bullshitologyst

You did worry for your husband when the isolated nights drew long and silent. You had faith in him and the gods you were so devoted to. Gwayne was as good with his sword as he was his words. He had never once failed to return to you in one whole piece.

Slumber welcomed you with open arms, and your mind rested on the thought of seeing him soon.

The Hightower was cloaked in moonlight as the night dragged on. It was silent, save for the fluttering of curtains of the window you had left open. The cool air nipped at your throat, but it was the gentle clack, clack, clack of steel that roused you. It was a sound you had grown to know quite well ─ the sound of armor. Your fists clenched the silken bedsheets below you, and your eyes remained squeezed shut. Your heart fluttered, a light and airy thing within the confines of your ribcage. Gwayne had returned far earlier than what was expected. You waited in silence, feigning sleep as you did so, and anticipated the sound of shedding armor and the shift of the mattress as his weight met it.

Only, those sounds never came. You could feel his soft breath against the nape of your neck, and his fingertips - hands freed from his gloves - tickled your skin as he brushed your hair over your shoulder. Your back was facing towards Gwayne as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you could not stop the breathy sigh that escaped your lips.

A knowing smirk spread across his lips. Gwayne knew his wife far too well for her liking ─ he knew you had not been sleeping, your breaths too quick for such a thing. His mouth traveled lower, down the slope of your shoulder that had been exposed by the slip of your shift. He gripped at the quilted duvet that covered your form, inching it lower and lower as he went. His final destination was on his knees, hands grasping at the softness of your hips. The soft fabric of your shift bunched around his fingers, wrinkled from your slumber. Your body, now exposed by the lack of bedding and practically glowing in the moonlight, shivered beneath his gaze.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was a hushed whisper, hoarsened from your rest.

“Worshipping my wife.” Gwayne's voice was smoother, rich with a lilt that made your tummy flip. His hands smoothed up and down your calves. “As she deserves.”

The time apart from you had left him needy and hard within his breeches. His nights had been spent similar to your own when time allowed it, dreaming of the warmth of your skin, and the taste of you on his lips. Gwayne had foregone the task of ridding himself from his armor and swordbelt, favoring the sweetness between your legs.

His wrists wrapped around your ankles, his thumbs brushing over the delicate bone beneath the skin, and with a practiced ease, he tugged you closer to the edge of the bed. The sheets ruffled beneath you, and a little yelp of surprise slid past your lips. Gwayne's strength never failed to arouse you, even with the years you had known him. It was such a simple thing. He gazed up at you from beneath tousled strands of copper hair, his gaze locked on your own. His mouth found the inside of your knee, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thigh.

Your chest heaved, one hand reaching down to thread through his locks as you propped yourself up on your elbows. With the growing pit of warmth in your core, and the abundance of wetness pooling in your smallclothes, you found your voice. “How… how was your journey?” You sounded breathless, still trying to bring your concern for him to light.

“Long,” Gwayne answered simply. He nipped at your soft skin before he soothed the bite with his tongue. He switched to the other thigh, coating it with kisses and licks and nips. “It was a laborious affair,” he spoke between breaths, “and quite dull in nature.” His head dipped closer to where you needed him. You could hear him inhale deeply, heat of embarrassment rushing to your cheeks and neck. A playful scold died on your lips as his mouth met your cloth-covered cunt. He placed a kiss upon your clit, and he groaned at the wetness he could feel through your smallclothes.

“Gwayne-!”

The fabric was shimmied down your legs with a swiftness that left you gaping. His hands grasped at your hips with a need that was unbecoming for a man like Gwayne, and he tugged you ever closer. Your thighs were thrown over his shoulders, his pauldrons digging into the soft flesh. You shivered at their coldness, your grip in his hair tightening. With the lessened proximity, you could smell him. “You reek,” you announced breathily, “of horses and steel and… blood.”

“Not mine own.”

Gwayne's head of red hair disappeared beneath your shift, his tongue delving between the slick folds of your pussy. His hands gripped at your hips, stilling the way they threatened to twitch and buck. He flattened his tongue, lapping through your slit and savoring the familiar taste of you. His eyes fluttered shut as the tip of his tongue circled your clit, feeling the little bud throb and swell. His lips closed around it, encouraged by the whines that you made, sounds that made his cock twitch with need and greed. He suckled on it gently, moaning against your cunt as your thighs clamped around his head. Any thoughts of worry for your husband had been placed on hold, pleasure curling in your gut like a spring about to snap. His mouth moved with practiced ease, born of the many nights spent together.

“Gods, you're so-” you choked on a moan, tugging on his hair to keep him close, “too good. Too good, husband.”

Gwayne sucked and licked, his tongue circling over your entrance before he pushed it inside of you, lapping at the depths of your core. His nose nudged against your pearl, and the hands upon your hips had tightened, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your thighs trembled on either side of your head, your noises growing in pitch and volume as he fucked you with his tongue. Unable to stand the ache in his loins, Gwayne moved. His hips rutted against the mattress like a dog in heat, the featherbed creaking in time with his rhythm. The grip he held on your flesh had loosened, arms wrapping around your thighs to lift your weight off of the bed.

With a squeal of pleasure, both of your hands found purchase in his hair, and you rocked against his face. Gwayne whined against your cunt, encouraging your movements as his hips began to stutter, nearing his own orgasm.

“Gwayne, I'm-” the warning died on your tongue, and with a particularly firm suck on your slickened clit, you threw your head back with a shout. Your husband eagerly drank up your release, working you with his mouth until you were shaking and whining. With one final thrust, and a sharp grunt, he spilled himself within his breeches.

Gwayne felt your body grow pliant, melting into the bed as your thighs grew lax upon his shoulders. He pulled back from between your thighs, your hands slipping from his hair. A languid grin grew across his wet lips, his chin coated in spit and your slick. “That was quite enjoyable, wife.”

You flung an arm across your face, shielding yourself from his view as you tried to catch your breath. The kiss he planted to your thigh had your legs jolting again, and you could nearly see his grin widen in your mind's eye. His touch, gentle and firm, slid your thighs off of him, and settled you back into your previous place in the bed. You could hear the clinking of plates of armor as he rose, and the subsequent shedding of those layers before you slid your arm away. You watched Gwayne in silence as he undressed, eyes honing in on the stain of his breeches. The light filtering in through the window offered just enough to see.

“It seems you have missed me dearly,” you teased - or tried to, if it weren't for the breathlessness of your words. Gwayne turned to you then, and his gaze softened. Stripped down to his tunic and trousers, he cradled your face in his hands as he hovered over you.

“As always, my sweet one.” His lips met yours in a dance as old as time. It was wet and filthy, it was slow and sensual. Gwayne sighed softly as your hand slid into his hair again, carding through his copper locks. He broke the kiss to gaze down upon you, a string of saliva still connecting your lips. His touch was reverent, as was the look in his eyes, as he brushed a wayward strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “It would be wise to get comfortable. I am nowhere near done with you after such an arduous time away.”

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.