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Pairing: Dream of the Endless x Reader (Hob's Daughter) Warning: Angst, AU-Fic, Eventually Smut, Graphic Scenes, Death Tag List: Please comment below if you wish to be tagged.
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Over the four months following your first meeting with your father’s strange friend, you busied yourself with work and music. There was always enough of both. The orchestra’s winter programme required longer rehearsals, additional sectional work and several evenings spent beneath the conductor’s increasingly unforgiving stare. Difficult passages were repeated until your shoulder burned and the skin beneath your fingertips hardened further. A fractionally early entrance could condemn the entire string section to another twenty minutes of repetition.
You attended lectures between rehearsals, accepted private work whenever it appeared and continued taking shifts at the New Inn because orchestras paid considerably less than people imagined. When you were not performing music, you were writing it. The melody you had first recovered in dreams remained with you in perfect detail.
You played it often, although never casually. There was something within it that refused to become ordinary. No matter how frequently you returned to the opening phrase, the final passage still carried the same weight. Grief lived within the notes—not the immediate violence of new loss, but something older and quieter. Grief preserved so long that it had become part of the person carrying it. You did not understand why it made you think of your father’s friend.
You remembered his presence in the dream only indistinctly. A pale figure dressed in black. A voice confirming that you had finally found the correct ending.
Sometimes, when you played the final passage, you remembered impossible eyes filled with distant stars. Then the image vanished. You began writing another piece several weeks later.
Unlike the first melody, this one did not arrive complete. It came in fragments. A sequence for the violins appeared while you were travelling on the underground. You wrote it across the back of an old receipt before it could disappear.
A passage for the woodwinds occurred to you while you were behind the bar. You wrote that one on an invoice and nearly caused Hob to submit half a musical movement with the monthly accounts. At night, the piece followed you into dreams. You dreamed of an enormous chamber built from dark stone. Its ceiling rose so high that it disappeared into mist, and the music did not come from musicians but from the architecture itself.
The strings lived within the walls. The brass sounded beneath the floor. Voices moved among the arches overhead.
At the centre of the chamber stood a black tree. There were no leaves upon its branches. Instead, sheets of music hung from them, turning softly in a wind you could not feel. Some contained passages you had already written.
Others held music you had not yet discovered. You reached for one of the pages. A pale hand removed it before you could touch it.
You looked up. Your father’s friend stood on the opposite side of the tree. He did not look entirely as he had in the New Inn.
His black clothes moved as if they had been cut from smoke and shadow. His skin appeared almost luminous against the darkness, while his eyes contained not merely points of light but vast, turning skies. You should have been frightened. Instead, you were annoyed.
“I was about to read that.”
He held the page between long white fingers.
“It is not yet written.”
His voice seemed to come from the stone around you.
“Then why is it hanging from a tree?”
“Because you have dreamed it.”
You moved around the trunk, but he remained opposite you.
“May I have it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you must find it yourself.”
You frowned at him.
“You gave me the ending of the other melody.”
For one instant, something entered his expression. Pain. It was ancient and immense, but gone so quickly that you were uncertain whether you had seen it at all.
“That song was not yours to create,” he said. “You merely found it again after it had been lost for a very long time.”
“And this one is?”
“Yes.”
You looked up at the pages shifting among the branches.
“Is it good?”
His gaze settled upon you.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I am writing it.”
“You ask whether it is good because you wish to know whether others will admire it.”
His voice remained calm. That made the judgement in it worse.
“You have not asked whether it is true.”
You stared at him.
“That is unnecessarily severe.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came. He extended the page towards you.
You reached for it. Before your fingers touched the paper, it folded in upon itself and became a white moth. It flew through your hand and vanished among the dark branches.
“That was irritating.”
“You will remember what is required.”
Silver light split the trunk of the tree. The music inside the walls grew louder. You looked at him through the widening fracture.
“Will I remember you?”
The chamber began to collapse into mist. He watched you as the darkness drew him away.
“Perhaps.”
You woke with your arm extended above you and your fingers closed around nothing. You remembered the black tree. You remembered the moth.
You remembered speaking to someone, although his face faded the moment you attempted to hold it. The music did not. You wrote until nearly midday.
By the time Hob entered the kitchen, you had covered the table in manuscript paper. He stopped in the doorway with a cup of tea in one hand.
“Another one?”
You did not look up.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“This one is being difficult.”
Hob crossed towards the table and looked down at the pages. He had never learned to read music fluently despite possessing seven centuries in which to do so. He claimed he understood enough. You suspected this meant he could identify when the notes moved upwards.
“Is it like the other melody?”
“No.”
You tapped the end of your pencil against the page.
“The other one felt as though I was remembering something. This feels like I am searching for something that has not happened yet.”
Hob’s mouth tightened.
“Peculiar.”
You glanced up.
“What is?”
He gestured vaguely towards the manuscript.
“All these songs coming to you in your dreams shortly after my immortal acquaintance surfaced again.”
You stared at him.
“You think he has something to do with it?”
Hob hesitated.
“Not purposefully, probably.”
“Probably?”
He sat opposite you.
“His return may have had something to do with you dreaming.”
You lowered your pencil. The suggestion should have sounded ridiculous. It did not.
“I saw him in two of my dreams. Possibly more.”
Hob became very still.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“The music ones.”
His expression changed in a way you could not interpret.
“Did he speak to you?”
“Only in the last one. I think. I cannot fully remember.”
You frowned, attempting to recover the memory.
“He helped me finish the first melody. In another, he would not let me read a piece I had not written yet.”
Hob stared at you and chuckled.
“What is he?” you then asked.
Hob looked down at your manuscript.
“That is not for me to share.”
“So he is not like you?”
A strange sound escaped Hob. It might have been a laugh.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he is slightly more important than me.”
You leaned back in your chair.
“Slightly.”
“Considerably.”
“Is he a vampire?”
Hob looked at you in disbelief.
“What?”
“I am merely asking.”
“No.”
“He is pale, dresses entirely in black and apparently enters dreams.”
“He is not a vampire.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
Hob rubbed one hand over his face.
“And let’s just say that, if you see him in your dreams, it is not as random as you think.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means he was there by choice.”
You stared at your father.
“That is not how dreaming works.”
Hob held your gaze.
“It is when it concerns him.”
The room became strangely quiet. You thought of the pale figure at the edge of the rehearsal room. The black tree.
The voice that had known precisely which piece of music you were trying to find.
“He chose to enter my dreams?”
“It would appear so.”
“Why?”
“That,” Hob said slowly, “is something I intend to ask him.”
You studied his face.
“Should I be concerned?”
Hob did not answer immediately. That concerned you more than an immediate denial would have. At last, he reached across the table and turned one of the pages towards himself as though he understood anything written upon it.
“He is not careless with those who dream.”
“That was not an answer.”
“No.”
His gaze returned to you.
“But if he intended you harm, I doubt he would have helped you finish a song.”
You thought of the sorrow in the final passage.
“It was not merely a song.”
Hob noticed the change in your voice.
“What was it?”
You shook your head.
“I don’t know.”
You gathered the pages together.
“But I think it belonged to someone he loved.”
********
The new composition developed over the weeks that followed. You did not see the stranger again. Not in waking life.
Not clearly in dreams. Occasionally, you sensed someone at the edge of them. A figure standing beyond the range of the stage lights.
A shadow beneath the arches. A presence listening without interrupting. Whether it was truly him or merely your imagination, you could not tell.
You completed the composition without further help. The final movement emerged one rainy morning while you were walking towards rehearsal. You stopped beneath the awning of a closed shop and wrote it with the paper pressed against the brick wall. By the time you reached the conservatoire, the ink had bled in several places and the sleeve of your coat was soaked.
The music remained. Maddy heard the first orchestral reading two weeks later. She sat in the otherwise sparse recital hall holding two coffees and a paper bag containing pastries. She was not musical, beyond a few childhood piano lessons she described as psychological warfare, but she attended almost every performance you gave.
She had strong opinions regarding composers. She liked Tchaikovsky. She tolerated Brahms.
She claimed Wagner made her want to invade a neighbouring country. Your composition began with a violin alone. The other strings entered gradually, forming themselves around the melody without consuming it. Woodwinds followed, hesitant and searching. Beneath them, the cellos introduced a second theme—warmer, darker and somehow older than the first.
The two melodies circled one another. At times, they appeared to argue. At others, each seemed to exist solely because the other was present.
They came together for only eight measures. Then they parted. The violin continued alone until the final note disappeared.
Silence followed. The conductor did not immediately lower his baton. The musicians remained still.
Professor Steven O’Callaghan sat in the third row with your score open across his knee, his pen motionless in his hand. At last, the principal cellist exhaled. The sound seemed startlingly loud.
Maddy waited until you reached the corridor before catching both your arms.
“What the hell was that?”
You nearly dropped your violin case.
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“No. You do not get to behave as though that was normal.”
“It was an orchestral composition.”
“It was five minutes of emotional devastation.”
You took one of the coffees from her.
“That seems excessive.”
“The horn player cried.”
“The horn player cries frequently.”
“Professor O’Callaghan looked impressed.”
You glanced towards the closed doors.
“Professor O’Callaghan always looks as though he is deciding whether someone deserves to survive.”
“Today he decided you did.”
You laughed softly and began walking. Maddy followed.
“Where did it come from?”
“I wrote it.”
“I understand the basic principle. Where did you get the idea?”
You adjusted your bag over your shoulder.
“A dream, mostly.”
Maddy stopped.
“Again?”
You continued towards the courtyard. She hurried to catch up.
“Was he there?”
You looked at her.
“Who?”
“The weird, hot one.”
You nearly walked into the door.
“What?”
“Your father’s strange friend. The pale one who looks as if sunlight personally offended him.”
“I only vaguely remember it.”
“But he was there again? Just like in the last dream?”
“Yeah.”
Maddy stared.
“You have dreamed about the same man twice?”
“Apparently.”
“And what was he doing?”
You pushed open the courtyard door. Cold air moved around you.
“Listening.”
“That is either romantic or deeply sinister.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“It was odd. It felt as though he already knew the music and was waiting to see whether I could find it.”
“Perhaps your subconscious chose him because he frightened you.”
“Perhaps.”
You took a cautious sip of coffee.
“Dad said—”
You stopped and bit your tongue. Maddy’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“Your dad said what?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
You hesitated. Hob had not expressly forbidden you from telling anyone what he had said. He had merely made it very clear that the truth belonged to his strange friend and was not his to share. Besides, telling Maddy that the man had possibly entered your dreams deliberately would lead to questions you could not answer without revealing considerably more about Hob than she had ever been permitted to know.
So you lied.
“Dad said dreams are sometimes strange and that I shouldn’t overthink them.”
Maddy stared at you.
“That was the dramatic secret?”
“It was not a dramatic secret.”
“You stopped halfway through the sentence and looked as though you had nearly revealed a state conspiracy.”
“I momentarily forgot how unhelpful his advice was.”
“It is extremely unhelpful.”
“Exactly.”
Maddy continued to watch you suspiciously.
“Did he say anything about his friend?”
“Only that he has always been peculiar.”
That, at least, was true.
“How long has he known him?”
You concentrated upon replacing the lid on your coffee.
“A long time.”
“That was evasive.”
“I don’t know the precise answer.”
Also true.
“Your father is extremely odd about that man.”
“My father is extremely odd about many things.”
“Fair.”
You continued across the courtyard. Maddy remained beside you.
“But your father is right. Dreams can be strange,” she said. “I dreamt something entirely absurd last night.”
You glanced towards her. Her expression changed.
“Actually, never mind.”
“No. You cannot introduce an absurd dream and then refuse to explain it.”
“It was inappropriate.”
“Even better.”
Maddy groaned.
“It involved Sven.”
You stopped. Sven Dahl was the orchestra’s assistant conductor, a broad-shouldered Swede with an austere face and an unnerving ability to silence an entire brass section merely by removing his glasses. He had spoken to Maddy perhaps six times.
Four of those conversations had concerned where she was permitted to sit during rehearsals. You stared at her.
“Sven?”
“I told you it was absurd.”
“What happened?”
“I am not giving you details.”
“Were there details?”
Maddy covered her face.
“Unfortunately.”
You began laughing. She struck your arm with the pastry bag.
“Stop it.”
“Perhaps your subconscious is trying to tell you something too.”
Maddy glared at you.
“Like what?” she asked. “Unlike your father’s weird friend, Sven isn’t exactly scary.”
“I don’t think Dad’s friend is scary.”
Maddy’s expression changed immediately.
“So you think he’s hot too.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You took another sip of coffee and decided to change the subject before she could become any more insufferable.
“That old book I was reading when Dad’s friend first appeared—I dreamed the actual ending.”
Maddy lowered her hands.
“The house with the people in the walls?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it was the actual ending?”
You thought of the sentence that had appeared beneath the final printed paragraph. The house was gone, but what had lived within it had learned her name. You had never told anyone about that.
“It matched what he described.”
“He might have invented it.”
“I found a surviving letter online confirming that the ending had been changed.”
Maddy considered that.
“That is strange.”
“I also found out the author was delirious for several days before the final manuscript was submitted.”
“Clearly.”
“He apparently kept talking about voices moving through the walls.”
Maddy stopped walking.
“You might have mentioned that part sooner.”
“It was probably the fever.”
“Or your father’s terrifying friend knows far too much about obscure dead authors.”
“Both possibilities are equally comforting.”
Before you could say anything more, the door behind you opened. Professor Steven O’Callaghan stepped into the courtyard. He wore a dark wool coat buttoned neatly over his suit. His silvering hair had somehow remained untouched by the wind.
His gaze moved first to you and then to Maddy.
“Miss Gadling.”
You shifted your violin case against your hip.
“Professor.”
“May I speak with you?”
Maddy looked at you.
“I can wait.”
Professor O’Callaghan’s smile was professionally polite.
“It may take some time.”
Maddy hesitated. You nodded towards the gate.
“I’ll call you.”
She squeezed your arm before leaving. Professor O’Callaghan waited until she had gone.
“Walk with me.”
*********
Steven O’Callaghan had taught at the conservatoire for nearly eighteen years. His reputation extended far beyond the institution. He had discovered soloists, secured grants for composers and introduced promising musicians to patrons whose approval opened doors throughout Europe.
Students he favoured received opportunities. Students he disliked tended to find those opportunities disappearing. You had attended two of his courses. His criticism was merciless, precise and usually correct, which made it difficult to dismiss.
You followed him into his office. Scores covered one wall. Framed photographs showed him beside celebrated conductors, composers and musicians whose biographies you had studied. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk.
You sat.
“Your work today was exceptional.”
You looked at him. Praise from Professor O’Callaghan was ordinarily followed by an insult.
“Thank you.”
“It lacks discipline in places.”
There it was. He removed his coat.
“The transition preceding the final recapitulation is indulgent. Your use of the horns is emotionally effective but structurally unjustified.”
“I can revise it.”
“You should.”
He moved behind his desk.
“However, the central idea is gifted.”
The word landed harder than you expected. You lowered your eyes briefly.
“Thank you.”
“Do not become embarrassed. False modesty is tedious.”
You looked up.
“It was not false modesty.”
“Good.”
He sat.
“You are talented, Miss Gadling. More talented than several people who already possess the career you imagine for yourself.”
You remained quiet.
“But talent is rarely enough.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze remained fixed upon you.
“The profession is crowded. Institutions release hundreds of competent musicians every year into an industry without enough space for them. Most will teach children, play weddings or abandon performance.”
“There is nothing wrong with teaching or playing weddings.”
“No. But that is not what you want.”
You did not respond. He leaned back.
“You want to compose.”
“Yes.”
“You want serious orchestras to perform your work.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually is what people say when they do not know how to proceed.”
His voice softened.
“I know how.”
Hope entered you before caution could prevent it. Professor O’Callaghan possessed connections you could not create for yourself. A recommendation from him could accomplish more than years of applications.
“There is a residency in Vienna next spring,” he said. “Four composers. Full funding. Professional performances at its conclusion.”
You knew the programme. Every student composer did.
“Applications closed months ago.”
“Officially.”
You looked at him.
“One of the successful candidates has withdrawn.”
“And you select the replacement?”
“I advise the committee.”
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.
“Would you recommend me?”
Professor O’Callaghan smiled. It was not a kind expression.
“I might.”
The hope cooled.
“What would you require?”
He rose from his chair.
“Commitment.”
“To the residency?”
“To your development.”
He came around the desk. Something in your body understood before your mind did. Your shoulders stiffened.
He stopped beside you. Too close.
“You are young,” he said. “You have not yet learned how often careers are built outside formal auditions.”
You stood.
“I should leave.”
He placed one hand against the back of your chair, obstructing the easiest route towards the door without quite touching you.
“You misunderstand me.”
“I do not think I do.”
His expression hardened.
“Do not be childish.”
Disgust moved through you with such force that it became physical. You were suddenly conscious of the closed door and the quiet corridor beyond it.
“Move.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You should think carefully before choosing indignation.”
His other hand settled against your waist. You stepped away so quickly that the chair struck the desk.
“Do not touch me.”
He removed his hand. His composure made it worse.
“Nothing has happened.”
“You offered me a residency in exchange for sleeping with you.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Then recommend me without this conversation.”
Silence. His eyes cooled.
“You are gifted, but difficult.”
“Meaning?”
“You lack patience with authority. Your manner is abrasive. You are too quick to interpret correction as attack.”
“This was not correction.”
“This tendency to dramatise discomfort will not serve you.”
You reached for the door. His voice followed you.
“Vienna would change your career.”
Your hand stopped upon the handle. For one terrible moment, you saw everything he was offering. A residency.
Professional musicians performing your work. Access to a world you had spent years trying to enter. Then you remembered his hand on your waist.
You opened the door.
“Then I will have to change it myself.”
You stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind you. You did not run. You wanted to.
