Potato - Dragons

He knows the real you—the one who hides behind porcelain smiles and demure silences. He has seen you crack a joke so improper that even Ser Harwin choked on his wine. He has watched you roll your eyes at a lord's tedious monologue and then turn to him with a look that said, save me from this, and he had—he always had, with a gallant and utterly doomed excuse that whisked you both away. He knows you, and that knowledge is precisely what makes this game so dangerously, exquisitely entertaining.

There was a time, in the earliest days of this dance, when you doubted yourself. You wondered if you had imagined the tension—if the heat you felt was merely your own desire reflected back at you by wishful thinking. You are a princess, after all, and he is a Hightower. The wall between you is not made of stone; it is made of duty, of oaths, of the thousand invisible chains that bind a man of honour to his station.

But you watch him now with sharper eyes, and the truth is undeniable.

You see it in the rigid set of his jaw when you enter a room, as if he must physically brace himself against the sight of you. You see it in the way his knuckles go bone-white where he grips his sword belt, the leather groaning under the pressure. You see it in the subtle hitch of his breath when your hand rests on his arm a moment too long—that tiny, betraying stutter that no one else would notice, but you have memorised like a prayer.

And you see it most of all in what he doesn't do.

Oh, he wants you. That much is as clear as the morning sun through the Red Keep's windows. But more than that, he knows you know. And that knowledge is a slow poison in his veins. He is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, a son of the Faith, a Hightower. He has sworn oaths and signed pacts and built a life on the sacred foundation of his honour. He cannot act on his desires. He cannot even acknowledge them. 

So you push.

You push because you can. Because there is a peculiar, intoxicating power in knowing that you are the sole architect of his torment—that a single brush of your fingers against his sleeve can send him spiralling into a silence so deep it borders on prayer. You are the sculptor of his suffering, and you wield your chisel with the precision of a master.

You push because he lets you. Because for all his oaths and his honour and his desperate, clinging restraint, he never once tells you to stop. He never walks away. He never asks you to leave him be. He simply stands there, a man made of stone and duty, and lets you carve your name into his fractures.

You do it in the training yard, when you appear at the edge of the lists with a goblet of water and a smile that says I brought this for you, Ser Gwayne. 

His sparring partner stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden presence of a princess where one has no business being. Gwayne does not stumble—he is too disciplined for that. But you see the way his shoulders tighten beneath his tunic, the way his grip on his sword goes white-knuckled. You see the way his gaze darts to you and then away, as though looking too long might burn him, might sear through his carefully constructed walls and leave him bare.

You wait until he has lowered his blade, until the other knight has retreated with a bow and a mumbled excuse, before you step closer. Close enough to count the sweat on his brow. Close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

"Your form is impeccable," you say, soft enough that only he can hear, as you press the cup into his hands. Your fingers linger on his—not a graze, not an accident, but a deliberate, unhurried caress that lasts three heartbeats too long. "Then again, I've always admired how controlled you are."

The word lands like a blade between his ribs. You see it in the slight flare of his nostrils. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, a muscle leaping beneath the skin. You see it in the way his thumb twitches against the goblet, as though he is physically restraining himself from reaching for you.

His swallow is audible. "Princess," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual, like gravel smoothed by too much restraint. "You should not—"

"Should not what?" You tilt your head, all innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "Compliment a knight on his skill? How dreadfully improper of me. I shall have to write to the High Septon and confess my sins immediately."

A ghost of something—frustration? longing?—flickers across his face. "You know that is not what I meant."

"Do I?" You take a step back, just enough to make him lean forward unconsciously, just enough to prove your point. "Then perhaps you should be clearer, Ser Gwayne. I am, after all, only a simple princess. I cannot be expected to read minds."

His eyes darken. There is a storm in them now, a tempest he is fighting to contain. "You are many things, princess," he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "But simple has never been one of them."

The admission costs him. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, in the way his knuckles are white around the goblet. He has said too much. He knows it. And you know he knows it.

You smile—slow, satisfied, victorious—and you walk away before he can take it back.

