had encountered you falling from some tree you climbed, with your sister as company, Rhaenyra had merely shaken her head and found you falling into his arms comedic. He seemed to care, entirely too much, so much so that your words of not minding if he followed you had followed him all day. 

It was pitiful really, every Lord and knight of the realm fancied you, desired to marry you and love you. And he was no one, no one of note, not a future Lord, a son of a second son. A knight of little prestige. He was simply Gwayne, but he wanted to be your Gwayne. 

Yours.

And the only way he seemed to be allowed near you, allowed to touch you to be worthy of you, was when you were running into harm. 

He never saw you outside of that, and if you saw him, you never said anything. Never greeted him, nor looked his way. 

Instead, he was merely the knight who seemed to save you from your clumsy nature. Nothing more. And certainly a lot less.

The first time Gwayne had saved you, you had stolen a horse. You knew not how to ride, nor had you ever sat on a horse before. Dragons you knew. But horses? They were entirely foreign to you. A fact obvious by the fact you lost control of the horse as soon as you mounted it. And Gwayne, who hadn’t taken his eyes off you since you entered the courtyard, had been the only one to watch as you unflatteringly mounted the stead and clung for dear life as the beast ran straight through the gates. 

Gwayne, already astride, rode after you faster than the wind, his hands reaching to pull you off your horse as your horse rode wild into the kingswood. He had unceremoniously tugged you onto his own horse, a wide smile on your face as his own heart beat loudly in his chest, your smile and laugh doing nothing to ease the worry you had caused. “Thank you, ser.” You had merely laughed, calling him your knight and hero. You never thanked him, just met him with sarcasm and your silly little nicknames for him. And despite the nuisances of saving you, how it seemed as if he only saw you placing yourself in harm's way, his heart always seemed to flutter in your presence. Even if he didn't know you, not truly, he still desired to know you, and though he would not admit it, part of him wished to be a part of the nuisance. To ensure you were not truly harmed of course. Not just to see the gleeful smile on your face as you had fun, fun with him. 

The next time he saw you after the incident with the horse was with your head upside down as you hung from a branch of a tree, your leg stuck in some bird's nest, though the smile you gave him showed you cared little for the twisted ankle the tree had given you, nor the fact that you were upside down with blood rushing to your head. “Gwayne!” you had greeted, causing him to turn and drop the book he had been hoping to read, a bashful smile on his face as you greeted him. 

“Princess, what are you doing?” You laughed, a sound Gwayne played on his head each night. “Oh, I am just admiring the gardens from..a new perspective.”

“Ah,” Gwayne nodded, approaching you, “by choice or by circumstance?” You laughed again, “A bit of both,” watching Gwayne as he approached slowly, “being stuck, however, was of little choice. Might you assist me?”

“Have you had enough of his view of the gardens then?” he attempted to jest.

You nodded, “Yes, it is much the same as the wrong way up. Now, if you please, a bird's nest has me captive.”

Gwyane smiled, his face flushed red as he blushed, pulling your ankle gently from the bird's nest, his hands wrapping around your waist to right you. “Can you stand?” he had asked, praying you would say no so he may hold you longer. 

You shook your head, your own blush on your cheeks, from embarrassment Gwyane guessed. “Yes, no, I mean, would you assist me?”

Gwyane nodded, easing you slowly into his arms as he walked you to the maester. Walking a little slower than one should. 

After that, he seemed to run into you once a week. This river, the very same he had rescued you from today, he had saved you from at least thrice before. Once when you missed a stepping stone, the next when you had caused the very tree you tried to balance on to fall, twisting your other ankle in the process. 

But still not once did he see you outside of that, and not once were more than a few words shared. 

But today, after he had sulked off after saving you, his mind trying to ignore the feeling of you so close to him, of your words, and what meaning they could have had, you seemed to have followed him. Your gaggle of friends gone. Gwayne had felt a hand on his arm, startling him on his prowl back to his rooms. “Ser Gwayne,” he heard you speak, a smile playing at your lips.

“Princess,” he greeted, “have you found yourself in more danger in the last minute?”

You smiled, “No, though must I be for us to speak?”