Instead, you walked through the conservatoire with your back straight until you reached the street. Only then did you breathe. Your hands were shaking.
Maddy answered on the second ring.
“How did it—”
“Where are you?”
Her voice changed immediately.
“The café opposite the station. What happened?”
“I’m coming.”
**********
Maddy wanted you to report him. She also wanted to return to the conservatoire and pour coffee over his head. You prevented the second plan.
You were less certain about the first.
“He will deny it.”
“Of course he will. Men like that practise denying things before they do them.”
You stared into your untouched tea. Maddy sat opposite you in the corner of the café. Her anger had made her frighteningly calm.
“Did he lock the door?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“Did he touch you?”
You swallowed.
“My waist.”
Maddy closed her eyes.
“I am going to kill him.”
“You cannot kill a professor because he touched my waist.”
“Watch me.”
“That would cause additional administrative difficulties.”
She opened her eyes.
“You are making jokes because you feel sick.”
You looked towards the window.
“Probably.”
“Tell your dad.”
Your answer came immediately.
“No.”
“Why not?”
You imagined Hob hearing what had happened. He would believe you. He would not ask whether you had misunderstood, what you had worn or why you had entered the office.
That certainty should have made telling him easier. Instead, it made you imagine what he would do afterwards. Hob had adapted to modern laws.
He had not entirely abandoned older ones.
“Because Dad would do something.”
“Good.”
“Something bad.”
“Also good.”
“He occasionally abides by laws that stopped existing in the fourteenth century.”
Maddy considered that.
“Can he frighten O’Callaghan without committing a felony?”
“I am not confident he distinguishes between those activities.”
She reached across the table and covered your hand.
“You cannot do nothing.”
“I know.”
“Write down everything that happened.”
You nodded.
“And never meet him alone again.”
“I have no intention to.”
“Good.”
You drew in a slow breath.
“Do not tell Dad.”
Maddy’s mouth tightened.
“For now.”
“Maddy.”
“For now,” she repeated. “But if O’Callaghan threatens you, harms your work or comes near you again, I am telling Hob. Then I am helping him select the most appropriate medieval punishment.”
You nearly smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I am still considering the coffee.”
**********
You did not tell Hob. You wrote down every detail. You sent a copy to Maddy and saved several more.
Then you changed for work. The New Inn was quiet that evening. Rain had discouraged most customers. A two-person folk band occupied the small platform beside the fire, playing for several regulars, a young couple sharing wine and an elderly woman who appeared to have fallen asleep.
The musicians were siblings named Niamh and Conor. Niamh sang and played guitar. Conor moved between a bodhrán, mandolin and fiddle with the relaxed competence of someone who had learned music in crowded rooms rather than formal lessons.
You had heard them before. They were good. You preferred classical music. You liked structure, discipline and the intimacy created when dozens of musicians surrendered themselves to the same written intention.
But folk music possessed a freedom you envied. Nothing remained fixed. A tune could change according to the room and the people playing it.
You were wiping the bar when Conor approached during their break. His gaze dropped to your left hand.
“You play.”
You looked at your fingers.
“Is it that obvious?”
He held up his own callused fingertips.
“Fiddle?”
“Violin.”
“Same thing.”
“Do not say that near anyone from the conservatoire.”
He grinned and held out his fiddle.
“Play the next set.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m working.”
Hob spoke from the other end of the bar.
“You are not working especially hard.”
You looked at him. He had been distracted all evening, glancing towards the door every few minutes. Someone was expected.
You knew who before the door opened. The room changed. The flames sank slightly in the fireplace.
The elderly woman woke, looked towards the entrance and promptly closed her eyes again. The stranger stepped inside. He wore black.
His pale face was as severe as you remembered, his hair untidy above eyes that caught the dim light in an impossible way. Recognition moved through you. Rain against tall windows.
A black tree. A white moth. Then it was gone.
Hob straightened.
“You’re late.”
The stranger approached the bar.
“We agreed upon no hour.”
“I said evening.”
“It is evening.”
Hob looked pointedly towards the clock.
“Barely.”
The stranger glanced towards the quiet table Hob had reserved for them. Then his attention moved towards the stage and the fiddle in your hands.
“I thought we could sit over there,” Hob said.
“No.”
Hob blinked.
“No?”
“I shall remain here.”
Conor extended the fiddle towards you again.
“One tune.”
You looked at Hob. He shrugged.
“Go on.”
“You pay me to work.”
“I pay you poorly enough that I cannot reasonably object.”
You took the fiddle. It was heavier than your violin, its varnish worn where countless hands had held it. You tested the strings.
Conor’s eyebrows rose.
“Classical?”
“Mostly.”
“Try to forget that.”
“I have spent fifteen years being told not to.”
Niamh laughed from the stage. You stepped onto the platform. Maddy emerged from the back carrying clean glasses.
She saw you holding the fiddle. Then she noticed Hob’s friend at the bar. Her eyes widened.
She mouthed, the weird hot one. You ignored her. Niamh began with a familiar tune.
You listened through the first repetition and entered on the second. Conor watched you closely at first. By the third repetition, he stopped. He moved to the bodhrán and allowed you to carry the melody. The tune quickened.
You followed. Niamh changed the rhythm. You answered.
Without a conductor or written score, the music loosened beneath your hands. Nothing existed except the next phrase and the certainty that the others would meet you there. At the bar, Hob poured himself a drink. Dream stood beside him and listened.
Hob watched you for a moment. Then he turned towards his friend.
“She told me you appeared in her dreams.”
Dream’s gaze remained upon the stage.
“Did she?”
“Twice.”
“Yes.”
Hob waited. Dream offered nothing more.
“Did you give her melodies?”
Dream looked towards him.
“No.”
“Then why is she dreaming music no one else recognises?”
“She found them herself.”
Hob frowned.
“You helped her complete a piece she had thought about.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The fiddle tune ended and another began almost immediately. Dream watched you adjust to the unfamiliar melody.
“She came seeking answers within my realm.”
“She was asleep.”
“Nevertheless, she sought them.”
“Once?”
“Again and again.”
Dream’s voice remained quiet.
“She returned to the same melody. She rejected every ending her own mind attempted to create because she knew none of them were true.”
Hob looked towards you. You were smiling as Conor called out a change half a moment before making it.
“So you gave it to her as a favour, because she is my daughter?”
Dream’s eyes returned to Hob.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation. Hob’s expression changed.
“Then why?”
For several seconds, Dream said nothing. The room seemed to recede around him.
“Because she possesses a gift I have not witnessed in a mortal for thousands of years.”
Hob stared.
“What sort of gift?”
Dream’s gaze shifted back towards you.
“Music does not merely occur within her. She perceives what lies behind it. Memory. Story. Truth. She hears what has been forgotten and sometimes what has not yet been created.”
Hob’s fingers tightened around his glass.
“You have seen this before.”
“Yes.”
A pause followed.
“The last mortal in whom I witnessed such a gift was my son.”
Hob turned towards him. Surprise briefly overcame his concern.
“You had a mortal son?”
Dream did not answer. His gaze remained fixed upon you. The tune had slowed. You stood beneath the low stage lights, your eyes half closed as you followed the melody into a quieter passage.
After a moment, Dream said:
“Her gift will mature in time.”
Hob studied his face, recognising the deliberate change of subject but choosing, for now, not to challenge it.
“What does that mean?”
Dream considered the question.
“Often, nothing.”
Hob looked at him.
“Nothing?”
“Some mortals are simply gifted. They create works that outlive them. They touch the dreams of others and never understand how.”
“And the others?”
Dream’s face became unreadable.
“Some are something else.”
Hob lowered his voice.
“Are you concerned?”
Dream looked at him.
“If I were concerned by every gifted mortal in every galaxy, Robert Gadling, I would have little time for anything else.”
“That is not the same as saying no.”
“No,” Dream agreed. “It is not.”
Hob watched him.
“And you do not know which she is.”
“Not yet.”
On the stage, you completed the song. Applause moved through the room. Dream did not look away.
*********
You remained for the rest of the set. By the end, several more customers had gathered near the fire, drawn by the music from the rain-dark street. The trouble began shortly afterwards.
Four men entered already drunk. You knew it from the volume of their voices and the exaggerated care with which one of them leaned against the bar. Hob served them a single drink each.
He refused the next round. The largest man stared at him.
“We’ve only had one.”
Hob collected their glasses.
“You had several before you arrived.”
“You following us?”
“No. You smell like a distillery fire.”
Maddy turned away to hide a smile. The man struck the bar with his palm.
“Get another round.”
“No.”
“We are paying.”
“Still no.”
Conversations quietened. Hob remained calm.
“Time to leave.”
One of the man’s companions pulled at his arm.
“Come on, Dean.”
Dean shook him off.
“I said we want another drink.”
“And I said you’re leaving.”
Dean reached across the counter. Hob caught his wrist. The movement was so fast you almost missed it.
“Let go.”
“Gladly, once you agree not to swing at anyone.”
“I wasn’t going to swing.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking.”
Hob’s mouth curved without humour.
“I have been in more tavern fights than you have eaten dinners. I know exactly what you were thinking.”
Dean tore his hand free. His elbow struck a glass. It fell and shattered across the floor.
Beer spread between the fragments. Maddy swore. You stepped from behind the bar with a cloth and dustpan.
Dean looked at you.
“You work here?”
You looked pointedly at the cloth in your hand.
“Plainly.”
“Tell your boss to stop being a prick.”
Hob moved between you.
“Leave.”
Dean laughed.
“What, she your daughter?”
Hob’s face became still. Of every possible question, the man had chosen the worst one.
“Yes.”
Dean looked you over. Your skin crawled.
“Could do better than working in this dump.”
You crouched to collect the glass.
“I am beginning to understand why you require three friends to accompany you into public.”
Conor made a choking sound from the stage. Dean stepped towards you. Hob blocked him.
“Enough.”
“She said—”
“I heard her.”
“Teach her some manners.”
“I attempted to. She resisted.”
You looked up.
“Consistently.”
Dean shoved Hob. It was a poor decision. Hob moved half a step backwards.
Nothing more. His face changed. For an instant, you saw the older man beneath him: violent, experienced and entirely unsurprised by confrontation.
He seized the front of Dean’s coat. Before he could do anything else, your father’s friend spoke. His voice was quiet.
Everyone in the room heard it.
“You will leave this place.”
Dean turned towards him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Dream stepped forward. The lights within his eyes appeared brighter.
“You have dreamed of a river for eleven years.”
Dean’s anger faltered. One of his companions went silent.
“Every night,” Dream continued, “you stand upon the bank and hear your brother calling from beneath the water.”
The colour left Dean’s face.
“Shut up.”
The flames bent low. Shadows lengthened.
“You tell yourself you could not have saved him.”
Dream’s voice did not rise.
“But in your dreams, you remember that he was still breathing when you left.”
Dean stumbled backwards.
“How do you know that?”
Dream’s expression held no mercy.
“He will be waiting when next you sleep.”
Dean turned towards the door. His companions were already leaving. He followed them.
The door slammed. Silence filled the pub. Maddy whispered:
“What the fuck?”
Dream looked at her. She lowered her eyes.
“Sorry.”
Hob released a slow breath.
“I did not need help.”
Dream regarded the broken glass and Hob’s clenched hand.
“Clearly.”
“You could have told him to leave without excavating his worst trauma.”
Dream returned to the bar.
“He required persuasion.”
Hob looked towards the closed door.
“Is his brother truly waiting for him?”
“Yes.”
“That seems cruel.”
Dream’s gaze settled upon him.
“The dead are not always cruel merely because they wish to be remembered.”
Hob said nothing more.
*********
The remaining customers left soon afterwards. Niamh and Conor packed away their instruments. Maddy disappeared into the back, though your phone vibrated almost immediately.
THE WEIRD HOT ONE IS A DEMON. A second message followed. OR PSYCHIC.
Then: STILL HOT. UNFORTUNATELY. You put your phone face down.
Hob took the dustpan from you.
“I’ll clean that.”
“You are terrible at sweeping.”
“I owned an inn before modern brooms existed.”
“That explains the problem.”
He crouched beside the broken glass. You wiped spilled beer from the bar. Dream remained.
You expected him to sit with Hob. Instead, he approached you carrying a book. You had not seen it in his hands before.
Its binding was dark green, old but carefully preserved. No title appeared upon the cover. He placed it on the counter. You looked at it.
Then at him.
“What is this?”
“An earlier work by the same author.”
“The author of the house novel?”
“Yes.”
You touched the cover.
“I could not find any others.”
“This was published under another name.”
You opened it carefully. The title page read The Drowned Orchard by E. L. Vane. Brown ink filled several margins.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze remained upon you.
“Because I believe you may enjoy it.”
The answer was almost ordinary. From him, it felt significant.
“Does it have another false ending?”
“No.”
“A happy one?”
“That depends upon what you consider happiness.”
“Does the heroine marry an untrustworthy solicitor?”
“No.”
“Promising.”
Something shifted faintly at the corner of his mouth. You looked at him more closely. The fragments of your dreams stirred again.
“I had a strange dream about the ending of the other book after you visited last.”
His attention sharpened.
“What did you dream?”
You described the house. The former inhabitants trapped within its walls. The solicitor feeding names to something beneath the cellar.
You did not mention the final sentence appearing in the waking book. Some instinct urged you to keep that part to yourself. Dream listened without interruption.
“When I woke, it felt as though I had actually read the ending,” you said. “Not invented it.”
“Perhaps you did.”
“In a dream.”
“Dreams preserve many things believed lost in waking.”
You studied him.
“You speak as though dreams are a place.”
His eyes appeared to darken.
“Do they not feel like one?”
You thought of the vast chamber. The black tree.
“Sometimes.”
You ran your fingers across the edge of the book.
“I have had other strange dreams.”
“About what?”
His question came more quickly than you expected.
“I dreamt about composing. About playing the violin. Entire compositions appear, or pieces of them.”
“Do these dreams frighten you?”
“No.”
You considered the first melody.
“One made me sad. I woke crying, although I did not know why.”
Dream’s face became utterly still. You remembered the final passage and the grief held inside it.
“There was someone in that dream.”
His gaze did not move from yours.
“Was there?”
“I think it was you.”
The words sounded absurd when spoken aloud. You looked down.
“God. Why am I telling you this?”
“You believe it was me.”
“Vaguely. You looked different.”
“How?”
You tried to hold the memory.
“Your clothes moved although there was no wind. Your eyes…”
For one instant, you saw them. Galaxies turning in endless darkness. The image vanished.
“They were not human.”
Dream said nothing. Behind you, Hob had stopped sweeping. You could feel him listening.
“You were watching me play,” you continued. “I could not find the ending, and then it appeared.”
Dream’s eyes lowered briefly.
“You played it.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Every note.”
Grief passed across his face. This time, you did not imagine it. It was too vast to belong to an ordinary man.
“Was the melody yours?”
“No.”
“Someone you knew?”
Silence gathered around him.
“You do not have to answer.”
His gaze moved towards the rain-dark windows. He said nothing. You watched him for a moment, but his expression had closed completely, leaving no indication of who had composed the melody or why it affected him so deeply.
Realising you had stepped too close to something private, you quickly changed the subject.
“Do you like classical music?”
His gaze returned to you.
“I do.”
You reached beneath the bar for your bag. Several concert programmes were folded inside the outer pocket. You removed one.
Then hesitated. Dream watched you.
“This may seem strange.”
You held out the programme. He looked at it without taking it.
“It is a concert next Thursday.”
“I can read it.”
“Yes. Obviously.”
You nearly withdrew the paper. Instead, you continued.
“We are playing Mahler and Mendelssohn. We are also performing the new piece I composed.”
His gaze moved to your face.
“The one you found amongst the leaves of a tree.”
The phrasing struck you as peculiar.
“Yes.”
You tightened your fingers around the programme.
“Please do not think I am being strange. I simply have this feeling you might enjoy it.”
Dream remained silent. That made you speak faster.
“I don’t know why. Perhaps because of the dreams. They felt too real, and you were listening, and now I am inviting you to a concert because my subconscious apparently has opinions. But please don’t read anything into it. I am only—”
“You are only what?”
You faltered.
“I don’t know.”
Hob straightened behind you.
“You should go,” he told Dream. “You will appreciate it. Most of the programme comes from the nineteenth century, when music still possessed structure.”
You looked over your shoulder.
“Music still has structure.”
“Some of it.”
“You are not qualified to hold that opinion.”
“I have listened to music for seven hundred years.”
“Mostly while drunk in taverns.”
“That remains listening.”
Dream accepted the programme. His fingers brushed yours. They were cold.
Not unpleasantly. Merely absent of the warmth you expected from living skin. He examined the details.
“You are not attending your daughter’s performance?” he asked Hob.
Hob grimaced.
“I attend many of them.”
“He does,” you admitted.
“I have a private function that evening,” Hob said. “It has already been postponed twice, and apparently the stability of a local charity depends upon my supervision of forty accountants with access to an open bar.”
Dream folded the programme once and placed it inside his coat.
“I shall consider it.”
You nodded.
“That is all I meant. There is no obligation.”
“I am aware.”
Hob came around the bar.
“You are leaving already?”
“I have remained longer than intended.”
“You always say that.”
Dream regarded him.
“We have met twice within five months.”
Hob smiled.
“At this rate, people may assume we are friends.”
A stillness passed over Dream’s face. Then he said quietly:
“Perhaps they would be correct.”
Hob’s smile became softer. Dream turned towards you.
“Good night, Y/N Gadling.”
“Good night.”
His eyes rested briefly upon the green book.
“Do not read the final chapter before sleep.”
You frowned.
“Why?”
“You dislike it when characters ignore warnings in stories. I wondered whether you would be any wiser when given one yourself.”
Before you could respond, he crossed the room. The door opened at his approach. He stepped into the rain-dark street and disappeared.