You push him at the feast, when you dance with him—because you arrange it, because you are a princess and he cannot refuse, because you have learned exactly which strings to pull to make the court's expectations align with your desires. A word here, a smile there, a subtle mention to the right lady-in-waiting that you would so enjoy a turn about the floor with Ser Gwayne Hightower, and the pieces fall into place as neatly as stones in a mosaic.

He knows what you have done. You see it in his eyes when he approaches you, summoned by the queen's own hand, his expression a careful mask of courtly composure. He knows he has been maneuvered. He knows you have trapped him in a web of propriety and expectation, and he knows he cannot escape without causing a scene.

And you revel in it.

You take his hand, and you let him lead you to the floor, and you press closer than propriety allows. Your chest brushes his. Your thigh slides against his as you turn. You are a shadow against him, a whisper of silk and warmth, and you feel the tremor that runs through him like a plucked string.

"Relax, Ser Gwayne," you whisper against his ear, your breath warm on his skin, your lips so close that you almost—almost—brush the shell of his ear. "The court is watching. Would you have them think you cannot stand the touch of your own princess?"

His hand tightens on your waist—just for a moment, a reflexive clench that speaks of longing more than any words could—and then he forces it to loosen. You feel the effort it costs him, the way his fingers uncurl one by one, as if he is peeling them away from something precious.

"They would think nothing of the sort," he grits out, his voice so low it is barely more than a vibration against your skin. "They would think a Hightower knows his place."

"And what place is that?" You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief, with challenge, with the knowledge that you hold all the power here. "At my side? In my shadow? Beneath me?"

His step falters. Just one beat, a stumble so small no one else would notice—a catch in the rhythm that lasts less than a breath. But you notice. You always notice. You catalogue it like a victory, like a trophy, like another stone in the fortress of his composure that you have so carefully chipped away.

His eyes meet yours, and there is something dangerous in them now. Something hungry. Something that looks, for just a moment, like he might forget every oath he has ever sworn.

"You play a dangerous game, princess," he says, and there is something raw in his voice now, something frayed at the edges, like a rope that has been stretched too thin for too long. "One day, you will push too far."

"And what will you do then, Ser Gwayne?" You smile up at him, sweet as poison, innocent as sin. "Will you finally catch me?"

The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You see the war in his eyes—duty against desire, honour against want, everything he has been taught against everything he has come to crave. You see him imagine it: reaching for you, pulling you close, forgetting the court and the oaths and the thousand eyes that watch.

You see him remember himself.

He does not answer. He cannot answer. The words are trapped in his throat, caught between his teeth, held back by a lifetime of discipline. But his eyes tell you everything—that he is drowning, that he is burning, that every moment spent in your presence is a war he is steadily losing.

And you, sweet princess, have never been one to surrender.

You let the dance continue. You let him lead, let him pretend he is in control, even as you feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a forge. You let him hold you, let him spin you, let him guide you through the steps with the precision of a man who is using every ounce of his focus to remember where his hands are allowed to be.

The evening ends with Gwayne Hightower excusing himself early, pleading a headache, and you watch him leave with a knowing smile that curls at the corner of your lips like a secret shared with no one but yourself.

Your sister finds you moments later, eyebrow arched, a goblet of wine in her hand and a knowing glint in her eye.

"What did you do to him?" she asks, and there is no accusation in her voice, only amusement. Only the curiosity of a woman who knows her sister too well to be fooled by innocence.

"Nothing," you say, innocent as a lamb, wide-eyed as a dove. "I simply danced with him."

Rhaenyra snorts, a sound most unladylike and utterly familiar. "You danced with him the same way a cat dances with a mouse.”

You smile and say nothing, because she is not wrong. Because she has never been wrong about you, not really, not when it matters. Because she knows you better than anyone, and she knows exactly what you are doing.

But she does not stop you. She never does.

Tonight, you have reached a brazenness you would otherwise not think yourself capable of.

But that is the thing about walls—once you have chipped away at them long enough, they do not so much crumble as dissolve, leaving you standing in the ruins of who you used to be, marveling at the woman you have become. And tonight, that woman is not content with whispers and glances. Tonight, she wants to hear him break.