“Not at all,” he smiled, suddenly feeling very nervous.

“Good,” you smiled, placing your arm through his, “then you will be happy to escort me about my day?” Gwyane smiled, a large smile he could not stop, “It would be my pleasure.” 

You smiled, leaning into him softly, urging him towards Maegors Holdfast, “I meant it, you know.” Gwyane looked at you, his confusion evident. “About not minding if you did follow me,” he watched you clear your throat, “and before your mind goes there, not as a sworn sword,”

“Princess-” You stopped him, insisting he call you by your name, and he did, his heart matching yours in its flutter, “what is it you mean?”

You stopped walking, pulling him into a hidden alcove. “What I mean is, I have been trying to capture your attention for moons now,” you cleared your throat, “and you seem to be entirely clueless to it.” Gwyane spoke your name softly, disbelief on his face. He was sure you didn't mean it. What could you want with him? Why would you crave his attention, and did you crave his attention for the very reason he craved yours? “You wish for my attention?” 

“Well, I wished for you to court me, but I-”

He cut you off. “Court you?” he repeated. Surely there are more entitled men? Lords or future lords,” “Mayhaps,” you nodded, “but they are not you.”

“You hardly know me,” “No?” you shook your head, “you have saved me enough times, saved me from every tree I have dared climb, lake I dared cross knowing if I slipped I would drown, followed me as i wandered my mind elsewhere, your hands pulling me back before I walked into a tree or out of a window,” you laughed, “you have saved me, you are my knight,” you blushed, “and I know you fancy me, your sister has shown me the love letters.” you giggled.

Gwyane paled, “I was young and fanciful-” You shushed him, your hands on his arms, “I liked them, I thought them romantic.” Gwyane's back straightened at your words, his smile larger than ever, as he puffed his chest in pride at your words.  “I was hoping if I fell into danger enough times you would get the hint and actually gift me one, but alas,” you sighed dramatically, “here I am begging you-”

“My princess, you need not beg,” Gwyane shook his head. “I had thought you unfazed by my appearance and help, that you saw me as a silly knight, not a suitor,” his eyes looked with yours, confidence strumming through his veins as he leaned his head closer to yours. “Had I known, I gladly would have gifted you a love letter each and every day if it pleased you.”

“I believe it would please me,” you nodded, moving your face closer to his, your breaths mingling, “though what should please me now would be your lips upon mine,” you breathed, and Gwyanes' breath shuddered before he moved closer, his moulding his lips into yours, a kiss that was menat to be chaste ending with his hands holding your face to him, kissing you with the heat and desire that had built into him these past moons of saving your from your impulses and distractedness, acts which he know knew where meant to get his attention.

“So you will court me,” you breathed, leaning into him, still even as your lips broke from his.

“Of course,” he nodded, smiling as you did.

The argument began over something small, so small that later neither of you could remember how it had started.

Rain battered the windows of the tower chamber while the fire snapped in the hearth. You, his young bride stood near the table, hands clenched in the folds of your gown, trying desperately to explain yourself while Prince Maekar Targaryen paced before you like a storm given flesh.

“You never listen,” he snapped.

“I was only trying to—”

“You were told what was expected of you.”

His voice struck the stone walls hard enough to make you flinch. Maekar was not a gentle man by nature. Sternness sat in him as naturally as breathing, and anger came quickly when he felt challenged.

You looked away.

“I did not mean disrespect.”

“But you gave it.”

The words came harsher than he intended, sharpened by exhaustion and pride. He saw your mouth part slightly, as if you wished to answer, but then your expression crumpled instead, and tears welled in your eyes.

You turned away from him quickly, pressing a hand to your face as though ashamed he might see.

And suddenly the room felt horribly silent.

Maekar’s anger vanished so swiftly it left him cold.

Gods.

He stared at your rigid shoulders and realized, with a sick heaviness in his chest, that he had frightened you.The last thing in the world he wanted.

You, his bride, was a bright laughter in dark halls, warmth beside him at supper, soft hands reaching for his when no one watched. You spoke endlessly about little things he never would have cared for before meeting you, and now he listened simply because he loved hearing your voice.