݈݇—Pairings: Ser Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess!Reader.
݈݇—Themes/Warning: This is a love story with a tragic ending. Slow burn-ish?. Swoon-worthy. Eventual Smut. MUTUAL PINING. YEARNING. LONGING. Courtly romance. Strangers to lovers to forced-enemies. Political marriage. Gentleman Gwayne Hightower. Touch-starved. Emotional terrorism. Happy moments that make the ending hurt worse. S1–S3 HOTD canon divergence. Inspired by "DAYLIGHT" by Taylor Swift & "PROVIDER" by Sleep Token.
Masterlist
Author’s Note: This prologue is set on the present day (Season 3). And the following chapters will be from Season 1 and so forth until we reach present day again.
PRESENT DAY
For you, the Eyrie had felt like a cage dressed in clouds. High above the world, where the wind screamed like the ghosts of every Arryn who’d ever ruled these stones, and the only warmth came from the hearths that never quite chased the chill from your bones. You stood in the shadowed curve of the High Hall, one hand pressed flat against the hidden swell beneath your robe.
Vaelys’ distant call resonated from the mountain crags below, the sound of old Valyria’s last pearl breathing in the thin air. Your dragon. The reason you were here at all. The living price your sister had paid to keep the Vale’s spears pointed toward the true queen.
Your cousin, Jeyne Arryn, sat at the Arryn throne, eyes cold and calculating as she faced the man who had flown here on dragonback to bleed her coffers dry. Daemon stood at the bottom with that cunning, lethal grace, silver hair loose over one shoulder, the faint smirk on his lips promising that every word out of his mouth was both offer and threat.
You watched in silence. Exhausted down to the marrow.
The war had already taken too much. Your sister’s crown. Your freedom. The last easy night’s sleep you could remember. And now this—Daemon bargaining with your life and your dragon as if they were coins on a table.
“…Gold,” he said, “Enough to keep the queen’s cause breathing. Or we take back what belongs to the blood of the dragon. The girl. And the Pearl.” His violet eyes flicked toward you. “Vaelys is one of our largest dragons next to Vermithor and would serve the realm far better beneath a rider who isn’t hiding in the clouds.”
Jeyne’s mouth tightened. The Vale had sheltered you and had asked the dragon’s presence as the price for her soldiers marching into war. Losing either would gut her defenses.
A long, tense silence stretched. Then Jeyne exhaled through her nose, practical to the bone. “Take the gold but keep your threats behind your teeth, Daemon Targaryen. The dragon remains where it protects the living.”
Daemon’s smile was of satisfaction, the look of a man who had just watched an opponent fold. “Wise. The queen will remember your loyalty.”
He waited for a beat to let the victory settle. Then those eyes found you again, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.
“May I speak with you, niece?”
Your fingers curled tighter into the robe, shielding the gentle curve that no one in this room was supposed to see.
“You may speak right here, uncle,” you said flippantly. “There are no walls in the Eyrie that haven’t already heard every secret worth keeping.”
Jeyne’s brow lifted, but she said nothing. Daemon’s smirk deepened, though something colder flickered behind it. “Aemond has disappeared from Harrenhal. The whispers say Criston Cole’s army remains there now without their one-eyed prince guarding the skies…”
Your stomach turned.
“Reclaim it and return here,” Daemon went on, “Take Vaelys. Burn the traitors out before they root deeper. One strike and the queen’s path to the throne clears.”
You stared at him, the exhaustion cracking sharper. “Reclaim it? Just like that? And what if Aemond and Vhagar are waiting in the dark for me. What then?”
Daemon waved a dismissive hand. “Aemond is gone. My eyes in the riverlands confirmed it days ago. Harrenhal breaks even dragonriders; the castle stands exposed now, its prince vanished like mist off the water. If he remained, the skies would already be black with Vhagar’s wings and the riverlands would be ash. They are not. The fortress is ripe. Take it.”
You glanced at Jeyne—your shield in this high, lonely place—searching for an anchor in the storm of his words. But Daemon moved before she could speak, voice dropping almost intimately.
“Isn’t your husband there, among Cole’s ranks?”
The laugh that escaped you was short and brittle. “You’d have me burn my husband and his army?” The words came out softer but no less cutting. “Turn Vaelys’ fire on Gwayne? To what? Test my loyalty?”
Daemon’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Are you? That’s the enemy’s army, niece. Your loyalty is to your blood. To your sister.” A pause, his gaze flocking down to your stomach. “You have more than yourself to think of now.”
“You dare question where my loyalty lies?”
Your blood turned to ice. The child had been the one thing that still belonged only to you. Not to the Blacks. Not to the Greens. Not to the war. And now Daemon spoke of it as though he had every right to know. How? How in the seven hells did he know?
You had only discovered the pregnancy after the lines had been drawn, after there was no safe way to send word. Rhaenyra knew. Jeyne knew because she had to. Rhaenyra had sent you here, with child and vulnerable, to keep the child safe from the upcoming storm. Since sides had been chosen and love had become a battlefield of its own.
Daemon watched the shock ripple across your face with that same infuriating calmness. “Do stop reaching for your belly each time you grow frightened. Even the dullest courtier would have guessed it eventually.”
You drew a slow breath in, the thin mountain air sharp in your lungs, and forced steel into your spine. “I shall go… yet I would hear the order to burn spoken from my sister’s own lips. Not from yours.” You turned then to Jeyne. “I shall return, My lady.”
Jeyne’s eyes softened, she nodded as she accepted. You stormed past Daemon without another glance, the hem of your robe whispering over the cold stone, and deliberately shouldered him as you went. You were already descending the winding steps when his voice carried after you.
“You should thank me, niece. For now you shall see your Hightower husband before he meets his end.”
His words chased you down the steps, but the true weight of them had already been living behind your eyes for weeks. The dreams you get are always the same. The brief flash of auburn hair. The sudden bloom of dragonfire. The way a body crumpled beneath the heat. You had woken gasping his name more nights than you could count, certain the gods were showing you Gwayne’s end—the price of loving a man who wore the wrong colour in a war of dragons.
You and Gwayne come up with an idea to keep Daeron safe, you just hope your sister believes you. Targ!reader but not connected to my other fics as the dance doesn’t happen in them.
I wrote the majority of this over a week ago so ginger Daeron is canon in this, and of course you voted for the fic I was most unsure about posting☠️
“What are you thinking about?” Gwayne asks wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head in your shoulder. You looking out into the gardens where Daeron is sat reading cuddled up with the dragons. The girls playing next to him while Baelor is sleeping in the nursery.
“What to do next.” You muse leaning into him. Wishing that this stupid war hadn’t started in the first place.
“How so?” Your husband asks kissing your shoulder.
“I want to stand with my sister.” You say, knowing she’d do the same for you. But not willing to risk your son’s life. “But Daeron will be a risk to her claim so I don’t know what she’ll do with him.”
“What of Aegon?” Gwayne suggests half heartedly, not liking his nephew’s. Him thinking them both the furthest thing from how prince’s should behave.
“You know as well as I he will be a cruel king, especially with Aemond by his side.”
“So we need to think of something that will keep all the children safe.” He says, voicing your thoughts. Also wanting to find a way Daeron will be safe from all possible harm.
“I have an idea, a terrible idea but an idea nonetheless.” You say turning around to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His still on your waist.
“What is it?” He asks up for any suggestion. The children meaning the word to him.
“We claim he’s ours.” You say quietly, not wanting to risk anyone possibly overhear your idea.
“What?”
“We say that the real reason he was send to ward was because I had him out of wedlock and Alicent and my father covered it up.” You elaborate, it being an incredibly risky idea.
“Everyone would think you a whore.” Gwayne rebuttals thinking it a good idea otherwise.
“They think that anyway.” You quip with a sad smile, your husband’s incredibly religious family having never liked you. “It would keep him safe.”
“We could ask your sister to legitimise him as our son.” He suggests, continuing on knowing you won’t change your mind.
“We can claim he’s is mine alone.” You offer, not wanting to affect Gwayne’s reputation.
“My love, I say this with all the love and care in the world.” He says with a smile, brushing some of your hair out of your face. “That boy is the spiting image of a Hightower, even removing the hair.”
“He does look like you and Alicent.” You admit reluctantly, normally loving how much Daeron looks like Gwayne. Now finding it inconvenient.
“Exactly, so I’m going to be necessary for this scheme.” He says, thinking of the next steps of your plan. “How are we going to get anyone to believe it?”
“I was sick.” You say in shock, remembering that you kept coming down with the flu that year. The maesters unable to find the reason, it clearing up not long after Daeron’s birth.
“What?”
“When Alicent was with child I was sick a lot.” You say in excitement never more grateful about being sick. “I was hardly seen in court and I was confined to my chambers.”
“You’re a genius.” Gwayne say softly, pulling you into a kiss.
“I’m only a genius if this works.”
-
“Come on Kepa is riding with Daeron on Tessarion.” You say to the girls one you reach the dragon pitts. You all having to sneak away in the night so Ormund can’t stop you. “You’re with me.”
“But I want to ride Skrykos!” Rosie pouts, not understanding why you’re leaving. Let alone in the middle of the night and have to be quiet about it.
“She’s coming with us but we need to leave quickly.” You say, adjusting the baby carrier you’re wearing. You youngest child sleeping against you.
“Why?”
“We just do sweetheart.” Gwayne says checking you’ve got everything. Helping Rosie and Lily onto your dragon. “We’ll explain once we’re there.”
“I’m sorry.” Daeron whispers to you while you give him a once over to check he’s alright.
“What are you sorry for sweetheart?” You ask, knowing he hasn’t done anything to warrant giving an apology.
“It’s my fault we have to leave.”
“We would have to anyway as I’m Rhaenyra’s sister.” You reassure him, cupping his face in your hands as you give him a forehead kiss. “Now just follow me and fly close, your father will pretend he’s not terrified but he hates flying so you’re in charge.”
“Ok muña.” He says a soft smile on his face. Grateful that you and Gwayne chose to raise him. Him aware Ormund was supposed to.
“I love you.” You say firmly, needing him to know.
“I love you too.” He responds pulling you into a hug, carful not to squish his brother, before going over to his dragon.
“Come on Rosie, lily hold tight.” You say to your girls before you take flight.
-
“Why are you here?” Daemon demands watching you and your family climb of your dragons. Rhaenyra and Jace stood behind him. Jace having grown so much since you last saw him.
“I’m here to speak to my sister.” You say stepping forward, ignoring Gwayne’s look of worry when you pass him your young son.
“You mean the queen.” Daemon corrects, not trusting you as you’re now a Hightower.
“I mean my sister the queen.” You clarify know how your uncle is.
“Sister.” Rhaenyra pushing past daemon, ignoring his look. You both meeting in the middle of your family’s. Gwayne stood infront of the children wary about the whole thing, having passed Baelor to Daeron.
“Rhaenyra.” You say softly, having missed your best friend and sister. Before remembering yourself and curtsying to her. “I mean your grace.”
“What are you doing here?” She asks softly, having been worried you would betray her.
“With the Hightower as well.” Daemon interjects glaring at your husband, Gwayne just rolls his eyes at the dig.
“I’m here with my husband and our children for asylum.” You say ignoring daemon and giving all your attention to your sister.
“What of the Hightower prince? Daeron isn’t it?” Daemon interjects once again, clearly desperate to be included in the conversation.
“That’s what I want to discuss, in private preferably.” You say giving your uncle a look before looking back at your queen. “Please.”
“Come.” She say wanting you to follow her back to the castle. “Jace can take your family to the throne room while we talk.”
“Rhaenyra.” Daemon hisses not trusting you.
“You have my protection, for the time being.” Rhaenyra says ignoring her husband.
“Thank you.”
“Come, we shall speak.” She says taking your hand to lead you away. Gwayne greeting Jace with respect. Daemon following you after threatening your husband.
-
“I have a confession.” You announce, once the doors shut behind you. Hoping this is the right decision. Allowing your anxiety to show on your face as you know it will help you.
“What is it?” Rhaenyra asks, scared you somehow had something to do with her being usurped.
“Daeron isn’t father’s son.” You say blurt out, not looking at your sister while you say it.
“So Alicent had a bastard.” Daemon laughs flopping into a chair after pouring himself some wine. “How has the boy got a dragon?”
“He’s my son.” You ‘admit’ playing with your wedding ring in discomfort. Praying they believe you.
“What?” Rhaenyra asks in confusion, never thinking that would be your confession.
“You remember that I was sick and had to be isolated in my chambers when Alicent was with child? That’s because she wasn’t, I was.” You explain, taking the wine your sister offers you before she sits downs in shock.
“Why does he look like Hightower then?” Daemon asks, the most untrusting of the two.
“Because Gwayne is his true father.” You responded giving him a look as though it’s obvious. “Do you remember that tourney? The one that was for Jace’s nameday that Gwayne competed in?”
“Why didn’t you marry?” Rhaenyra asks, unsure of why you didn’t drink moontea or marry to cover it up.
“He wanted to, he kept apologising for ‘stealing’ my virtue.” You say with a slight laugh, actually quoting your husband. Him having kissed you before your betrothal and then feeling guilty for it. “But father was trying to marry me off to the Lannister’s and Gwayne had to leave back to old town the next day. I didn’t know I was with child until it was too late, so father made Alicent pretend he’s was hers.” You explain, looking at the floor as if in regret. “And well, you know the rest.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” Rhaenyra asks, believing you. Having known how much you’ve cared for the boy since his birth. This being the best explanation for it as you never cared much for Alicent’s other sons, Helaena being different.
“Because it’s the best way to keep him safe.” You say, actually telling the truth. The realm viewing him as your son instead of your father’s would make him a lot safer. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Daemon asks, believing you. Him knowing he’d to the same for his children.
“You don’t.”
-
“Muña!” Lily shouts running over to you when you enter the throne room after Rhaenyra and daemon. Her agreeing to declare Daeron as your true born son. You picking up your youngest daughter and giving Gwayne a nod, letting him know everything has gone to plan. “Baelor bit me!”
“Oh no, that not good.” You say knowing your girl is being dramatic as he doesn’t have teeth yet. “How was it with your cousin?”
“Fine.” She says resting her head on your shoulder. “He talk with Kepa for ages.”
“Is it true?” Jace asks his mother, having been informed by Gwayne what you’ll of been talking about.
“Is what true?” Rhaenyra asks, looking at your family with a smile on her face. Wishing she had gotten to spend more time together with you before all this started.
“About Daeron?” Jace clarifies, not sure what to think but having a feeling it’s the truth. Why else would you go through all this trouble?
“That he’s my sisters true son? Yes he is.” Rhaenyra confirms, noticing the confused look on your eldest’s face.
“What?” Daeron asks looking between you and Gwayne. “What is she talking about?”
“We’ll explain everything later darling I promise.” You say gently, knowing you’ll have to lie. Your boy being too kind and soft for deceit knowing he deserves better.
“You have pledged your loyalty to me, so you may go to the Vale.” Rhaenyra declares, knowing Jeyne Arryn will allow it given your dragons. “You’ll be safe there, on the condition you look after my sons and when I ask you fly back and fight for me.”
“As long as it’s just me, we have a deal.” You say not letting your son partake in war.
“Deal, I’ll write you a letter to give to lady Jeyne. She’ll accept you.”
“Thank you Rhaenyra, truly.” You say to you sister wanting to give her a hug. Her notacing your hesitation and makes the first move, pulling you into her arms and holding you tight. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” She whispers back, having missed you more than anything. “Thank you for trusting me.”
If it's not too much trouble, could you write to Gwayne where the reader is Daemon's daughter? She has Silverwing with a dragon! During a tournament, he asks her for a favor, and when he wins, he declares her queen of love and beauty. imagine Daemon sitting next to his daughter, completely distraught by this. An extra bonus if she's secretly in love with him!!!
Sorry if you didn't understand very well, english is not my first language!
Him, really?
Thank you so much for the request I love it 🥰 Only possible warning is kisses!! No description of reader apart from your a princess. Also Laena is our best friend/stepmother so takes place before the dance.
“Princess.” Ser Gwayne Hightower says nodding at you while you walk past him with your father. Both men ignoring each other given your father’s hatred for all things Hightower. You, on the other hand, have different feelings, about Gwayne anyway.
“Ser.” You reply, looking the handsome knight up and down, offering him a small smirk. Happy your father can’t see your face.
“Bloody Hightower.” Daemon mumbles glaring at the knight, hating all things green. Especially hating the look the knight was giving you.
-
“Princess, would you do me one honour of granting me your favour?” Gwayne asks you loudly riding up to be next to the platform you and your family were sat on. A smirk visible on his face, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“Of course Ser.” You say picking up the favour you made especially for the man. Bending over the fence to place it on his lance, not taking your eyes off him, him doing the same to you. “I wish you luck.”
“Thank you princess.” He says more softly, thinking you look like the picture of a princess while you smile.
“What was that?” Your father hiss’s when you sit back down next to him, Laena on his other side. Your stepmother being a similar age to you.
“Whatever do you mean?” You ask, playing innocent. Knowing if he knew your actual intentions for the knight he might die of shock.
“That, giving Hightower your favour!”
“Honestly father, you need to calm yourself.” You say calmly, taking a drink of a passing by servant. “It’s not the end of the world that I gave someone my favour, I’m of marriage age and have been for a while.”
“That’s beside the point, he’s a Hightower, Otto Hightowers son at that!” Daemon whisper shouts, willing to accept you with anyone. As long as they’re not a Hightower obviously.
“What does his father have to do with me?” You ask dryly, taking a sip of your drink while you raise an eyebrow at your father.
“It’s a ploy.”
“How so?” You ask rolling your eyes at the paranoid man.
“I don’t know yet but I’ll find out.”
“Laena please talk some sense into him.” You ask your stepmother/friend, her being one of the only people who can manage your father.