You know he stands guard outside your chambers. You know it as surely as you know the beat of your own heart—that steady, traitorous rhythm that quickens every time you so much as glimpse his silhouette in a crowded hall. You can picture him there now: broad-shouldered and impossibly still, his silhouette backlit by the sconces that line the corridor. The flickering torchlight catches the copper in his hair, burnishes the sharp lines of his jaw. His hand rests on his sword hilt in that familiar, easy grip that speaks of decades of discipline—but you know better now. You know the tension that lives in his shoulders like a second skeleton, a permanent weight he carries because he refuses to let it go.

His jaw will be set in that maddening line of stoic resolve as he surveys the darkened hallway. The perfect knight. The unshakable sentinel. A man carved from stone and oaths.

You intend to shake him.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting amber shadows across the stone walls, painting the room in shades of gold and crimson. The night air has turned cool, carrying the faint scent of rain from the open window—the first promise of a storm rolling in from the Blackwater, the distant rumble of thunder a fitting prelude to the tempest you are about to unleash. You left the door unlocked. Not ajar, not obvious—just unlocked. A test. An invitation. A trap baited with silk and sin.

You let your shift slip from your shoulders.

The silk pools at your feet like water, a whisper of ivory against the cold stone floor, and the cool air kisses every inch of your exposed skin—raising goosebumps across your chest, your stomach, the sensitive flesh of your thighs. You shiver, but not from the cold. Never from the cold. You are burning from the inside out, a furnace stoked by anticipation, by the knowledge that he is just beyond that door, that he can hear everything.

You lie back on your bed, the sheets soft and rumpled beneath you, and you let your hand drift lazily down the plane of your stomach. You are deliberate in your slowness. You are an artist, and this is your masterpiece—a performance meant for an audience of one, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Even if he stands rigid and unyielding, pretending he cannot hear, pretending you do not exist beyond the role of princess to his protector.

But he can hear. And he does exist in the space between your thighs, whether he knows it or not.

You make no effort to stifle the sounds that escape you.

They begin softly—small, breathy sighs that could almost be mistaken for restlessness, for a woman turning in her sleep. A whisper of pleasure, barely audible, a thread of sound you let hang in the air like silk. You test the waters, waiting, listening for the telltale creak of leather shifting outside your door. Nothing. Not yet. He is made of sterner stuff than that.

So you push harder.

Your fingers find the heat between your thighs, and you trace slow, aching circles around that sensitive peak with practiced precision. You know your own body like a map you have studied in the dark—every curve, every hollow, every place that makes you gasp. And you let yourself feel it, truly feel it, because this is not merely performance. This is want. This is hunger. This is the fire that has been building since the first moment he looked at you like you were the sun and he was desperate for a taste of the burn.

A moan escapes you—low and throaty, the kind of sound that belongs in a shadowed alcove, in the tangle of sheets, in the quiet space between two bodies that have given up pretending. It is the sound of a woman who has stopped caring about propriety, who has abandoned the mask of the perfect princess and let the woman beneath claw her way to the surface.

Another. This one sharper, catching on the edge of a whimper as your fingers press harder, faster, chasing something that feels perilously close to release. You arch your back against the pillows, letting your head fall back, your hair spilling across the linens like a white halo. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, and you do nothing to quiet them. You let them swell and crest, filling the chamber with a symphony of your own making.

And you know he can hear you through the oak of the door.

You bite your lip, frustration coiling hot and heavy in your belly. Is he truly that steadfast? That unmovable? That infuriatingly honourable? You have given him every invitation, every provocation, every whispered temptation. You have stripped yourself bare, not just of silk but of pretense, and still he stands there like a sentinel carved from the very stones of the Red Keep.

You press harder, faster, your breathing growing ragged as you chase the thought of him—his hands instead of yours, his mouth on your throat, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself imagine it is him touching you, him drawing these sounds from you. You imagine his breath hot against your ear, his voice rough with desire, whispering all the things he cannot say in the light of day.