And he had reduced you to tears. Maekar swallowed hard.

“Look at me.”

You shook your head. His chest tightened painfully. He crossed the room slower this time, cautiously, as though approaching a wounded creature. He reached for your hand.

"Please.”

That word sounded strange from him. Rare. At last you turned. Your cheeks were flushed, lashes wet, and you looked so wounded by his temper that shame burned through him.

“I should not have shouted at you,” he said quietly.

You said nothing.

“I was angry, and I spoke cruelly.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You did not deserve it.”

Your lips trembled again. “You looked at me as though you hated me.”

The words struck him harder than any blade.

“Hate you?” he repeated, almost disbelieving. “I could never hate you.”

He reached for your other hand slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wished. When you did not, he cupped your face carefully in both hands, thumbs brushing the tears from beneath your eyes.

“I am sorry,” he said again, softer now. “Truly.”

For a long moment you simply looked at him. Then, quietly: “You frightened me.”

Pain flickered across his face.

Maekar lowered his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. “I know.” His voice roughened. “And I swear I will regret it longer than you will.”

Maekar stepped into the dimly lit bedchamber and pushed the door shut with his shoulder, exhaustion deep in his bones. It had been a miserable succession of hours, filled with petitions, disputes, and the endless, grinding bureaucracy of his station. His head throbbed with a dull rhythm behind his eyes, and his shoulders felt as though they were bearing the weight of the entire castle's stone.

He stood still for a moment, allowing the silence of the room to wash over him. Usually, by the time he managed to escape his duties, the chambers were dark and cold, the fire reduced to a pile of grey ash, and you, his wife, long lost to the world of sleep. It had been this way for days; a cycle of missed connections and silent beds that left him feeling more like a visitor in his own life than a husband. He had braced himself for the same sight tonight, for the loneliness of undressing in the dark and sliding into cold sheets alone.

But the room was not dark.

Two candles still burned on the bedside table, their flames casting a warm, golden glow against the stone walls. And there you were, propped up against the mountain of pillows, your eyes open and fixed on the heavy tome resting on your rounded belly.

Maekar let out a breath he felt he had been holding since sunrise. He crossed the room, his boots making little sound and stopped at the edge of the bed.

"You are awake still?" he asked. His voice was rougher than he intended, scraped dry by the day's use.

You lowered the book slowly, your gaze lifting to meet his. You looked tired, the skin beneath your eyes shadowed, but the candlelight caught the warmth in your irises. "I am." 

A simple statement, yet the way you said it, the slight flatness of the tone, the tightness at the corners of your mouth, sent a subtle warning signal through him. He knew that tone. It was the sound of patience worn thin, a rope fraying, pulled taut by the discomfort of carrying another life. He had learned over the past months that the landscape of your moods had shifted; once open paths were now mined with irritability. It was best to tread lightly.

"I am glad. I feared I would miss you again."

You offered a small, tired smile that did not quite reach your eyes. "I was too uncomfortable to sleep."

As you shifted, adjusting your position against the pillows, and pushed the covers off of you, the candlelight illuminated more than just your face. Maekar's breath caught in his throat.

He had been prepared for a nightgown of heavy linen, something modest and practical. What he saw was something else entirely.

The garment you wore was barely a garment at all. It was made of a sheer fabric that clung to your skin, doing almost nothing to hide the body beneath. Two thin straps of the same translucent material were the only things holding it up over your shoulders. The bodice was cut low, the fabric so fine that the dark flush of your areolas was clearly visible through the weave. Your stomach, heavy with the child you had made together, pressed outward, the sheer cloth stretching tight over the magnificent curve, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His gaze traveled downward, following the line of your body. The hem of the nightgown had ridden up with your movement, stopping scandalously high on your thighs. It was so short that it served almost no purpose. He could see the full, lush curve of your backside where it pressed into the mattress, and the space between your thighs where the fabric failed to cover you at all. You were, for all intents and purposes, naked.

The exhaustion that had been weighing him down vanished, replaced instantly by a hot, sharp rush of blood. Every frustration of the day, every petty argument he had endured, every scroll he had signed dissolved. There was only the sudden, overwhelming need to be inside you.