“I’m not getting involved.” She says with a slight laugh, hand resting on her baby bump. Her being a few moons behind Rhaenyra, your cousin having given birth a few days ago. “But he is handsome.”
“He is.” You agree, smirking knowing exactly what the woman’s doing. “Honourable too.”
“No, absolutely not!” Daemon furiously whispers, glaring at both you and Laena. “Never in a million years is my daughter allowed to think a Hightower handsome!”
“Shut up it’s Ser Gwayne’s turn.” You say smiling while you lean back into your chair, throwing a grape from the plate beside you into your mouth.
-
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, winner of the tournament, please crown your queen of love and beauty.” The king says later that day. Gwayne having won the whole tournament now able to crown his queen.
“Princess, may I crown you?” He asks you, charming smirk on his face. When he walks up to you, the man holding a floral crown and kneeling before you.
“You may.”
-
“Wé’lltor tatagon ñuha jorrāelagon, ao urnegon so ja'unndthomeva tembyr se ao wônza.” Well done my love, you looked so handsome when you won. You mumble against your lovers lips, him moaning in response loving when you speak in high Valyrian despite not understanding a word of it. Head lulling to the side as you kiss down his neck.
“Marry me.” He whines, having been wanting to marry you from the moment you met, his desire only growing when you’d kiss him. Kissing being as far as he’ll let you go, not wanting to dishonour you more than he already has.
“Gwayne.”
“I know your father hates my family but I love you so much.” He says seriously, hand resting on your neck to make you actually look at him. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I don’t want to spend another moment apart. So please, marry me.”
“Ask me properly and I’ll say yes.” You tease, desperately wanting to say yes but knowing you shouldn’t. You giving him a soft kiss, trying to convey all your feelings before pulling away. “I best go I’m late for dinner.”
-
“Princess Laena!” Gwayne calls, running over to the woman. Her on her way to the dragon pits wishing to take vhaegar on a nice flight before labour began. Her secretly scared as it’s her first babe, you being the only one aware of her fears. “I have a request.”
“I’m not speaking to daemon for you.” She says firmly, not slowing as Gwayne reaches her side. Leana not being able to walk at much of a speed anyway.
“What? No, how do I ask a dragon for their blessing.” He replies walking backwards so he can keep looking at the woman wanting to give her his undivided attention.
“What?”
“I wish to marry and Silverwing is very important to her, so I’d like the dragons blessing first.” He explains as if it’s a simple task, not a life threatening one.
“Not her fathers?”
“I think I’ll have better luck with the dragon.” He laughs, knowing your father won’t approve solely because of his last name.
“You’re not wrong.” Laena says, up for some fun and a distraction. “Come we will plot.”
-
“What are you doing?” You ask warily entering the dragon pits to see Gwayne trying to give Silverwing a goat, her preferring them to sheep.
“Shit.” He mumbles, quickly turning around and seeing Laena try and seek out. Not being the most stealthy given her condition. “My love.” He says voice going higher. Him immediately caving and telling you what he’s doing the second you give him a look. “I’m trying to get silver wings permission to wed you.”
“You’re asking silverwing?” You ask softly, loving the man in front of you even more. No potential suitor having cared for your dragon before.
“Yes, I know her approval is the most significant.” He says sheepishly, internally very grateful the dragon hasn’t eaten him. So court up in his thoughts he doesn’t even notice you’re now right infront of him.
“Marry me.” You say softly, looking at your knight with complete love and adoration in your eyes. You not wanting to spend a moment away from him.
“What? My love I’m trying to propose!” He whines, having a whole plan.
“Tough.” You smile wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead against his. “Marry me Gwayne Hightower.”
“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, I’ve been trying to ask you for moons.” He laughs catching your lips in his, both of you giggling when you hear Silverwing let out a happy chirp.
-
Bonus
“Kepa, you can’t be mad.” You say entering his private solar, him and Laena sat talking about what to name the babe.
“Well now I know I’m going to be mad.” He says raising an eyebrow at you, wondering what you could of possibly done.
“I just said you can’t be.” You reiterate, pacing in front of them. Knowing Laena won’t be of much help knowing your friend will fain ignorance.
“What did you do?” He asks you suspiciously, trying to think of anything you could do that would make him truly mad and not thinking of anything.
“I’m betrothed.” You respond quickly, deciding to just get it over with.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Enough, who are you marrying?” Laena asks, knowing smirk on her face. Finding the whole thing hilarious as she knows your father with pout, but not hurt the Hightower man as you love him. Your father willing to put up with anything as long as you’re happy.
“Ser Gwayne.” You admit, hoping your father won’t over react.
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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.
Lmaooo someone get my boy out of there hes been through hell the eyes never lie😭gwayne go pick up daeron with Tessarion and runn away! Take haleana with you while your at it💔
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Ormund Hightower x Targ!reader, Daeron x sister!reader (maternal relationship)
summary: And what is the eldest sibling, but a shield for the younger?
words: 2k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest (Ormund is technically her cousin and I guess that does not count in GOT terms, but I am warning it anyways), allusions to sex, toxic relationship themes, co-dependent dynamics, manipulation, slightly OOC Ormund?, religious themes, talks of blood “impurity”, reader rides Silverwing, reader is Aegon’s twin, but no physical description is used, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
Most forget that you came out first. It was something that nobody truly talked as it would send a few of Otto's plan out of motion. It would make Aegon seem like he deserved it less. So, it was something that was pushed under the rug and never truly talked about.
But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.
To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.
You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.
You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.
He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.
Yours and Ormund's son.
Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.
A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.
You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.
"Ormund. "
He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.
"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.
He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.
The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"
You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.
Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.
The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.
Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.
His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.
"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.
He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.
"We must alter our scheme," he told you.
You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."
For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.
He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.
"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.
"You will never have to find," you assured him.
Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.
"I want what is best for him," you whispered.
"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.
Not yet.
You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.
"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.
It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.
"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.
"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"
"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.
"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.
You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.
You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.
Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.
You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"
You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.
"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.
"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.
"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.
"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.
"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.
"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."
You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”
"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.
It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.
Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"
You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.
Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.
"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.
He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.
"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.
You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."
He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.
You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."
"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.
He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.
"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.
"I know."
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."
You were the truest embodiment of fire and blood, bound to not one but two dragons. Your brother, Viserys, found it hellish to find you a suitable match, and for all your suitors, you were given to the one man who adamantly did not want you.
Ormund Hightower x Reader | 2k+ | cw: fem!reader, pre-show timeline, Targ!reader, implied daemon x reader, slight targcest, arranged/forced marriage, enemies to lovers, ormund HATES you, reader is a lil shit, ragebating as a love language, low key black cat x golden retriever, fluff, typos, etc.
A/N: I want to stress this man OUT btw | crossposted on ao3
"I don't see need in this conversation," I pop a grape into my mouth, "I'll happily marry the pretty boy."
My eldest brother sighs, lifting his gaze from his papers to where I sat by the window. He narrows his eyes in irritation, "which pretty boy?"
I turn to him, "Gwayne Hightower."
Daemon scoffs, sinking into the chair across the king's desk, "if by pretty you mean a piece of fucking shit—"
"Daemon!"
"What?!"
"Watch your fucking tongue," Viserys slams his hands on the table then wipes his face.
Daemon begins to spew a long thread of threats in High Valyrian, of what he'll do to Gwayne if he becomes his good-brother. I chuckle and finish the last of my grapes before walking over to my him, "oh, lykirī lēkia." Oh, be calm (older) brother.
His eyes flash with rage, "when you're pointedly fucking with me?"
"I'm not," I shrug and purse my lips, "my clothes are on."
Daemon immediately stands, looming over me to intimidate. I merely look back and taunt, "dracarys."
Viserys immediately snaps out my name.
I yelp when Daemon painfully yanks my hair. I immediately retaliate by battering his chest. He grabs more of my hair and pulls harder. I punch him in the gut but he dodges.
"KELIGON!" Viserys stands abruptly. STOP!
We freeze and turn to him.
Our brother sighs, muttering something about the gods claiming our parents too soon. He wipes his face again and points a finger at us, "we will not leave this room without deciding on a fucking husband."
I raise a hand, "that's why I said Gwa—"
"I will fucking maim that fool and drag him by the balls across—"
"Gwayne is out of the question," Viserys waves decisively, "I will not inspire a war from what should be an alliance."
"But he is pretty!"
"Oh, please," he sits back down, "you are excited at how asinine Daemon gets at the prospect."
I turn to Daemon, who turns to me. I cross my arms and turn back to the king, "and so what if I do?"
Daemon tugs my hair again.
"STOP IT!" I hit his shoulder.
Viserys rolls his eyes, "I'm better off murdering you both."
Daemon evades my next punch, circling quickly around the desk to our brother's side. He shakes his head, "you are better off marrying us both."
I fume at him and gather my hair over my shoulder, combing through the silver locks that grew past my knees.
"Absolutely not," Viserys doesn't even look at him.
"I am the only man who can temper her sp—"
"Temper her," he scoffs, sifting through his documents, "you mean enable. If I give her to you, you will not only have Caraxes, but also Vermithor and Nightsong."
"Vermithor and Nightsong heed only to my command," I say rather indignantly.
Viserys furrows his brows, "oooooooh yessss," he waves his hands, "now you're going to tell me you're immune to Daemon's influence when you're, in fact, his consistent first victim!" He points a finger.
"Hush now," Daemon slaps a hand on Viserys's shoulder, "do not fault my sweet sister for admiring me so."
Viserys whips his head back to glare at him.
I scowl at him too, "I admire how that much more of airheaded you can become."
Daemon smirks at me, unbothered by how the conversation has progressed, "you're welcome."
"Enough," sighs the king, "I would agree with Gwayne Hightower, had I not feared you'd be a widow the day after your wedding—"
Daemon tries to get a word in but Viserys raise his voice and continues.
"Sons from great houses seem too eager; between Lannisters and Arryns, I see more that you'd be weaponized than guided."
I finally stop combing through my hair.
"I would not award you a lesser man, but one overly ambitious would pose a threat not just to you, but the whole realm."
"Then why not give me to your favorite Gold Cloak?" I raise a brow, "I know a few who are to my taste."
"Few?" Daemon instantly snaps, "like who?"
"Harwin Strong."
"Harwin fucking Strong?!" he blurts, shaking his head exaggeratedly, "he would banish you to the fucking Riverlands!"
I shrug, holding back a smug smile, "Nightsong is fond of the rain."
"Cease trying to spur his wrath, sister," Viserys whines, scratching his eyes.
"I am not!" I raise my pale brows, "I genuinely offer sensible alternati—"
"Sensible?!"
"And as I say," I chuckle out, "Gwayne Hightower is more than—"
"Wait," Viserys perks, "he has a cousin, does he not? Heir to Oldtown and the Citadel?"
I shrug, "beats me."
"No, no, no, NO!" Daemon whines and raises his voice, "enough talk of High-fucking-tow—"
"The king speaks!" Viserys snaps, standing to glare at Daemon, "I have had enough of you," he turns to me, "both of you!"
I purse my lips and cross my arms.
"I summoned you to both to be of help but you have done the exact opposite!" he chastises, suddenly then pushing Daemon and I out of his office. "I have heard enough from my petulant siblings!"
I gasp when he shoves me rather roughly out his door.
"I will decide on my own and what I decide shall be final!
I frown at his angry expression.
Daemon's eye twitches, "Viserys, ple—"
"If decide on Jason Lannister, Gwayne Hightower, or fucking Philip, son of a smith and a whore, so be it!" he snaps at his younger brother, "I will not hear a word about it," he raises a finger then finally turns to me, "and I do not want to hear any more provocations from you!"
With that, the king slams the door shut.
I do not hear about this matter until a week after, when I pass a man across the hall after returning from dragon riding. I would not have paid him mind, had he not called out to me and curled his face in displeasure. I turn back to him, my own brows curling at how he uncorks a vial of sorts and inhales deeply. I tilt my head, "are you ill, ser?"
The man breathes out before forcing a smile to his face, "not at all." He huffs, "we have not been introduced."
I watch him lower his vial and take a slow step back.
"I am Ormund Hightower."
"Hightower?" my brows lift in curiosity. I observe his dark green doublet, "ah. You must be Gwayne's cousin."
"Yes," he nods, rubbing his nose.
I narrow my eyes at him, "have you come to King's Landing to marry me, Ormund Hightower?"
"Yes," he blurts, then motions with a finger, "did you... you smell of something incredibly... potent." He shakes his head, clearly finding the smell more pressing than my enquiry, "where have you been?"
"Where?" I find myself chuckling, "I flew over the Blackwater and the Kingswood, my lord."
"Mmm," he clenches his teeth when I take a step forward, "dragon."
I snort and tilt my head, "does it make you sick to your stomach?"
Ormund clears his throat, feeling his hand twitch for his fragrance. He cannot help himself; he uncorks it and takes a large step back.
I laugh, clutching my belly before I pull my long braid towards my nose. I sniff my hair and hum, "it is not so bad. Smells of sulfur, but not unpleasant."
"It is to me," he nearly retches, "might you go wash and change before we speak?"
I stare at this man for a moment, finding it wholly amusing and borderline endearing at how queasy he's become at the mere lingering scent of dragon, "no."
He looks to me, a line deepening between his brows, "no?"
I shake my head and purse my lips, "no."
He straightens up in alarm, his lips slightly parting in shock, "it is not—"
"You should know your persuasion means nothing to me now, my lord," I raise a gloved hand at him, "I have decided your discomfort is most amusing, therefore I will do anything but change and bathe."
Ormund's jaw slacks completely.
I am teeming with amusement, "have you come all this way from your silly High Tower just to bring me and my dragon stench back with you?"
"My lady," he coughs roughly, "I think we have started on the wrong foot."
I raise my brows and pretend to care for his explanation. I cross my arms and nod, "do tell."
"With regards to the smell, I—"
"I am a princess, by the way."
"..."
"It is a blatant disregard to my station and lineage for you to refer to me as anything otherwise," I lift my chin.
I watch his jaw feather.
I pretend to observe birds to mask my smile.
"Forgive me," he bows and sighs deeply, "princess."
I blink rapidly at his very obvious struggle to compose himself when he so clearly wishes to be somewhere, anywhere, else.
He clears his throat again and rubs his nose, "I- I mean no offense to you when I bring to mind... scents. It is only that I-"
"Let me stop you there," I raise a hand, "I actually don't care for your explanation, so I'll simply be on my way and hope you find me at a time where I have actually bathed and changed."
Ormund watches as I walk off. He equally shocked at how easily he is dismissed and how long the hair behind me trails, bouncing off the hem of my riding coat. While he should be relieved to be free from the overbearing scent, instead he is left offended and vexed. He grits his teeth and agrees with himself to speak to the king about this.
The next morning, we meet again, this time, by the gardens where I was enjoying some tea and tea cakes.
"I see you have finally been persuaded to bathe and change."
I look over my shoulder, finding a smiling Ormund Hightower. His smile seems to me that he is happy I no longer stink.
"Red and orange suits you, princess."
I snort, "good morrow to you too, sour puss." I turn to one of the nearby flower bushes, "have you come to smell the fresh blooms?"
"No," he moves toward the available seat to my right, "I have come to speak to you."
I watch him sit down and push the plate of cakes towards him.
He takes a piece and a eats half.
"You make a fuss of my bathing and changing, but here you are in the same green doublet from yesterday."
He licks his lips and swallows before responding, "how terribly unobservant of you. I have bathed and changed," he puts a hand into his breast, "this one has pockets."
I snort and shake my head with laughter.
Ormund brushes off his fingers, his back straightening at the sound.
I look back at him and lower my tea cup, "are all your clothes green and ugly?"
His nostrils flare. He is not as offended as he should be and the thought offends him enough as he'd ought to, "and do you often speak insults so freely?"
"Insults?" I take a quick sip of tea before propping the saucer on the table altogether, "not at all. I merely speak to amuse myself." I smile, "always."
"Even to offense of another?"
I tilt my head and shrug, "it is not my fault you are easily offended, Ormund."
He nearly squishes the remaining cake between his fingers, "my lord."
I raise my brows at him.
"I am a lord in my own right. I am to inherit Oldtown. You should honor my title as I honor yours."
I purse my lips in faux thought, "well, you ought to inherit something if I am to marry you. Even if it is only just Oldtown."
He draws a deep breath from his nose.
I break a tea cake in half and eat it whole.
"Your brother, the king, has informed me how you so enjoy provocation, taunting, and teasing."
"Oh, I reserve this only for people I care for," I shake my head profusely, "you needn't fret for I care little for you," I lick icing off my thumb, "if at all."
Ormund gulps, feeling his upper lip curl.
"Don't worry," I turn to him with a smile, "I am inclined to care deeply for you once you cloak me with your colors. In fact, I tell you now, I am grateful to have you instead of your cousin."
He pulls his head back.
I cannot mask my pleasure when I realize I struck a chord in him.
"My cousin?"
"Yes," I nod, "Gwayne." I sigh wistfully and look out to the garden, "he was my first, and only choice, really. He is gallant and beautiful, and everything I ever hoped for in a husband."
He puts his remaining cake down, fearing what he'd do with it. He shakes his head, his brows furrowing deeply, "I did not realize you thought so highly of Gwayne."
"Lord Gwayne," I turn to him.
He clenches his teeth; it's a miracle they don't break.
I look away again, "but yes. He is a man I admire."
Ormund dusts his hands off rougher than he needs to.
"But I suppose you can be admired too," I turn back to him, "and..." I narrow my eyes, "you have some... other sort of comeliness about you, if one can call it such."
He scoffs in sharp disbelief, "I beg your pardon."
"Please," I raise a hand, "you do not have to apologize for the face you were born with."
He is so shocked, he does not register that he's been left alone at the table. He quickly goes after me, huffing loudly once he is by my side.