The silence from the other side of the door is absolute. No shuffle of boots. No sharp intake of breath. No telltale clink of armour betraying a shift in stance. It is as if he has turned to stone, as if he has willed himself into a statue of duty and denial, carved from the same unyielding marble as the Seven themselves.

You are about to give up. About to abandon this foolish game and finish what you started in bitter, solitary frustration—when—

Knock. Knock.

"Princess?" His voice is low through the door, carefully measured. Painstakingly neutral. The voice of a knight addressing his charge, nothing more. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard... sounds of distress."

You almost laugh. Distress. How perfectly proper. How adorably chivalrous. If you weren't already so wound up, so aching and empty, you might find it endearing. But you are far past endearing. You are past patience, past games, past pretending that the heat between you is anything less than a wildfire waiting to consume you both.

You do not answer.

Instead, you let your fingers slide deeper, the wet sound obscenely loud in the quiet chamber. You let a moan spill from your lips—deliberate, wanton, unashamed—knowing he can hear every shameful, beautiful note of it. You arch your back, let your breath catch in a sharp gasp, and you let his name fall from your lips like a prayer you have forgotten how to stop praying.

"Gwayne..."

"Princess?" His voice is sharper now, edged with something that might be worry—or might be something far more dangerous. The careful mask is slipping. You can hear the crack in his composure, the faint tremor beneath the steel. "I'm coming in. Forgive me."

The door swings open.

He stands silhouetted in the firelight, one hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats—for assassins, for intruders, for anything that might explain the sounds that have been tormenting him for the past quarter-hour. His body is coiled and ready, a predator prepared to strike, every muscle taut with the promise of violence.

Until they find you.

And then he falters.

Everything about him goes still. His hand falls from his sword, limp at his side, as though the weapon has become an afterthought, as though every lesson of his training has been rendered meaningless by the sight before him. His chest, rising and falling with quickened breath, seems to freeze mid-inhale, the air trapped in his lungs like a prisoner. His eyes—those lovely, terrible, agonized eyes—trace the curve of your body, the arch of your back against the rumpled sheets, the slow, indolent movement of your fingers still buried between your thighs.

You watch the recognition dawn on his face. The moment when the sounds he has been trying to rationalize—the soft moans, the ragged gasps, the whispered invocation of his name—finally find their source. You watch him put the pieces together, watch him realize that every moment of torment he has endured tonight was not an accident, was not a dream, was not something he could dismiss with prayer and denial.

He knows he should look away.

You see it in the way his gaze flickers, just for an instant, toward the door. You see it in the muscle that leaps in his jaw, the desperate clench of his teeth. You see the war in his eyes—the battle between every oath he has ever sworn and every desire he has ever denied.

He knows he should turn. Should close the door. Should pretend he saw nothing and scourge himself with prayer and penance for the rest of the night. He should walk away and never speak of this, never acknowledge this, never let himself remember the way you look right now—sprawled and wanton and utterly, devastatingly his.

But he cannot.

His eyes travel down the column of your throat, past the rise and fall of your bare chest, over the soft curve of your stomach, to where your fingers move in slow, torturous circles. You watch him watch you, and the power of it is intoxicating—headier than wine, sharper than any blade. You have defeated the great Ser Gwayne Hightower without ever touching him. You have brought him to his knees without ever leaving your bed.

He swallows. You watch his throat work, watch the struggle play out across his features—the desperate, agonizing push and pull of duty against desire. "You—" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries again, the words scraping past his lips like broken glass. "You said you were in distress."

"Did I?" You tilt your head, all mock innocence, all wide-eyed confusion that you both know is a lie. "I don't recall saying anything at all."

He flinches as if you have struck him. "Princess, I—"

"Gwayne." You say his name like a command, like a plea, like a prayer. You hold his gaze as you slowly, deliberately, begin to move your fingers again—a languid, unhurried rhythm that you know he can see, that you know he cannot look away from. 

The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and charged. For a long moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The fire pops and crackles. The rain patters against the window, a soft percussion against the stone. The world goes on outside, oblivious to the cataclysm happening within these four walls.