He stood frozen for a moment, his hand gripping the bedpost until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to touch you, to run his hands over that sheer fabric and feel the heat of your skin beneath. He wanted to bury his face between your thighs until he could not think straight.

But he restrained himself. The warning in your voice echoed in his mind. He took a long, steadying breath and forced himself to move, to break the spell of the visual before he did something foolish.

"I will wash," he said, his voice sounding strained to his own ears. "And then join you."

He turned away from the bed and moved toward the basin on the table across the room. The water was cold, but he barely felt it as he splashed it onto his face, trying to cool the fire burning under his skin. He could feel your eyes on him. He reached for the towel, drying his face with rough, jerky movements.

Behind him, the sheets rustled.

"Must you do that quite so loudly?" you asked.

Maekar paused, lowering his hand slowly. He had not thought he was being loud, but then, his senses were currently overwhelmed. To you, perhaps the sound of splashing water and the scratch of cloth seemed like a clamor.

"My apologies," he said, turning back to you once more. He noted, with a twinge of self-deprecation, that he had been apologizing a great deal lately.

He began to undress, making a conscious effort to slow his movements, to be as silent as a shadow in the room. He pulled his tunic over his head, the fabric sliding over his skin, and removed his boots, setting them down with exaggerated care. He unlaced his breeches, letting them fall.

He stood in his smallclothes for a moment and looked at you again. You were watching him, your expression unreadable, but you had not looked away.

"Has the day been kind to you?" he asked, trying to bridge the gap between you with conversation. He walked back to the bedside, checking on you as he always did, needing to know you were comfortable, that you were well.

You sighed, a small, weary sound. "The day was long. The babe is heavy. He feels like he is sitting on my bladder and kicking my ribs at the same time."

Maekar reached out, his hand hovering over your stomach before he gently placed his palm against the sheer fabric. He felt a shift beneath his hand, a hard elbow or knee pressing outward against his skin. It was a strange, powerful sensation, feeling the life you had created moving inside you.

"He is strong," Maekar said, his thumb stroking the taut skin gently. "Like his mother."

You huffed a soft laugh, leaning your head back against the pillows. "He is stubborn. Like his father."

"Perhaps," Maekar allowed, a small smile touching his lips. "But he is lucky to have you."

You looked up at him, your eyes softening just a fraction. "And I am lucky to have you. Even if you are loud."

Maekar chuckled. He leaned over and blew out the two candles on the table. The room plunged into darkness, save for the pale silver light of the moon filtering through the window. It cast long, spectral shadows across the floor, but it was enough.

He moved to the side of the bed and lifted the heavy fur coverlet to crawl in. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved on hands and knees over you, careful to keep his bulk suspended above you. He paused there, hovering in the dark, looking down at your face illuminated by the moonlight.

He lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. It was a test, and you did not push him away. Encouraged, he leaned in further and placed a soft, lingering kiss on your lips. Still, you did not protest.

He moved his mouth to the sensitive skin just below your jaw, kissing a slow trail down the line of your throat. His hand moved of its own accord, sliding up your side to cup one of your breasts through the sheer fabric. It was heavy in his hand, the weight of it changed by the pregnancy, the nipple pebbled against his palm.

"Maekar," 

Your voice was not sharp, but it was firm.

"Hmm?" he murmured against your skin, not stopping, not yet.

"I am not in the mood."

Maekar went still, his hand froze on your breast, and his lips remained resting against the pulse point in your neck. The words did not make sense to him at first. For over a year, since the beginning of your marriage, your desire for him had been a constant, a burning fire that often outmatched his own. There had never been a time when you had turned him away.

He pulled back, lifting his upper body so he could look down at your face, even in the dim light. He felt adrift, suddenly unsure of his footing.

"Oh," he said. The silence stretched between you awkwardly.

 "Is... is everything all right?"

He searched your face for some sign of distress, some clue to what he had done wrong.

You let out a breath, shifting slightly beneath him. "Everything is fine. I am just... I am tired, Maekar. I ache. My back hurts, my feet are swollen, and I just want to sleep."