I casually turn from the flower I was smelling to his hardened expression, "Lord Ormund," I smile, "so you did come to smell the flowers."
"I came to tell you that King Viserys himself entrusted me to discipline you how I see fit," he leans closer, enough that he can smell the scent of oranges and lavender on me, "that you might be guided to reason rather than destruction."
"Discipline?" I look up at him and hum, "so you mean to be my father, not my husband?"
"I am to be your liege lord," he corrects, "and the lord of the house disciplines servants and wives the same."
I raise my brows, "you mean to treat me like a servant?."
"I mean to treat you like a queen."
I open my mouth but my retort evades me at the sound of his response.
"And you are to treat me like a king."
I take in the lines on his face. He has deeper lines between his brows than on the sides of his eyes. That will either change or worsen upon our marriage. Either way, the thought excites me. "That is treason."
Ormund looks at the silver curls billowing softly with the wind before muttering, "I mean to be the king of your heart."
I snort, but my belly drops all the same. "No man has ever spoken such romantically ludicrous notions to me."
"I am not like other men who easily wither under your gaze" he leans towards my ear, his voice gravelly as he says, "princess."
I snort at his actions, playing it off to a degree as he made my heart race, "there is only one king in my heart, and he is my brother."
He purses his lips and nods, "and I am not a romantic."
I snort again, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Nor am I ludicrous," Ormund's lips curl into the faintest of smiles as he mimics my gesture.
Once we are both cross-armed, I feel my eyes crinkle in delight. I openly confess, "I will enjoy being married to you."
He finds himself laughing at the sentiment, realizing too late I was being sincere.
I laugh when his expression drops and unfurl my arms, "don't worry." I pat his shoulder, "you'll be used to the scent of my two dragons soon enough."
I walk away from him, and again he realizes something too late. He calls out, "what do you mean, two dragons?"
I look over my shoulder and giggle, though I do not stop or return to him.
"You cannot have two dragons at once!" He shakes his head, "c-can you?"
Would you ever consider writing more AU headcanons or a short fic where Rhaenyra's daughter remains her heir and Ormund ditches the Green cause so he can benefit himself by getting with her?
Switchin' for you
Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
Part of 'The whore' series but can be read as a stand alone, AU team black wins ending
Summary: You manipulate the fuck out of Ormund, Ormund becomes team black but it's actually team ormund becomes king consort and his son becomes king
TW: Smut in the end, sub-Ormund, both of them have a breeding kink
The raven had arrived at dawn, you had been in the nursery when the letter came, sitting in the cushioned chair by the window with little Aethan in your arms. He was seven moons old, a small, perfect thing with silver-gold hair and eyes that had started out the newborn blue and were slowly, gradually shifting toward the violet of your family. His tiny fingers were wrapped around one of yours with that astonishing, fierce grip that babies had, and he was making those soft, contented sounds he always made when he was full and warm and safe in his mother's embrace. You had been humming to him, an old Valyrian lullaby your mother had sung to you when you were small, a melody that spoke of dragons soaring over the Fourteen Flames and lovers who burned together rather than be parted.
Melanie was nearby, folding his swaddling cloths with the quiet efficiency of a woman who had served as a wet nurse for nearly twenty years. She was a comfortable presence, calm and unhurried, her broad face creased with smile lines and her hands steady and sure as she worked and then the door had opened.
Ormund had walked in without knocking, he had a scroll in his hand, the parchment crumpled as if he had been gripping it too tightly, as if he had been holding it for hours, as if he had read it a dozen times and each reading had made him grip it harder still. The seal—green wax, you noticed—was broken, the edges jagged where he had torn it open in haste or anger or something worse.
"Melanie," you had said, and your voice had been remarkably steady considering the way your heart had suddenly begun to pound against your ribs like a caged bird, considering the way your blood had turned to ice water in your veins, considering the way every instinct you possessed was suddenly screaming danger, danger, danger. "Take Aethan to the wet nurse.I’ll come for him later."
Melanie had taken the baby from your arms without a word. Aethan had fussed at being separated from you, his tiny face crumpling with that particular expression of infant outrage that was somehow both heartbreaking and endearing, his rosebud mouth opening in a wail of protest, and you had pressed a kiss to his forehead and breathed in the scent of him—that sweet, powdery, impossibly perfect scent that all babies carried—before letting him go. The door had clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound, and you had been alone with your husband, and the world had felt very large and very dangerous and very, very fragile.
"What is it?" you had asked, though some part of you already knew. Some part of you had been waiting for this moment since the day you married him. Some part of you had always known that the peace you had built here—the peace you had carved out of duty and compromise and the slow, grudging affection that had grown between you like ivy climbing a stone wall—was a fragile thing, a delicate thing, a soap bubble waiting to be pricked. "What has happened?"
He had handed you the scroll without speaking. You had unrolled it with fingers that were not quite steady, and the words had seemed to blur and swim before your eyes like fish beneath the surface of a pond, and for a long, suspended, breathless moment, the world had gone very quiet, the silence pressing against your eardrums like the silence at the bottom of the sea.
King Viserys is dead. Aegon II Targaryen has been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms. The coronation took place in the Dragonpit before a crowd of thousands. Rhaenyra Targaryen remains on Dragonstone and has not yet issued a response. Lord Ormund Hightower is summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name.
You had read it three times. Four times. Five times. Each time hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something different, something less catastrophic, something that did not feel like the world cracking open beneath your feet. Each time feeling the floor tilt further and further, the walls closing in, the ceiling pressing down. Each time your eyes catching on the same damning phrases: King Viserys is dead. Aegon has been crowned. Rhaenyra has not yet issued a response.
Your grandfather was dead. The man who had sat the Iron Throne for nearly thirty years, who had held you on his knee when you were a child and told you stories of Old Valyria in his thin, wheezing voice, who had loved your mother despite everything—despite the whispers and the scandals and the endless, exhausting political machinations that had surrounded her like flies around honey—he was gone. You would never hear his voice again. You would never see his face again. You would never sit beside him while he showed you his model of Old Valyria, his gnarled fingers tracing the streets and towers of a city that had been dead for four hundred years. He was gone, and before his body was even cold, before the ravens had even been sent, they had crowned him. They had crowned Aegon.
"You knew," you had whispered, looking up at Ormund. Your voice was barely more than a breath, a ghost of a sound, but he heard you. He always heard you. "You knew this was coming."
"I suspected." His voice was guarded. Careful. The voice of a man picking his way through an arrowfield. "The king has been ill for a long time. The succession was always going to be... contested."
"Contested." The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like copper, like blood. "There is nothing to contest. My mother is the heir. Viserys named her heir twenty years ago, and every lord in the Seven Kingdoms swore an oath to her. Your father swore an oath to her. The lords of the Reach and the Riverlands and the North and the Vale and the Stormlands—they all swore. They knelt before her and swore by the old gods and the new that they would honor her claim, that they would defend her rights, that they would stand with her when the time came. This is not a contest. This is not a disagreement. This is treason."
That had been the beginning. The first spark in a powder keg that had been waiting to explode since the day you said your vows, since the moment you agreed to bind yourself to a house that had always been too close to the throne, too hungry for power. You had known, even then, that this day would come. You had known, even then, that the choice would have to be made. But knowing and facing were two different things, and now that the moment was here, now that the raven had arrived and the seal was broken and the words were staring up at you from the parchment, you found that all your preparation, all your careful planning, all your quiet contingency arrangements—they meant nothing. They were ashes in your mouth.
Now you were standing on opposite sides of the solar, the crumpled scroll lying on the floor between you like a line drawn in sand, like a boundary that could not be crossed, like the demarcation between two warring armies, and you had been screaming at each other for what felt like hours. Your voice was hoarse, your throat raw and scraped and burning, your hands shaking with a fury that had been building for months and finally had nowhere left to go but out.
"You swore to me!" The words tore from your throat, jagged and broken, sharp as dragonglass. "When you asked for my hand, you stood before my mother and you swore—swore on your honor, on your house, on everything you held sacred, on the Seven themselves—that House Hightower would stand with the rightful heir when the time came! You told her that you would honor his memory by keeping faith with the crown, that the word of House Hightower was iron and could not be broken! She gave you her blessing because she believed you! She trusted you! She welcomed you into her family, called you son, gave you her daughter's hand in marriage, and now—now you want to throw it all away for—for what? For Aegon? For that—that—"
"Do not." Ormund's voice was a thunderclap, his face dark with fury, his hands clenched at his sides so tightly that the knuckles had gone white as bone. "Do not speak of the king in my presence with such—"
"He is not my king!" The words came out as a shriek, raw and tearing, the sound of something vital being ripped apart. "He is a usurper and a pretender and a thief, and you know it! Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows it! From the Wall to Dorne, from the Iron Islands to the Narrow Sea, every man, woman, and child who paid attention to the succession knows that my mother was named heir by King Viserys himself, before the entire court, before the lords of the realm, before the gods and the laws of men! Your father knelt before her and swore an oath! He knelt, Ormund! On his knees, in front of the Iron Throne, with half the realm watching! And now you stand here and tell me that his oath means nothing? That your word means nothing? That everything you said to me, everything you promised, every vow you made before the septon, before the gods, before our families—that it was all a lie?"
"You dare—"
"I dare because I am your wife! I dare because I am the mother of your son! I dare because I am a Targaryen princess, and my mother is the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms by every law of gods and men, and I will not stand here in silence while you contemplate committing treason against her! I will not be the meek, obedient wife who nods and smiles while her husband destroys everything she holds dear! I am not a broodmare to be bred and put aside! I am the blood of the dragon, and I will be heard!"
Ormund slammed his fist against the desk and you flinched, taking a step back. The inkpot rattled and tipped, spilling black ink across the scattered parchments in a dark wave, staining the wood, ruining letters and documents that had taken hours to compose, his face was flushed dark with rage, a deep, ugly red that crept up from his collar and suffused his features, his eyes blazing with a fury that matched your own. And for a moment—just a moment—he looked like the man who had torn your dress from your body and thrown it into the fire moons ago. The man who had cornered you against the wall and called your mother a whore. The man you had feared and hated and loved.
"Your mother," he said, his voice low and dangerous, the rumble of distant thunder, the growl of a cornered beast, "is not the queen. Aegon is the king. He was crowned by the High Septon himself, anointed in the light of the Seven, before the eyes of thousands. The realm has recognized him. The smallfolk cheered for him. The lords are declaring for him. Storm's End has declared. Casterly Rock has declared. Half the Reach is rallying to his banner as we speak—"
"The smallfolk cheered because they were told to cheer!" You threw the words at him like weapons, like stones, like dragonfire. "Because the Gold Cloaks were in the streets, because the guards were at the gates, because anyone who did not cheer would find themselves in a black cell before sunset with a noose around their neck and the Stranger's hand on their shoulder! You know how this was done, Ormund. You are not a fool, whatever else you may be. You know the Greens have been planning this for years, decades, since before I was born, since my mother was named heir. Your uncle Otto has been scheming to put his grandson on the throne since the day Aegon drew his first breath, and you—you—stood before my mother and smiled and swore you would be loyal, swore you would keep faith, swore you would honor your father's oath, while all along you were waiting for this moment!"
"I was not waiting for anything!" He took a step toward you, his boots heavy on the stone floor, and you did not step back. You would not step back. You had given ground before, in the early days of your marriage, and you had learned that giving ground only invited him to take more. "I did not know they were going to crown him! I did not know they were going to move so quickly! The raven came this morning, and I was as surprised as you were—"
"Surprised?" You laughed, and the sound was ugly and sharp and utterly without humor, a jagged, broken thing that scraped against the walls and fell to the floor between you. "You were surprised that Otto Hightower, the man who has spent twenty years trying to undermine my mother, the man who whispered poison in my grandfather's ear at every turn, the man who was dismissed as Hand for his scheming and then schemed his way back into power—you were surprised that he seized the first opportunity to put his own blood on the throne? You were surprised that Alicent, who dressed in green and called my mother a whore behind her back and raised her children to hate their own sister, crowned her son before my grandfather's body was cold, before the ravens were even sent, before the realm even knew he was dead? You expect me to believe that you, the Lord of the Hightower, the most powerful lord in the Reach, the head of a house that has its fingers in every pie from Oldtown to King's Landing—you expect me to believe that you had no idea this was coming?"
"You can believe what you like." His jaw was set, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes hard as flint. "The fact remains that Aegon is the crowned and anointed king. The lords of the realm are declaring for him. If I do not declare as well, Oldtown will be isolated. We will be surrounded by enemies on all sides. Every lord who declares for Aegon will look at Oldtown and see a prize to be claimed, a traitor's holding to be seized. My house—our house—will be destroyed."
"Your house will be destroyed if you declare for Aegon!" You stepped toward him now, closing the distance, your finger jabbing toward his chest as if you could poke a hole in his stubbornness. "Do you think my mother will forget? Do you think Daemon will forget? Do you think the Rogue Prince, the man who decapitated Vaemond Velaryon in front of the whole court for merely questioning my brother's legitimacy, will shrug his shoulders and say 'no hard feelings' when he learns that House Hightower has sided with the usurpers? They have dragons, Ormund. Syrax and Caraxes and Vermax and Arrax and Tyraxes and Moondancer and Meleys. My mother has more dragons than the Greens could dream of, more dragonriders, more fire and blood and death at her command than any force in the known world. And if you raise your banners against her, she will come for you. Daemon will come for you. They will descend on Oldtown like the Doom itself, and I will not be able to stop them, I will not stop them."
"Then we will fight—"
"Fight? With what?" You laughed again, and this time the sound was edged with something close to hysteria. "With swords and arrows against dragons? With walls and towers against creatures that can fly over them and rain fire from above? Your soldiers would be ash on the wind. Your city would be a graveyard. Your people would be charred bones and blackened memories. And for what? For what? For Aegon? For a drunken wastrel who cannot even keep his hands off the serving girls, who staggers from brothel to brothel leaving bastards in his wake, who has never done a single thing in his life to prove himself worthy of a lordship, let alone a throne? For a man who would burn this city himself if it meant keeping his stolen crown for one more day?"
"Aegon is my blood—"
"I am your blood!" You slammed your palm against your own chest, hard enough to bruise, your voice cracking on the words. "Aethan is your blood! Your son, he is my son, and he has Targaryen blood in his veins, dragonrider blood, the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror himself! And if you declare for Aegon, if you throw your lot in with the Greens, you will be signing his death warrant along with mine! You will be painting a target on his back that every Green in the realm will aim for! You will be giving them a reason to see him dead, and believe me, they will not need much of one!"
Ormund's face went still, the kind of still that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "What did you say?"
"You heard me." Your voice was shaking now. "Do you think the Greens will let Aethan live? Do you think they will look at your son—your half-Targaryen son, your son with Rhaenyra's blood in his veins, your son who has a better claim to the throne through his mother than Aegon's own children do through his sister-wife—and see anything other than a threat? He has a claim to the throne, Ormund. Through my mother, through me, through the blood that runs in his veins, he has a claim. He is Rhaenyra's grandson. The grandson of the rightful queen. And the Greens have spent their entire lives tearing down anyone with a better claim than theirs."
"Aethan is an infant—"
"Infants grow up!" You were screaming again, your voice shredding, tears streaming down your face, hot and salt and utterly beyond your control. "Infants become boys, and boys become men, and men with claims to thrones are dangerous things to leave alive! What do you think they will do to him? What do you think Aemond will do to him? You know what Aemond is! You have seen the way he looks at people, the way he holds grudges like a banker holds gold, the way he never forgets a slight, never forgives an insult, never lets go of anything! He lost an eye and gained a dragon, and he has spent every day since becoming more dangerous, more cruel, more hungry for violence! He will look at our son and see a rival, see a threat, see someone who might one day challenge his brother's stolen crown, and he will not hesitate! He will not wait for Aethan to grow up and press his claim! He will kill him! He will come in the night with Vhagar's fire or with a blade in the dark, and he will kill our son, Ormund, our beautiful, perfect, innocent son, and you will not be able to stop it!"
"I would never let anyone harm Aethan—"
"You cannot protect him!" You grabbed the front of his tunic, your fingers twisting in the fine fabric, yanking him toward you, your face inches from his, close enough to see the individual lashes around his eyes, close enough to smell the wine on his breath and the sweat on his skin. "That is what you do not understand! That is what you have never understood, not once in all the time we have been married! You think because you are Lord Hightower, because you are their cousin, because you have been loyal and useful and accommodating, that they will respect you? That they will leave us alone? That they will let us live out our days in peace? They will not need you anymore! Do you understand that? The moment Aegon sits securely on that throne, the moment my mother and my brothers are dead and buried and their dragons are slain, the moment their victory is complete—they will not need you anymore! You will not be an ally—you will be a liability! A lord with a Targaryen wife and a Targaryen son who has a better claim to the throne than half the people in the Red Keep! A loose end! A threat! A problem to be solved!"
"Y/N, you are being hysterical—"
"I am being reasonable!" You released his tunic and stepped back, your chest heaving, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers. "I am seeing clearly for the first time in my life! I am looking at the world as it is, not as I wish it to be, not as you wish it to be! Think, Ormund! For once in your stubborn, prideful, infuriating life, think! Why do you think they sent Daeron here when he was barely more than a babe?” The words tumbled from your mouth faster than you could catch them, one lie chasing another before you had the chance to think them through. They tasted wrong, thick as ink on your tongue, each sentence more desperate than the last. You had never done this before and you hoped it did not show.
“Why do you think they fostered him in your household, let him grow up alongside your children, let him learn your ways and your customs and your people? Out of the goodness of their hearts? Out of family affection? Out of the kindness of sweet, pious Queen Alicent's gentle soul?"