And then he breaks.

It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. One moment he is standing there, frozen in the doorway, a man carved from stone and oaths. The next, he has crossed the room in three swift strides, and suddenly he is there, standing over the bed, looking down at you with eyes that have abandoned all pretense of restraint. His chest heaves. His hands are still fisted at his sides, but they are shaking now, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you.

Your fingers graze his wrist, and he shudders.

The contact is electric, a spark that leaps between you like lightning, like the first crack of thunder before a storm breaks. You feel the tremor that runs through him—the way his muscles jump beneath your touch, the way his breath catches in his throat like a man who has been drowning and has just been offered air. His control shatters.

He falls to his knees beside the bed, his hands finding your hips, gripping them with a desperate, almost bruising intensity. His forehead drops to your stomach, and you feel the hot, ragged puff of his breath against your skin—warm and uneven, a man fighting for composure and losing. He is shaking. The great Ser Gwayne Hightower is shaking like a leaf in a storm, undone by the mere touch of your hand.

"I cannot," he gasps into your skin, the words muffled against your belly, his lips brushing your flesh with each desperate syllable. "I cannot—I swore—"

"To protect me," you say softly, your fingers threading through his hair. The strands are soft beneath your touch, copper and gold catching the firelight, and you gently scratch your nails against his scalp. He moans—a low, broken sound that vibrates against your skin. "You swore to protect me, Gwayne. Not to watch me waste away from wanting you."

He looks up at you then, and the agony in his eyes is breathtaking. His face is flushed, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted and slick. He looks like a man who has been dragged through the Seven Hells and has finally glimpsed salvation—and is terrified it will be snatched away.

"You are a princess," he says, and his voice cracks on the word, splintering like glass. "You deserve—"

"I deserve what I want." You cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. Your thumb traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, feeling the stubble that scrapes against your skin. "And I want you, Gwayne. I have wanted you since the first moment you looked at me like I was something worth burning the world down for."

His breath catches. His eyes search yours, desperate for something—permission? Absolution? A reason to stop fighting? "You know—"

"I know everything." You smile, soft and tender and achingly sincere. "I know you have been fighting yourself for months. I know you stand guard outside my door every night and pray for strength. I know you dream of me, just as I dream of you. And I am still asking."

The last of his resistance crumbles. You see it go, see the war finally end in his eyes—the way the tension drains from his shoulders, the way his hands loosen their desperate grip on your hips, the way his expression shifts from agony to something rawer, more vulnerable, more his.

And then he is surging up, his hands sliding from your hips to your back, pulling you against him as his mouth crashes into yours.

It is not gentle. It is not chivalrous. It is the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been offered a feast. It is desperate and hungry and so full of longing that it steals the breath from your lungs. His hands rove across your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer as though he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.

His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, and you open for him like a flower to the sun, letting him taste every last inch of your surrender. He groans into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates through you, and you feel the last of his control slip away. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and he deepens the kiss—claiming, consuming, devouring.

You kiss him back with everything you have. All the months of longing, all the whispered fantasies, all the nights spent imagining this moment—you pour it all into the kiss, letting him feel the weight of your desire, the depth of your want. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer, and you feel the solid warmth of his chest against yours, the rapid drumbeat of his heart echoing your own.

When he finally pulls back, he is breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, his hands still gripping you like you might disappear. His eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, and you watch a single tremor run through him—the aftershock of a lifetime of denial finally broken.

"I am going to burn for this," he murmurs, and there is something like wonder in his voice, something like awe. "I am going to burn in the deepest pits of the Seven Hells for what I am about to do to you."

You laugh, soft and breathless, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Then we will burn together."

His eyes open, and the look he gives you is devastating—raw and tender and full of a love he has been too afraid to name. "You are not afraid?"

"I have never been afraid of the fire," you say softly. "I have only ever been afraid of being cold."

He kisses you again, softer this time, a gentle press of lips that speaks of promises and devotion and a future neither of you can guarantee. When he pulls back, he traces the curve of your cheek with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Then I will keep you warm," he whispers. "For as long as you will let me."