With some effort, you rolled over, turning your back to him. The movement was slow and clumsy, hampered by the size of your stomach. You settled with a huff, pulling the covers up to your shoulder.

Maekar remained frozen on his hands and knees above you for a moment longer, the rejection settling over him like a cold draft.

"Alright," he said finally, his voice quiet.

He climbed off you and moved to his side of the bed. He lay down on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, the moonlight catching the edges of the stone beams above. He stared straight ahead, his hands clasped over his chest, trying to will his body to relax, to let go of the tension that had coiled in his muscles. He felt exposed, his arousal still a heavy, insistent presence between his thighs, trapped in the fabric of his smallclothes. He felt ridiculous.

Then, he felt the mattress shift as you moved. He turned his head to see you rolling back toward him. You were looking at him, your eyes wide and questioning in the gloom.

"Are you not going to hold me?" you asked.

Maekar blinked. He looked at you, then down at the obvious tent in the smallclothes he still wore, then back at you. He was painfully, throbbingly hard. Holding you now, spooning your body against his, would be a unique form of torture. It would take every ounce of his self-control not to grind against you, not to try to coax a different response from you.

"Well..." He hesitated, warring with himself. "Alright."

He rolled onto his side, facing you, and opened his arms. You scooted closer, settling your back against his chest. He wrapped one arm around your waist, his hand resting on the swell of your stomach. He bent his knees, tucking his legs behind yours, trying to find a position that did not press his hips too tightly against you.

It was impossible. As soon as you settled back into him, your soft, ample backside pressed firmly against his groin. You were essentially naked, the sheer fabric doing nothing to cushion the contact. You felt it immediately; the hard, hot length of him against you.

"Maekar."

Your voice was sharp now, laced with brittle energy; the sound of a woman who had reached the end of her rope.

"Please," you said, pulling slightly away from him. "What is the matter with you?"

Maekar tightened his arm around your waist, keeping you from pulling away completely, but he froze his hips, mortified.

"With me?" he asked, his voice incredulous. "Wife, look at you. He gestured vaguely toward the sheer nothingness of your nightgown. "You are lying here practically naked. How else is my body to react? I am a man, not a statue."

You let out a groan of frustration, thumping your head back against the pillow. "I am not dressed like this for you, Maekar. My blood feels as if it is boiling constantly, my skin feels too tight, and I am enormous! None of my other gowns fit anymore. This is all I have that does not make me feel as if I am being strangled."

You stopped, taking a ragged breath. "I am not trying to tempt you. I am simply trying to endure."

Maekar lay there, the words washing over him. The heat left his face, replaced by a flush of guilt that was far more uncomfortable than his arousal. He felt foolish. He had been so focused on his own desire, on the sight of you, that he had completely ignored the reality of your suffering.

"I am sorry. I was not thinking. I only saw... well. I did not see how uncomfortable you were."

He shifted his body back slightly, creating a fraction of space between you, trying to relieve the pressure against you. He adjusted his arm, moving it from your waist to stroke your hair gently, his fingers combing through the thick locks.

"You are a wonder," he whispered into the dark. "I know it is hard. I see you, I truly do."

He felt your body relax against him. The tension in your shoulders seemed to melt away under the gentle rhythm of his hand in your hair.

"I love you," he said. "More than I can say, and I mean every word when I say that you are still so beautiful. More beautiful now, perhaps."

You turned your head slightly. "I snapped at you," you murmured, your voice thick with tiredness and a sudden wave of emotion. "I am sorry. I did not mean to be cruel."

"You were not cruel," he assured you, kissing your temple, his lips lingering on the soft skin there. "You are tired. You have every right to be cross. I should have known better."

"I love you," you whispered back. The words were a sigh, a final release of the day's tension. You settled deeper into his embrace, your back pressing against his chest.

"Sleep now," he said softly. "I have you."

Your eyes closed. He could feel the heavy, even rhythm of your breathing begin to slow, to deepen. Your body, usually so restless and uncomfortable, went slack against him. The babe shifted once more, a slow roll beneath his hand, and then stilled.