"Daeron is my ward—"
"Daeron is a Green!" You spat the words like poison, like venom, like the contents of a snake's fangs. "Daeron has the blood of the same people who stole my mother's throne, who crowned Aegon before my grandfather's body was cold, and they sent him here—sent him to you—when he was barely old enough to walk. A third son, a spare's spare, a boy with no prospects and no inheritance and no future. Why? Why would they do that? Why would they send their precious prince to be raised so far from court, so far from his family, so far from everything he knew?"
Ormund's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek, but he did not answer.
"I will tell you why." Your voice dropped, low and cold and trembling with a certainty you did not entirely feel but knew you had to project. The performance of a lifetime. The role you had been born to play. "They sent him here to be groomed. They sent him here to learn your castle, your city, your people. They sent him here so that when the time came—when Aegon was king and the Hightowers had served their purpose and the realm was securely in Green hands—Daeron would be ready. He is a grown man now. A dragonrider. A prince of the blood, however far down the succession. He has been raised in your household, trained by your master at arms, taught by your maesters, loved by your servants. He knows every passage in the Hightower, every hidden door, and when the Greens decide they no longer need you—when they decide that Oldtown would be better served by a lord who is entirely their creature, a lord who owes everything to them and nothing to anyone else—what stops them from naming Daeron Lord of the Hightower and casting you aside like a worn-out tool, like a broken sword, like yesterday's dinner scraps?"
"Daeron would never—"
"Daeron is a dragonrider!" You were screaming again, your voice raw and desperate, your throat burning with the effort. "When his brother tells him that Oldtown is his birthright, when Otto tells him that this is what he was raised for, what he was trained for, what his entire life has been leading up to—what do you think he will do? Do you think he will choose you over his own blood? Do you think he will choose loyalty to his foster family over the command of his king, his brother, his own flesh and blood?"
Ormund was staring at you, his face a mask of fury and doubt and something that looked almost like fear. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as polished bone, his jaw tight enough to crack stone, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. But he was listening. You could see it in his eyes—the way the doubt was creeping in, the way your words were sinking their hooks into him, the way the seeds you were planting were beginning to take root in the fertile soil of his paranoia and his pride.
"You cannot trust them," you said, and your voice dropped again, softening, becoming almost gentle. Almost tender. The voice of a wife who only wanted what was best for her husband, her family, her future. "You cannot trust any of them. They have been using you, Ormund. Using your gold, your soldiers, your influence, your name. Using the prestige of the Hightower to lend legitimacy to their coup. And the moment they have what they want—the moment Aegon sits the throne unchallenged, the moment Rhaenyra and Daemon and all my brothers are dead and buried, the moment the war is won—they will discard you. You will be a threat to them. I will be a threat to them, the daughter of the queen they usurped, a constant reminder of their treason. Aethan will be a threat to them, a child with a claim, a dragon in waiting. And they will not suffer threats to live."
"You do not know that—"
"I know the Greens." You stepped closer to him again, you reached up, slowly, gently, and cupped his face in your hands. Your palms against his cheeks. Your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The gesture of a lover, "I know them better than you ever could. I have lived among them. I grew up in the Red Keep, remember? I saw the way they looked at my mother, the way they whispered about her behind closed doors when they thought no one was listening. I saw the cruelty in Aemond's eyes even when he was just a boy, the weakness in Aegon's, the cold, calculating ambition in Otto's. I saw the way Alicent smiled at my mother while she sharpened the knife behind her back. They are not honorable people, Ormund. They are not loyal people. They do not keep faith. They do not honor oaths. They are users and schemers and oathbreakers and kinslayers, and they will destroy anyone who stands in their way—including you. Especially you, when you have outlived your usefulness."
He stared down at you, his dark eyes searching your face. The fury was still there, banked but not extinguished, a fire that could flare up again at any moment. But it was warring now with something else—something that looked almost like uncertainty, almost like fear, almost like the dawning realization that you might be right. His hands came up, hesitated, and then covered yours where they rested against his cheeks.
"And what would you have me do?" he asked, his voice rough, scraped raw by all the shouting. "Declare for your mother? Take up arms against my own blood? My cousin, my uncle, everyone I have ever known, everyone I grew up with, everyone who shares my name?"
"I would have you fight for your wife," you said, and you let your voice tremble, let tears well in your eyes, let him see the vulnerable woman beneath the warrior. "For your son. For the oaths your father swore before the Iron Throne, before the eyes of gods and men. For the honor you have always claimed to hold dear above all else." You paused, and then you played your final card—the card you had been holding in reserve, the card you had been saving for exactly this moment, the card that would tip the scales. "And I would have you think about what happens after."
"After?" His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, after?"
"After my mother wins." You said it as if it were a certainty, an inevitability, a thing as sure as the sunrise. "After she takes back her throne and crushes the usurpers and restores the rightful succession. Do you think she will forget who stood with her and who stood against her? Do you think she will not reward those who kept faith, and punish those who broke it?"
Ormund's eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying," you said, and you let a slow, knowing smile curve your lips, the smile of a woman who held all the cards and knew exactly how to play them, "that I am her eldest child. Her firstborn. Her only daughter. The child who came from her body when she was little more than a girl herself, the child she nearly died bringing into this world, the child she loves above all others."
"What are you saying?" he repeated, but his voice was different now. Quieter. Hungrier.
"I am saying that if I ask her—if I remind her of everything I have sacrificed, everything I have endured, everything I have done to secure House Hightower's loyalty and bring you into the fold—she will name me her heir." You stepped closer still, until your bodies were touching, you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. Your voice dropped to a whisper, intimate and conspiratorial, a secret shared between lovers. "I will be queen after her. The first ruling queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A queen in my own right, not a consort, not a regent, not a placeholder. A true queen, with all the power and authority that entails."
The silence that followed was absolute. You could hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, a drumbeat of triumph. You could hear the distant toll of the bells, the crackle of the dying fire, the whisper of the wind outside the window, the soft, distant sound of gulls crying over the harbor.
"And you," you continued, your voice a silken whisper, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on his cheeks, "would be my king. King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. The most powerful man in the realm. Every lord in Westeros would bow to you. Every decision I made would be made with your counsel. You would sit beside me on the Iron Throne, the first true Hightower ever to do so, and your name would be written in the history books alongside mine for all eternity."
You saw it then, the moment the hook caught. The moment ambition overrode loyalty. The moment the vision you were painting became more real to him than the letters on the parchment, more compelling than blood ties and family bonds and everything he had ever known.
"And our son," you breathed, leaning in until your lips were almost brushing his ear, "our son, Aethan—he would be king after us. A Hightower king on the Iron Throne. Your blood, your name, your legacy, ruling the Seven Kingdoms for generations to come. The Hightower dynasty. A new golden age. All because of the choice you make today."
"That is..." Ormund's voice was hoarse. "That is what you are offering me?"
"That is what I am offering you," you confirmed. "Not just honor.Not just the ear of a distant cousin being controlled by an uncle. But a dynasty. A future. A throne. All you have to do—all you have ever had to do—is keep the oath your father swore. Stand with my mother. Stand with me. Choose us."
Ormund stared at you for a long, long moment. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching your face, and you could see the war raging behind them—ambition against loyalty, the promise of a throne against the pull of blood, the future you were offering against the past he had always known. You let him see nothing in your face but love and hope and desperate, earnest sincerity.
It was a lie, of course. Most of it, at least. You had no idea if your mother would name you her heir. You had no idea if she would even consider it, not when she had three living sons, not when Jacaerys was her clear and obvious successor, but Ormund did not need to know that.
"If I do this," he said slowly, "The Greens will name me traitor. Aemond will want my head. They will come for us with everything they have."
"Then let them come." You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes, letting him see the fire that burned in their violet depths. "We will face them together. We have an army. We have gold. We have dragons of our own—Aegarax will fight for me, the greens depend on oldtown, if you do not follow them most of their allies will retreat. We cannot survive if you choose the wrong side. And we cannot claim our destiny—our throne—if you let fear hold you back."
He was silent for another long moment. Then, very slowly, like a great tree beginning to fall, like a wall beginning to crumble, he reached up and covered your hands with his own.
"You make a compelling argument," he said quietly. "But I need more than promises. I need guarantees."
Your heart leaped, a wild, exultant thing, but you kept your face steady. You kept your expression earnest and loving and just the slightest bit vulnerable. "Name them."
"I will send a raven to your mother. I will tell her that I am prepared to declare for her, to raise my banners and call my bannermen, to commit the full strength of Oldtown to her cause. But in return, I want her word—her sworn, written word, sealed with her own hand and witnessed by her council—that you will be named her heir. That our son will inherit after you. That House Hightower will be bound to the Iron Throne by blood and law, now and forever. No ambiguities. No caveats. No loopholes for her sons to exploit."
"And if she agrees?"
"Then I will declare for her." His grip on your hands tightened, almost painfully. "I will raise my banners, call my bannermen, and commit the full might of Oldtown to the rightful queen. Every sword, every ship, every copper penny in my treasury—all of it will be hers. But if she refuses—if she will not give us this guarantee, if she will not put it in writing, if she hedges or prevaricates or offers anything less than what I have asked—then I will have no choice but to declare for Aegon. Do you understand?"
You understood. You understood that this was the best you were going to get—better, in fact, than you had hoped. You understood that you had pushed him as far as he could be pushed, that he was giving you a chance, a real chance, and that the rest was up to your mother. You understood that you had won.
"I understand," you said, and you let relief flood your features, let tears of gratitude well in your eyes. "Send the raven. Ask her. And when she agrees—because she will agree, she loves me, she wants what is best for me and for Aethan, she would never deny her only daughter this one thing—you will stand with us."
"If she agrees," Ormund repeated, but there was something in his voice now that had not been there before. Something that sounded almost like hope. Almost like hunger. "Then I will stand with you."
You nodded, and he nodded, and something in the room shifted. The fury that had been crackling between you like lightning began to dissipate, replaced by something quieter, something more fragile, something that might, with careful tending, grow into something stronger. An agreement. A truce. A partnership.
"Send for the maester," Ormund said, releasing your hands and stepping back. He crossed to his desk and righted the fallen inkpot, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward him with hands that were still trembling slightly. "I will dictate the letter myself. I want every word to be exactly right."
You watched him settle into his chair, watched him dip his quill in the inkwell, watched him begin to write. Your heart was still pounding, your hands still trembling, your throat still raw from screaming. But beneath the exhaustion, beneath the fear, beneath the lingering adrenaline that sang in your blood like wildfire, there was something else. Something that felt almost like triumph.
You had convinced him. You had actually convinced him. You had taken a man who had been moments away from declaring for the Greens, a man bound by blood and history and ambition to the usurpers, and you had turned him. You had used every weapon in your arsenal—fear and love, threats and promises, logic and emotion and the cold, calculated manipulation that you had learned at your mother's knee and perfected in the crucible of your marriage—and you had won.
You were a Targaryen princess. You were the blood of the dragon. And you had just changed the course of the war before it had even begun.
Now all you had to do was hope that your mother would do the rest. And if she would not—if she could not—well. You would cross that bridge when you came to it. You had learned, in the years since your wedding night, that there was always another card to play. There was always another lever to pull. There was always another way to get what you wanted.
You looked at your husband, bent over his desk, writing the letter that would commit him to your mother's cause—and to yours. And you smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was not a gentle smile. It was the smile of a dragon who had just discovered that she could breathe fire after all.
—
One Year Later
The throne room of the Red Keep was silent, you stood alone before the great doors, your hands clasped in front of you, your heart beating slow and steady in your chest. The murmuring of the crowd beyond was a distant hum, muffled by the thick oak, but you did not strain to hear it. You kept your eyes forward, your breathing even, your spine straight.
The doors swung open, the throne room stretched before you, vast and glittering, a river of candlelight and shadow. The Iron Throne rose at the far end, its jagged peaks of fused swords catching the light like a mountain of blades. Banners of black and red hung from the rafters, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen rippling in the warm air.
And every eye in the room was fixed on you, your gown was black silk, heavy and rich, embroidered with threads of crimson and silver that caught the light like dragon scales. A cloak of deep red velvet hung from your shoulders, the train sweeping the floor behind you. Your hair was braided in the Valyrian style, pulled back from your face.
You kept your eyes fixed on the throne, and on the woman standing before it. Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, waited for you at the foot of the Iron Throne. She wore black silk and a crown of gold and silver, and her silver-gold hair fell past her shoulders like a waterfall of moonlight. Her face was older than you remembered—marked by grief, by loss, by the terrible weight of the crown she had fought so hard to claim—but her eyes were bright.Bright with love.
You stopped before her and sank into a deep curtsy, your gown pooling around you like spilled ink.
"Your Grace."
"Rise," your mother said, her voice carrying through the silent hall. "Rise, my daughter."
You rose. Rhaenyra descended the last step of the throne and took your hands in hers. Her grip was warm and firm, and her eyes searched your face as if memorizing every detail.
"Lords and ladies of the realm," she said, and her voice rang out clear and strong, filling every corner of the vast chamber. "You have come here today to witness the continuation of my line. My daughter, my eldest child, my only daughter—she is the blood of Old Valyria, the fire of the dragon, and the truest heart I have ever known."
She paused, and her grip on your hands tightened.
"In accordance with the laws of the Seven Kingdoms and the traditions of House Targaryen, I do hereby name her as my rightful heir. She will be Princess of Dragonstone, as I was before her. Upon my death, she will ascend the Iron Throne as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her children after her will inherit the crown, and her blood will rule this realm for generations to come."
She released your hands and turned to face the assembled lords.
"Let all those who would swear fealty to my daughter kneel."
The command echoed through the hall, and as one, the lords of the realm dropped to their knees. Lords and ladies, knights and courtiers, banners from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms dipping toward the floor. The Reach. The Riverlands. The Vale. The North. The Stormlands. The Westerlands. The Crownlands. All of them, kneeling before you in a single, unified gesture of fealty.
You saw Ormund among them, near the front of the crowd, his head bowed. You saw your brothers—Jace beside Baela, both of them kneeling with their hands over their hearts. You saw lords you had known since childhood and lords you had never met, all of them bending the knee to you.
To you.
"We swear our loyalty to you, Princess," the voices rang out, a chorus of hundreds speaking as one. "Our swords are yours. Our lives are yours. Our houses are yours. Now and forever."
The words echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls and the dragon skulls and the jagged peaks of the Iron Throne. You stood there, your hands at your sides, your heart pounding, and let the weight of it wash over you.
This was your birthright. This was your destiny. This was everything you had fought for.
—
The celebration had continued long into the night, you could still hear the distant strains of music and laughter drifting up from the great hall below, the occasional burst of drunken cheering, the echo of footsteps in the corridors as servants hurried to and from, but you had retired early. You had wanted to be alone. Alone with him.
The servants had been dismissed hours ago. The fire in the hearth had burned down to a soft, amber glow, its embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the darkness, casting long shadows that danced across the marble floor and the silk-hung walls. The room was warm, fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint, lingering perfume of the oils your handmaidens had rubbed into your skin before the ceremony. And you stood by the window in nothing but a thin silk robe the color of blood, watching the moonlight dance across the dark waters below, feeling the cool glass beneath your fingertips.
You heard him before you felt him. The soft click of the door closing. The familiar rhythm of his footsteps on the marble floor—heavy, deliberate, the stride of a man who had spent his life in command. The subtle shift in the air as he drew near, bringing with him the scent of leather and wine and something deeper, something that was just him.
Then his hands were on your waist, warm and solid, his fingers spanning the curve of your hips through the thin silk, and his lips found the curve of your neck.
"You were magnificent today," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough, the words vibrating through you. His mouth traced a slow path from the hollow behind your ear to the slope of your shoulder, each kiss a deliberate, reverent press of lips and tongue. "Every lord in that hall was staring at you. Every single one. I watched them watch you. I watched them want you."
You let your head fall back against his shoulder with a soft, breathy sigh, your eyes fluttering closed as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms despite the warmth of the room. "They were staring because my mother told them to."
"They were staring because you looked like a goddess descended from the heavens to claim her throne." His teeth closed on your earlobe—just a gentle pressure, just enough to make your breath catch—and then his tongue soothed the sting. "You looked like their queen. The queen they will kneel to. The queen they will fight for. The queen they will die for. And I—" His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the silk. "—I am the only one who gets to touch you. The only one who gets to see you like this. The only one who knows what you look like when you come undone."
You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the front of his chest. He had changed after the ceremony—the heavy formal doublet replaced by a dark tunic of fine wool, unlaced at the throat, revealing the strong column of his neck and the faint dusting of silver-dark hair beneath. His hair was slightly disheveled from the evening's celebrations, falling across his brow in a way that made him look younger. Wilder. Almost like the man you had married all those years ago. The man who had frightened you and thrilled you in equal measure.
But you were not frightened anymore.
"And what about you?" you asked, your voice dropping to a low, silken murmur. Your fingers traced up his chest to the open collar of his tunic, toying with the laces, brushing against the warm skin beneath. "Will you kneel to me? Will you bend the knee to your future queen?"
His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your belly through the layers of fabric that still separated you. "I have knelt to you every day since the moment we met. Every hour. Every breath. I have been on my knees for you since the first time I saw you across that throne room, and I will be on my knees for you until the day I die."
"Have you?" You tilted your head, a slow, wicked smile curving your lips. Your fingers found the laces of his tunic and began to work them loose, one by one, deliberate and unhurried. "I do not remember that. Perhaps you should remind me."
"Perhaps I should."
He kissed you. His mouth claimed yours with a fierce, consuming intensity, his tongue sliding past your lips, stroking against yours, exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as if he were memorizing every inch of it. His teeth caught your lower lip and tugged—just hard enough to make you gasp, just hard enough to send a bolt of heat straight to your core.
You pulled back, breathless, your chest heaving, your lips already swollen from the force of his kiss. "I think," you said, your voice slightly unsteady despite your best efforts, "that tonight, I should be the one in command. After all—" You pushed the tunic from his shoulders, and the heavy fabric slid down his arms and fell to the floor in a dark pool at his feet. "—I am the heir to the Iron Throne. The future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And you are my subject."
"Is that so?" His eyes were dark and burning, fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach tighten and your thighs press together. There was amusement there, flickering at the edges, but beneath it was something rawer.
"It is." You reached for the hem of his undershirt, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his stomach, and pulled it up and over his head. He lifted his arms to help you, and then the shirt was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and he was bare from the waist up. The firelight played across his chest, the broad shoulders, the dusting of dark hair that trailed down his sternum and disappeared beneath the waistband of his breeches, the scars that mapped his decades of soldiering. Some of them you knew the stories of. Others you had traced with your fingers in the dark, wondering what battles had left their marks on him before you were even born.
He was not young. His body showed every one of his years, the slight softening around his middle, the lines etched deep around his eyes, the grey that had long since overtaken the dark of his hair. But he was yours. Every scar, every line, every silver hair. Yours to touch. Yours to kiss. Yours to command.
"And you—" You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right above his heart, feeling the steady thud of it against your lips. "—are my king consort. My husband. My subject." Your mouth trailed lower, pressing kisses down his sternum, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. "Mine to command. Mine to touch." Your fingers found the laces of his breeches, working them loose with deliberate, unhurried movements. "Mine to please."
You pushed the breeches down over his hips, and he stepped out of them, kicking them aside. And then he was bare before you, completely bare, his arousal jutting proud and rigid from its nest of dark curls, already flushed and straining and leaking a glistening bead of moisture at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight of him. You had seen him like this hundreds of times—thousands of times—and yet it never lost its power.
"And do you intend to please me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, strained with the effort of holding himself still. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he watched you look at him.
You lifted your gaze to his, your eyes dark with promise. "I intend to worship you." You stepped back, your hands moving to the sash of your robe. The silk was cool beneath your fingers, the knot giving way easily. "You called me a goddess. But tonight—" The robe slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet in a whisper of crimson silk. "—tonight, you are my king. And I want you to feel like one."
You stood before him in the firelight, bare and unashamed. The warmth of the embers kissed your skin, and you saw the way his eyes traveled over your body—lingering on the full curves of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the silver-gold curls at the juncture of your thighs. His throat worked as he swallowed. His hands clenched at his sides.
"Gods," he breathed, his voice rough and reverent. "You are more beautiful than the day I married you. More beautiful than the first time I saw you. More beautiful than any woman has a right to be."
"Flatterer." You closed the distance between you in two slow steps, your bare feet silent on the marble floor, and took his face in your hands. His stubble was rough against your palms. "You have already had me. You do not need to woo me with pretty words."
"I will woo you with pretty words until the day I die." His hands came up to cover yours, pressing your palms more firmly against his cheeks. "I will write sonnets to your beauty. I will compose ballads about your grace. I will—"
You kissed him, your lips moved against his with deliberate tenderness, and your body pressed against him—bare skin against bare skin, the crisp hair of his chest scraping against your sensitive nipples, the heat of him seeping into you, the rigid length of his arousal pressing insistently against your belly. He groaned into your mouth, and the sound vibrated through you, settling low and heavy between your thighs.
"Come to bed," you whispered against his lips, pulling back just far enough to speak. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be my king."
You led him to the great bed. It was enormous, draped in silks of crimson and black, piled high with furs and soft, yielding pillows. The bed of the heir to the Iron Throne. The bed where princes and princesses had been conceived for generations. The bed where, gods willing, you would conceive another child tonight—a brother or sister for Aethan, another dragon to add to your lineage.
You pushed him gently down onto the mattress, and he went willingly, his eyes never leaving your face. He lay back against the pillows, his body sprawled beneath you, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his waist. His arousal jutted up between your bodies, hot and hard and glistening, and you felt a surge of liquid heat at the sight of it. At the thought of what was about to happen.
"My king," you murmured, rolling your hips just slightly, just enough to drag your slick folds along the length of him. He groaned, his head falling back, his hands flying to your hips. "My king consort. Do you know what that means?"
"Tell me," he said through gritted teeth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips.
"It means you are the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to me." You leaned down, your hair falling around your faces like a curtain of silver silk, shutting out the rest of the world. "It means every lord in that hall bent the knee to me today, but you—" You kissed the corner of his mouth, feather-light. "—you are the only one I will ever call my king." Another kiss, to the edge of his jaw. "The only one whose name I will ever cry out in the dark." A kiss to his throat, just above his pulse point, where his heartbeat fluttered against your lips. "The only one who will ever be inside me. The only one who will ever fill me. The only one who will ever spill his seed in my womb and put another child in my belly."
His hips bucked beneath you, an involuntary, desperate motion, and you laughed—a low, throaty sound that made his eyes darken even further.
"Patience," you murmured, pressing a finger to his lips. "I am not finished."
"Y/N—"
"Shh." You traced his lower lip with your fingertip, feeling the warmth of his breath, the slight tremor in his chest. "You have given me orders for years. You have commanded me and corrected me and taught me. And I have loved every moment of it. But tonight—tonight, I give the orders. Tonight, I am in command. And your first order—" You reached down between your bodies and took him in your hand. He was hot and thick and throbbing, velvety soft over unyielding hardness, and the feel of him in your palm made your inner muscles clench with desperate, aching need. "—is to lie back and let me take what I want."
You positioned him at your entrance, the broad head of him pressing against your slick, aching folds. You were so wet already—had been wet since the moment he kissed your neck, since the moment he whispered those reverent words against your skin. You rubbed him against yourself, back and forth, coating him in your arousal, and he groaned and clutched at your thighs and called your name like a prayer.
Then you sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, the feeling of him filling you—stretching you, completing you—drew a sharp, shuddering gasp from your lips. You felt every inch of him as he slid inside, the thick ridge of him, the way your body had to stretch to accommodate his size. He was so deep like this, deeper than in any other position, and you took a moment to simply breathe, to adjust, to savor the exquisite fullness of having him buried to the hilt inside you.
"Look at me," you commanded, your voice breathless but steady. Your palms pressed flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat. "Look at your queen."
"My queen," he breathed, his voice ragged and broken. "My beautiful, fierce, impossible queen. You are—you feel—"
"I know." You began to move. Slow at first, a deep, rolling rhythm, rising up until he was almost out of you and then sinking back down, taking him to the hilt, grinding your hips against his. The firelight flickered across your bodies, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you watched his face contort with pleasure, watched his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, watched his jaw go slack and his eyes glaze over.
"You are so deep like this," you murmured, your voice hitching as you found a rhythm that made sparks dance behind your eyes. "So deep inside me. Do you feel that? Do you feel how much I want you?"
"I feel—gods, YN, I feel—"
"Tell me." You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, changing the angle so that every thrust dragged against that sensitive spot deep inside you. "Tell me what you feel."
"I feel like I am drowning in you." The words came out in a broken rush, his voice strained and desperate. "Like you are the only thing in the world. Like there is nothing else—no throne, no kingdom, no war—nothing but you and your body and the way you take me. The way you always take me. The way you were made for me."
"I was made for you." Your rhythm quickened, your hips snapping against his now, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room. "Every part of me. Every inch. Made for you. Belonging to you. Just as you belong to me."
"Yours," he gasped. "Yours, yours, always yours—"
You rose up and then slammed back down, taking him as deep as he could go, and he let out a sound that was almost a sob. His hips bucked up to meet you, driving himself even deeper, and you cried out—a high, breathless sound that echoed off the marble walls.
"That is it," you panted, your thighs burning with the effort, your body slick with sweat. "That is it. Take what you need. Take what is yours. You are my king, and this is your kingdom—" You took his hand and pressed it against your lower belly, right where you could feel him moving inside you. "—right here. Inside me. Always."
He surged upward, one arm wrapping around your waist, and suddenly you were on your back, your legs wrapped around his hips, and he was driving into you with a ferocity that made the bed frame groan and the headboard slam against the wall. The change in position was dizzying, electrifying, and you clung to his shoulders, your nails raking down his back, your voice rising in a string of incoherent gasps and moans.
"My queen," he growled against your ear, his hips never slowing, each thrust deep and hard and perfect. "My queen, my queen, my queen—"
"Don't stop," you begged, your legs tightening around him, your heels digging into the small of his back. "Please, please, don't stop, I am so close, I am right there—"
His hand snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding that sensitive pearl of flesh at the apex of your folds, and he pressed down in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensations—his cock driving into you, his thumb working your clit—sent you careening over the edge. Your body arched off the bed, your inner muscles clamping down around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, and a scream tore from your throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer, like a benediction, like a vow.
He followed moments later. You felt him swell inside you, felt the hot pulse of his release flooding your womb, and he buried his face in the curve of your neck and groaned your name with a desperation that bordered on reverence. His hips kept moving, slower now, gentler, riding out the last waves of his pleasure until he was spent and trembling and collapsed on top of you.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged and uneven. He was still inside you, soft now but still present, still connecting you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, and you welcomed it—the solid, grounding warmth of him, the proof that he was here, that he was yours, that you had survived everything and come out the other side.
Then his hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle and slow, his fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands.
"My queen," he murmured against your throat. "My wife. My love. My everything."
"My king." You pressed a kiss to his temple, tasting salt. "My husband. My heart. My home."
He shifted, easing out of you with a soft, slick sound, and you felt the warm trickle of his seed between your thighs. You would keep your legs elevated tonight, you decided. Give his seed the best chance to take root. Aethan needed a sibling. The realm needed more heirs. And you—you wanted another child. Another piece of him to carry with you always.
──── Morpheus┆The King's witch
author's note: currently during writer block so this was a real fight. This work contains: cozy evening in witch's cottage, mention of death, mention of sexual encounters, basically emo bf x witch gf but make them immortal.
Morpheus x witch!reader
mdni
he came at night, just like he always did. ignoring the sign ‘men not allowed’ by the doors, only eyeing it like it personally offended him. maybe it did – you never asked. never cared enough to find out what he’s thinking about your house. he was always only eyeing things. the few tarot decks you had, the crystal ball that he was pretty much sure you talked with the dead through. the book you stole from him to stay forever alive and beautiful.
you dreamed your way to the Dreaming and somehow managed to steal it. and with it, also his mind, his every waking thought, later you stole his heart.
and even when he didn’t say that you knew.
by the way his eyes softened at your sight. his long coat gone, shoes kicked off by the doors, he locked with a flex of a wrist. leaving sand in your shoes again, just to sneak quickly into your living room – you would me mad again if you found out.
you knew you stole his heart by the way his shoulder slumped tiredly when he finally rested on your couch, letting your legs rest on his lap.
“no tea? you're not a very hospitable host.” he murmured, his voice deep and slow. sensual, almost intimate. and the way he knitted his eyebrows in this fake-mocking manner.
“you know where the kitchen is.” you said way too comfortable to move anywhere now.
“such insubordination.” he mumbled running his hand over his face.
“but I understand, the time you were trapped in a fishbowl could erase your memory.” you said with your eyes still glued to the fireplace.
“Oh you’re a cruel witch.” he said and the corners of his mouth almost turned into a lopsided smile.
but he managed to get up, throwing your legs off his lap that makes you scoff quietly before bringing your knees up to your chest. You listened intently, how he poured water into the kettle, opened the cupboards in search of mugs.
“make me a lemon balm tea while you’re there?” you said but it came out more like a soft command than a full question.
you didn’t hear his answer, only an exaggerated sigh and quiet murmur, too quiet for you. irritating.
you pout until he comes back with two cups of steaming tea in his hands. Sour expression on his face.
“what happened?” you asked in the middle of eating a jam cookie, you made in the morning.
“I spilled the water.” he admitted reluctantly before giving you a sidelong glance and sitting back on the couch, handing you the mug. “trouble sleeping?” he asked, staring at his own tea.
“what?” a frown bloomed on your face as you blew on the hot surface.
“don’t play games with me, witch.” he mumbled, taking a sip.
it was weird seeing him like that – even after the centuries you spend together – calm, relaxed, without this damned scowl. Sipping tea like a normal human being, sitting on a couch and you knew he was trying his hardest not to bring this black blanket you had lying on the armchair over both of you.
“you use lemon balm tea when you have trouble sleeping, but are too stubborn to let me actually help you.” he scoffed and looked at you.
of course, the Dream King.
“I just like the taste.”
“this is the most implausible excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“believe what you wish.” you said and rolled your eyes before taking a small sip of your tea.
“impossible” he only mumbled, before looking away – probably for a book.
“You always get your hopes up.” you said making another tarot guide appear on your lap. “there’s no Shakespeare here.”
“you always had a disgust for good literature.” he took another sip of the tea and grimaced at the taste.
“sugar?
“no.”
“suffer the bitterness then.” you said and opened the guide where you left the bookmark.
You could feel his gaze on you, brooding and grumpy, yet the way he was staring right into you – that made you shiver.
“blanket?”
“no.”
“suffer the cold then.” he mumbled before letting out a dramatic sigh trying to look unaffected.
“That’s not cold, I'm suffering.” you scoffed flipping the page and you could feel his jaw clench
bingo.
“Do not play with me, witch.” he said before putting the mug down on your coffee table like it personally offended him. “how many of them have you read?”
“plenty.” you said and took a sip of your tea. “your point?”
the salt lamp behind you lit up casting a golden glow at his face. he indeed looked majestic in every light. with those bed hair you had a habit of running your fingers through or tugging as he was hovering above you, his hot breath on your neck as he was losing himself slowly inside you. ot those grey eyes that were staring at you every time you were melting on the mattress and in his arms. this pale face you were seeing after you fell asleep where in reality he was wrapped around you, after the love-making.
gods this man was really something.
“why another one?” he questioned, his eyebrows knitted in soft frown
“I have to keep up with the young ones.”
“you’re young too.” he said, his voice gruff and still grumpy, yet you could hear the softer note.
you knew him.
“I’m 300 years old.”
“you don’t look a day older than when we first met.” he said, his gaze trailing over your features.
“you mean when I stole from you?” you asked and covered your growing smirk with a mug.
“I was meant to retrieve this book.” he said and finally grabbed the blanket, throwing it over him and you.
“I would be dead.” you said and scanned his face, your teasing demeanor fading slightly.
“I know.”
silence occurred as you just looked at each other. the silent guilt that gnawed on him for ever wanting to hurt you, for ever wanting to take the book from you and make you mortal again, let you wither with age, rot in your body as the years you avoided Death would finally catch up. and your quiet gratitude that he didn’t do it, that he let you keep the book, hide it from him, in a place only you could find. Gratitude that he let you keep your heart beating.
Because it was beating also for him.
“you bewitched me.”
“if that’s your way of saying that I seduced you to my bed then so be it.”
“you truly are a terrible host.’
“I have a feeling you’ll come back to me.” you said and took a sip again. "If you’ll leave at all.”
authors note: it was so fun to write, i wanna write more of the witch!reader so much. Despite my writer block I wrote it on one sit so I'm really proud of myself. Not long but I was absent for... long so I'm finally breaking my silence! Also made Morpheus finally rest with my power of fanfic. Divider: @uzmacchiato
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After getting unceremoniously dumped by your cheating ex and moping in your room alone, your best friend Laena decided its time for you to get back out there. Instead of drowning yourself in vodka like you planned to, you meet a handsome stranger who promises a night with a bite.
Word Count: 2.4k
Themes: SMUT, 18+, blood!!, blood drinking, really rough p in v, neck biting, praise, creampie, alcohol consumption
note gwayne isn't depicted as a vampire from any sort of series or show, he's just generically a vamp lol
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
After a long, dreary day at work, you’re finally back in your apartment, throwing your keys onto the counter with a huff. You can still hear your boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend’s—voice echoing in your head.
Jason Lannister. The epitome of a scumbag wrapped in expensive suits and golden hair, whose charm had first blinded you and now left you seething. You hadn’t even been surprised when you caught him cheating, really. He’d been pulling away for weeks now, finding excuses for late nights at the office, and acting suspiciously cagey about his phone.
“Good riddance,” you mutter to yourself, kicking off your shoes and making your way to the bedroom. You collapse on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying the humiliating breakup over and over again. You knew he was a prick, yet somehow, it still stung.
The tears don’t come; perhaps they’re stuck somewhere in between shock and anger. All you feel is a numbing kind of sadness. You reckon you've been grieving this relationship for a while now.
Despite knowing you’re better off without him, the familiar weight of loneliness settles in your chest. With a groan, you reach for your phone, thinking about texting your best friend, Laena, but then decide against it. She’s probably busy, and you don’t want to drag her into your misery.
Just as you’re about to sink further into your self-imposed cocoon of pity, a loud banging at the door snaps you out of it. You blink, confused, until Laena’s voice reaches you.
“Hey, open up, babe! I brought reinforcements!”
You shuffle to the door and open it to find Laena standing there, a wide grin on her face and arms laden with Chinese takeaway bags. The savoury aroma of sweet and sour chicken wafts into your apartment, making your stomach rumble in response. You'd barely eaten thanks to the misery of Jason.
“Laena,” you sigh, stepping aside to let her in. “What are you doing here?”
“Saving you from the pits of despair,” she announces, sweeping past you and setting the bags down on the kitchen table. She turns, placing her hands on her hips. “I heard about the breakup. That bastard didn’t deserve you, anyway.”
You shrug, depressingly flopping down on a chair and grabbing a pair of chopsticks. “I know, but it still sucks."
Laena opens the containers, her expression softening. “It does. But you deserve better, and tonight, we’re going to forget about Jason Lannister. We’re going out.”
You pause mid-bite. “Out? I don’t know, Laena. I was planning to just wallow here.”
“Oh no, no, no,” she insists, shaking her head. “We’re hitting up The Alchemist’s Guild. It's the hottest place in King's Landing right now. There’s no way I’m letting you stay here and mope. And who knows, maybe a hot stranger will catch your eye?”
You chew thoughtfully, the idea slowly melting away your resistance. It’s been a while since you’ve let loose, and the idea of drowning your sorrows in music and drinks doesn’t sound too bad. Plus, Laena is incredibly persuasive.
“Fine,” you finally agree, much to her delight. “But I’m not promising that I'll be looking anything special.”
“Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here,” she says with a grin, pulling you into your bedroom to transform you for the night out.
An hour later, Laena’s makeover has you feeling like a different person. She’s chosen a striking black dress from the back of your wardrobe that hugs your curves perfectly and matches it with a bold red lipstick that screams party. Your eyes are lined with just the right amount of smokey shadow, making them pop, and your hair is styled to perfection.
“You look hot,” Laena declares, admiring her handiwork. “Jason who?”
You laugh, the heaviness of earlier starting to lift. “All right, let’s do this.” Laena, also dressed up in shimmering teal, screams excitedly, grabbing a shot of vodka for you each before you leave.
The Alchemist’s Guild buzzes with energy as soon as you step inside. The bar is packed, filled with people sipping colourful drinks and chatting animatedly under dim, atmospheric lights. You and Laena squeeze your way to the bar.
“Two Essos Elixirs please,” Laena says. She clinks her glass against yours when the drinks arrive.
“Cheers,” you say, taking a long sip. The pomegrante and vodka drink is fruity and strong, just what you need to kickstart the night.
As the night went on, you started to relax. The music, the drinks, and Laena’s infectious energy all combined to lift your spirits. After a while, she nudged you. “Let’s hit The Dragon Pit. I hear it’s wild tonight.” You both walk arm in arm to the club. You hear the music pumping several streets before you arrive.
It doesn’t take long for Laena to slip into the crowd, pulling you along with her as the music pulses around you. You lose yourself in the rhythm, dancing with Laena and screaming out your frustrations to the heavy music.
After a few songs, Laena nudges you. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Are you okay here?”
You nod, waving her off. “I’m good. Go.”
As Laena disappears back toward the bar, you continue dancing, revelling in the moment. The world fades away until it’s just you and the music, and it feels damn good.
A tap on your shoulder brings you back to reality, and you turn to see a tall, impossibly handsome man with auburn hair and striking eyes. His lips curl into a charming smile that’s almost predatory, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, easily cutting through the noise.
“Not at all,” you reply, feeling your cheeks heat up as he steps closer, matching his movements to yours. His presence is exhilarating, drawing you in effortlessly.
“I’m Gwayne,” he introduces, leaning in slightly to be heard over the music.
You give him your name in return, trying not to be too obvious that you fancy the fuck out of him. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored shirt that hints at the toned body beneath, and there’s an air of confidence about him that’s impossible to ignore. Jason Lannister couldn't hold a candle to this beautiful man in front of you.
As the song changes, Gwayne moves in closer, his hand resting lightly on your hip as you fall into a rhythm together.
The chemistry between you is electric, each glance and touch fanning the flames higher. When his fingers brush against your neck, a delicious shiver runs down your spine, and you tilt your head slightly, giving him silent permission. Gwayne seems entranced, and as he leans in, his lips graze your neck, igniting sparks that dance across your skin.
You lose track of time, lost in the moment, until Laena reappears beside you, a teasing grin on her face. She’s not alone; a blonde woman with bright eyes and a mischievous smile is by her side, clearly the reason for Laena’s extended absence.
“This is Rhaenyra,” Laena introduces, looping an arm around the woman’s waist. Rhaenyra gives you a knowing wink before turning her attention back to Laena, who’s already leaning in for a kiss.
Gwayne chuckles beside you, watching the interaction with amusement. “Seems like your friend is having a good time.”
You nod, feeling bold with a mix of alcohol and adrenaline. “So am I.”
Gwayne’s eyes darken slightly, his smile turning wicked. “In that case, how about we take this somewhere a bit more...private?”
Your heart skips a beat at the suggestion, the allure of what he’s offering far too tempting to resist. The club, with its flashing lights and pounding music, fades into the background as you consider his proposition.
“Sure,” you say, surprising yourself with the ease of your agreement. You nudge Laena to let her know, and she whoops loudly for you. You blush heavily as Gwayne laughs. It feels liberating, like stepping into a new world where you’re free to explore whatever you want without the shadow of the prick Jason looming over you.
Gwayne takes your hand, leading you through the throng of people and out into the cool night air. The streets are alive with the usual nightlife buzz, but Gwayne only has eyes for you. Now that you're away from the crowd, his eyes seem a little brighter, like there's liquid swirling in them. Were his teeth that sharp when he kissed you earlier?
His apartment is as stylish as you’d expect, a blend of modern decor and understated elegance. The moment you step inside, he’s on you again, his lips finding yours with a hunger that sets you aflame. You respond eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck as he backs you toward the plush couch.
Gwayne’s focus on your neck returns, his lips trailing along your pulse with a near-reverent touch that sends tingles down your spine. It’s as though he’s savouring every moment, every taste, and you can’t get enough.
Eventually, he pulls back slightly, a curious gleam in his eyes. “You taste...incredible,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Sweet, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”
The compliment sends a thrill through you, but there’s something more in his gaze, something deeper and darker that piques your curiosity.
“You’re not bad yourself,” you reply with a playful smile, tracing a finger along his jawline.
Gwayne chuckles, the sound rich and deep. “I have a proposition for you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious yet filled with desire. “Allow me to drink some of your blood. I promise you’ll find the experience...exquisite.”
The request takes you by surprise, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve misheard.
"Blood?" You repeat with an incredulous laugh. "What are you, a vampire?" You giggle again, the amusement dying in your throat at his serious gaze. "Oh." You utter as he nods.
The sincerity in his eyes is undeniable, and a strange part of you isn’t entirely put off by the idea. In fact, it’s intriguing, offering a thrill of danger.
“What do I get in return?” you ask, curiosity winning over hesitation.
Gwayne’s smile widens like he's the cat that got the cream. "Riches, immortality. Name your price, my sweet."
You stared at him, your mind spinning. It should have scared you, but it didn’t. Instead, you felt a pang of excitement. “Only if you promise me a night of pleasure in return,” you replied, your voice steady.
His smile was one of pure delight. “Deal,” he said, his eyes gleaming. You smile back, equally hungry as you both lunge towards each other, hands digging into flesh as you kiss viciously.
Gwayne, with inhuman strength, grasped your hips and moved you atop him. You instinctively ground your hips down, gasping with delight as you felt his hardness press against your blazing pussy.
Gwayne lets a dark smile pull at his lips as he kneads your ass with sharp nails. You only pull apart to allow him to pull your dress over your head, ripping off your panties and bra. You mewl at the unfairness, hands begging to touch him. He rips his own shirt off, revealing toned muscles with pale skin. You rock harder against him, feeling his growing arousal as your pussy leaks over his trousers.
"Naughty girl," he rasps. "These trousers were expensive."
"Fuck the trousers," you mumble. "Fuck me instead."
"Oh how can I deny such a sweet request from my darling," Gwayne laughs, kissing you fiercely and unbuttoning his trousers. The way your pussy reacts to his hard lengthy cock makes your eyes roll back as Gwayne situates your hips above his.
You sink onto his hips, the sharp pain of his entering soon replaced by a luscious fullness that makes the most lewd noises fall from your parted lips.
Gwayne's eyes are alight with fire, a snarl pulling at his lips as his hands bounce you up and down on his cock. Hot pleasure licks at your insides as you ride him.
"Time to pay up, my sweetling." Gwayne rumbles against your lips, leaning down as you feel a sharp, sweet pain as his teeth sink into your neck, followed by a rush of pleasure that left you breathless.
Lightheaded and buoyed by the sensual feel of Gwayne suckling at your neck, your pussy bursts ablaze with a hot orgasm, your fingers deftly rubbing your clit as you cry out. Your pussy liquid seeps over his thighs. Gwayne moans against your neck, eyes rolling back at the sweetness of your blood as he pulls back. He licks your wound, lips and jaw dripping in your redness. Lightheaded, you moan at his glistening teeth, reaching to kiss him.
"I'm not finished with you yet, sweet thing." Gwayne moans, pulling you up to lie you on your back on the sofa. He grabs your hips to align his cock to your weeping hole.
He notches his cock against you, pushing in to your sensitive pussy. Gwayne's eyes flutter at how tight your pussy grips, yet he can't relinquish the sight of you writhing and mewling beneath him. Lips curled, he snaps his hips at a punishing pace, watching your tits bounce and mouth release the most lewd sounds of pleasure he's heard in a very long time.
"Gwayne," you stutter out, head swirling and pussy aching. "I'm so close!"
"Good, my pet, cum for me. Let me fill you up like a good girl, sweet one. I'll own you, you'll own me." He rasps against your lips as you crest your peak once more, crying to the heavens as your pussy quakes. Gwayne follows swiftly, cursing loudly and fucking his hot cum deep into you.
He watches your eyelids flutter close and he sighs softly, smiling. As you sleep, he carries you to the human bed he has for decor, resting you down and cleaning your wound and thoroughly fucked body.
You wake up sometime later, utterly spent and completely satisfied, in Gwayne's arms. Gwayne looked down at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“So are you,” you replied, smiling up at him. He grins sharply.
"I may have to keep you around. You keep up well with me for a human, but you'd do even better as a vampire."
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
AN: whew more gorgeous gwayne for you! im a sucker for the gothic and vampires so this had to happen. pretend laena and nyra aren't related btw. brought back the chinese takeaway here lol! lmk any ideas or rqs yall got, check out my masterlist for more smexy times and modern aus! luv phoebe ☠︎︎
cw: (mdni +18), oral (f!receiving), praise, face humping, fluff fluff fluff, unplanned voyerism (cole watches them lol), dirty talk, hair pulling, sub!gwayne if you squint really hard, scent kink, pussy drunk gwayne, dry humping, (1.7kw).
synopsis: It is said Ser Gwayne knows not how to please a woman. Is it truth or lie?
Ser Criston taunts Gwayne about his supposed inexperience with women, even if he has a lady wife, betrothed to him for a few fortnights already.
Surely he doesn't know how to please you, right?
Too pious, too knightly to even know where to put his cock, most likely. Oldtown's teachings must've left him bereft of any talk about a lady's cunt or other erogenous places.
He's sure all those letters the knight keeps sending back to Oldtown are full of prayers and flowery words meant to soothe his lady, and nothing sort of salacious, like the other knights oftentimes scribble on the parchment meant for home.
A man like Gwayne has no knack for such things, Cole is sure of it.
"Your lady longs for you so much that you're sending a second letter this fortnight, Ser Gwayne?"
And the Hightower heir can sense the slight dissatisfaction beneath Ser Criston's tone, but he does not dwell upon it. Only smiles, nodding. "Yes, Ser. My lady worries, for her heart is pure and sensible. I must do what I can to quell her doubt of any mishaps that might've befallen me."
"Ah, of course. A most dutiful husband you are, Ser."
It isn't until their troops inevitably need to fall back to Oldtown two moons later that Gwayne gets to see his sweet lady wife again.
You've been waiting for this moment for so long, your heart hammering into your chest like a bird's wings as you see your husband's horse trot through the gates.
No one and nothing matters when you finally are cradled in Gwayne's arms, pressed to his steel-clad chest, sweet nothings whispered against your temple as your man peppers your warm skin with kisses of tenderness and longing.
Ser Criston looks away from the sight, scoffing. He knew the acclaimed Hightower heir was good for nothing but sweet presses of lips and warm embraces. Not even a kiss on the lips when greeting his lady wife? He should be ashamed to not bestow such gifts upon a gorgeous creature such as you.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and most knights were off to their sleeping arrangements, the Commander had to do one last search of their horses and supplies before calling it a night as well.
What Cole didn't think to find in the stables was Gwayne, on his knees, head squeezed between your thighs as he feasted on your cunt, moaning like a man starved, the sound muffled by the folds of your pussy.
The sight stopped Ser Criston dead in his tracks.
Ser Gwayne. Pious, dutiful, ever devoted to the faith, now sitting in the same position one would for prayer, but using his mouth not to plead to the Gods, but to bring his lady pleasure.
And what immense pleasure he did bring, for your hands were fisted in his auburn hair, tugging with intent, the demand for more crystal clear. You wanted more, smushing the knight into your heat, hips grinding against his face with abandon as you whined, trying to quiet the volume of your wantonness with your hand pressed to your mouth, but it was in vain. Nothing felt as good as your husband's tongue between your legs, only second to the feeling of his cock splitting you open.
"Yes, yes, my love, yes," fell from your ruddy lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears from how good Gwayne was making you feel. "I missed your mouth greatly," you lilted, fingers unrelenting as they weaved through your husband's hair, offering him respite from your rough insistence, petting him as you would an obedient hound as he continued to circle his tongue against your hole, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit. "Couldn't wait until we were together anew, husband."
All you got in return was another moan, unbashed and wet from the slick of your cunt against Gwayne's mouth, your words spurring him on, broad palms smoothing up your thighs to lift your skirts higher, bunching them at the waist, held in his fists. "My sweet wife," he babbled, flattening his tongue from hole to clit, parting your folds on the ascent. "The moons without your cunt have been dreadful," your knight says, words woven around a whine, lapping at the peeking nub between every word, kindling the heat in your lower belly. "Not being able to taste you each morrow left me wanting, even in times of battle and bloodshed."
Oh, what a debauched picture that was. Your dutiful husband, ever present when called to arms, thinking about worshipping between your legs as he swung his sword, falling enemies and stealing breath after breath from steel-clad men. The thought made you shiver, brushing auburn hair from Gwayne's temples to get a good look at those baby blues you so cherished, a dopey smile onto your lips as you whispered. "You must be cautious, my love," you chastised, albeit tenderly, running your fingers through his hair to soothe, hoping the ache for you had dwindled, if only a little. "Such thoughts might distract you, and then you might not come back to me."
Gwayne shook his head swiftly upon hearing your reprimand, leaning into your touch as a flower moves towards the sun, soaking up all its warmth down to the marrow. "Never," he protested, eyes widening, ever eager to prove his devotion to you. "I shall never fall to another man's sword, if it meant not seeing you again, sweetling," and he turns his face towards one of your palms, pressing a searing kiss upon the skin as he whispers. "That is my solemn vow."
You feel like your heart is going to burst out of your chest and splatter at your husband's feet from the earnestness of his promise, weaving warmth along your body, from your head down to your toes, a full-body gratefulness at having such allegiance offered to you.
"A vow you had upheld valiantly, my love," you praise, your hand shifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing against the plump of his bottom lip as you slowly tug him down, back towards your cunt, to which he allows without resistance. "One for which you shall have the prize you so dreamt of, even in bloodshed."
Gwayne's tongue lolls out as you guide his head, eager to have you on his palate again, eyes fluttering shut as the sweet musk of your pussy becomes more potent. It coaxed him to dip his chin so he could press his nose in damp curls and inhale deeply, exhaling a punched-out groan, as if he had forgotten the smell of you in the mere moments that had passed since he'd been tongue deep between your thighs.
"This cunt is a gift from the Gods, sweetling," he praises, mouth open and panting against your folds, just breathing you in lungful by lungful. "I wish I could have it with me on campaign," Gwayne continues, white-knuckling the skirts bunched at your waist, as if the imagery of such a thing wounds him. "Feast on it from morrow to dawn. Allow you to have my tongue whenever you please, my love."
You cannot help but moan at such a confession, fingers returning to his auburn strands to grip and tug, eliciting a muffled whine from your husband, whose tongue dipped between your folds anew, flicking at your clit on the upstroke, knowing how much you favoured it. "You're so good to me, husband," you coo, lips curling into a loving smile, holding your knight still by his hair as your hips resume their grinding, humping against Gwayne's awaiting tongue, using him for your pleasure.
And he loves it. Gods, does he love it. Blue eyes half-lidded, heated with love and lust as he only gives you more of it, poking his tongue as far as it would go for you to rub your clit against, moaning with each movement of your hips, bringing you even closer by the grip on your skirts.
"Oh, my sweet husband," you moan, feeling the heat tingling up your spine and pooling low in your belly with each wet swipe against your clit. "I can't wait to have your cock as well." The words are the opposite of pious, not at all what a lady wife should offer her betrothed, but you are past caring. "For your mouth feels heavenly, and still, I cannot wait to feel you inside me again."
The words melt and light Gwayne in equal measure, feeling his cock strain even harder against his breeches, hips kicking, rubbing himself along the seam of his pants in anticipation of what's to come. He nods, the motion making his tongue rub in rapid succession along your clit, the stimulation so delicious it makes you cry out, wanton and unbashed. Words fail him, the only thing that matters now being making you cum so he can sheathe himself into your pussy and have you milk him for all he's worth, like a prized stallion made for breeding.
It doesn't take long for your back to arch off of the hay bale you are lounging upon, Gwayne's name on your lips, your juices flowing down his tongue and chin, which your husband laps greedily. He has to stop the grind of his hips to not cum into his breeches like an untrained squire, even if the friction of his hard cock against the material of his pants feels heavenly.
He knows your pussy surpasses that by the thousands, which is why he forces himself to still the pathetic humping of his hips. It's only moments now until he'll be inside you, letting you catch your breath, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs and behind your knees as he massages the muscle there, willing you pliant and lax for what's to come. "Thank you, sweetling. Gods, so pretty for me," he whispers against warm skin, reverent and grateful, mouth still wet with your slick. "Missed you so much. Never want to be away from you again. Never, never—"
Perhaps it's safe to assume that Ser Criston Cole will not utter a word about Gwayne and his lack of prowess anytime soon, after what he witnessed tonight.
