Dreamer

A big mess it was — Giuliano tried to refuse to say he will not walk the path someone written for him. That he will love whomever his heart decide it loves and marry whom it beats for. Yet Lorenzo's golden tongue worked harder than Giuliano's golden heart. The marriage came quickly but without much of celebrations. You attended it — of course — saw how reluctant your brother was to become a husband of the Foscari girl, you wore a beautiful gown and smile while guests spoke to you, you held Simonetta's hand while she smiled at you with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

You did everything a good sister would do. You were there to show support for your family, support of the union and the new treaty between Florence and Venice.

Yet the shameful, more sinful part of the evening came later, when you already disappeared in the depths of your family villa, when you gown fell off and you slid quietly under the furs of your bed — candles burning low on your nightstand as the light illuminated in the red wine you brought in your goblet.

You were at last joined by Francesco — a guest invited out of politeness, joining his brother Guillermo that took home in your house, at the side of Bianca. He too escaped the endless celebration where everyone but the bride and groom laughed and danced before showing in your room like a shadow — like a demon tempted by the sound of the thought that ran through your head. It was far from a new thing that he did so — sneaking into your room to have you in his arms.

Sinful, sinful thoughts that would make a maiden blush, redness spilling over her cheeks like a flame of the fireplace over the walls.

And then he slid into your bed, lips pressed to you temple as a knight kissing his princess before going off to battle. Honorable really — except he was not. His hands wandered, skimmed over, gripped and caressed. His lips worshipped you in a way you thought none of the painters ever would worship their muses — pressed to your heated skin, planting needy kisses on your lips as his ragged breath dawned over them.

He always did it — left you breathless and flushed and so so loved.

Because Francesco Pazzi loved you so so much and so so desperately that each time he had to lie to his brother or to his uncle about his whereabouts he wanted nothing more than to say he was with you — loving you, adoring you. He wanted nothing more than to scream from the very top of Palazzo Vecchio that he was the man that loved the Medici lady more than anyone in the entire Florence.

But he didn’t — he never did. You kept it hidden from the curious eyes of merchants and family members that wished you bad. He kept it a secret, even from Guillermo as he couldn’t risk the news of him sneaking to bed a Medici reach his uncle.

And there he was, standing in the red doublet and golden chain around his neck — proud like a peacock when Clarice handed Bianca the newborn.

The ceremony began soft steps of them both echoed through the chair as all of the eyes were focused on the little Piero, laying snuggly in your sister’s arms as she smiled at her own husband — her belly round with their own child that would soon come too.

Then as during every baptism the sleeping bundle was handed to the godfather. Francesco’s warm smile as he leaned with the boy in his arms melted your heart — how focused he was on doing in properly, he said himself that he was never fond of children and doubted he’d ever have ones of his own if not the duty calling. But now, as your eyes scanned over him, seeing how tenderly he was holding your nephew you was tempted to call him a liar — that he seemed almost natural with a babe by his heart.

The priest spilled the holy water on Piero’s forehead and you watched as Francesco’s head turned first towards Lorenzo and his smile widened as he held his son before his gaze flickered to you and something in his eyes warmed — not quite a smile, God knew Francesco shouldn’t be smiling at you, not with everyone’s watching. But still his always stern gaze softened like always when he looked at you.

The sound of the prayer echoed as you lifted your chin slightly to quietly show approval and appreciation. The words ‘you? Bad with children? Yes, I wouldn’t be so sure’ pressed down on your tongue as your eyes followed his brown irises. You could feel your heart swell as Francesco brought the bundle of blankets closer to his chest, holding him securely as the bells rang.

You stepped out of the church alongside your mother as she held your arm, keeping you close to the side among the people Lorenzo and Clarice decided on inviting. Among faces of family you saw Simonetta with her own husband and Giuliano with his longing gaze following them as he walked hand in hand with Sandro with his studying eyes — both trying to mask how their eyes followed her every moves

The music echoed in the room in the Palazzo Medici yet it was the murmurs that were louder than any lute played by the musician.

Clarice stood with Piero wrapped in blankets and listened and thanked to the congratulation of guests that were coming up to her each time someone finally left her alone. Behind her — of course — stood Lorenzo, his hand grazing over his wife’s back in quiet support as a proud grin decorated his face.

“Will you hold him for a moment?” Clarice asked, her hands ready to pass you the infant as her gaze turned pleading. “I must find Novella and I’ll return with her to take him.” She nodded quietly and gaze you a small smile as you reached to take your nephew.

“No trouble at all” you said with you gaze pinned to the little bundle — Piero already eager to look at you with his eyes already so like Lorenzo’s

He was so light — so light and pink wriggling before he settled back into slumber in your arms as you rocked him gently with a smile.

“So strong already, isn’t he?” A voice of Francesco appeared next to you as he reached his hand to graze over Piero’s fist.

You swallowed quietly before nodding in approval “so small yet so strong” you said and watched Francesco’s eyes soften as he looked at his godson. “He’ll grow into a strong Medici” you raised your chin stubbornly as your gaze settled on him

“There is no mistake on that” he nodded yet you had a feeling that was more sarcastic than anything “yet it’s rumored that it’s Pazzi children that grow faster and stronger” he said and gave you a sidelong glance before his eyes swept back to Piero you now rocked gently to help him settle into a deeper slumber. “With coin and sworn already mastered” he added and a corner of his mouth lifted gently.

“Oh I bet” you shook your head resigned get humored “we’ll see soon enough when Bianca beat your brother’s child” you said and fixed the blanket around Piero.

Silence settled between you and him — a comfortable one yet still charged with the tension none of you tried to escape. It was a strange pull between you — caused by night spend in secret and days at pretending none of that was happening. It was strange, how close and distant he was at the same time, how good at hiding what is between you.

With the corner of your eye you saw how he nodded his head at the sight of people lifting their cups to him — silently congratulating him at becoming a godfather to the Medici heir before he leaning in and you felt his breath fawning over your ear.

“I was thinking about us not Bianca and Guillermo” he muttered before straightening and fixing the blanket once more

You eyes widened in surprise before you cleared your throat and looked at him “Francesco—“

“Will you meet me?” He whispered looking at you “later… when they focus on Lorenzo and drinking and scheming new trade routes and all this nonsense” he added and crossed him hands behind his back.

You could hear your heart beating faster and faster in your heart as he awaited your answer with hope in the brown of his irises.

“…I will meet you when Clarice return and take Piero back” you mumbled quietly scanning the crowd to see if anyone was looking in your direction and listening to your words.

“…and where did she went?” He grumbled quietly before straightening.

“She’s looking for Novella” you answered quietly and fixed your grip on the boy “…a girl you were so kind to reject” you added and looked at his profile pointedly.

Francesco’s eyes snapped to you before he shook his head making the curls on his head bounce with each move. “…don’t act like you don’t know I didn’t just for you.” He grumbled out.

You clenched your teeth and inhaled deeply as the meaning of his words hit you — Francesco rejected marriage with Novella because of his love to you, rejected a whole treaty with Venice just to not betray you by having another woman by his side.

“…You wasted a good alliance.” You mumbled before looking back down at Piero with your gaze troubled and a lump in your throat. “A move made out of selfishness.” You said and shook your head gently.

“A move made out of love.” He said after leaning down to whisper the words into your ear like a spy sharing secrets. “…would you really have me married to another while I know that your heart beats for me only?” He added and looked at your profile as you still looked at your nephew deep in your thoughts and troubled feeling in your chest.

“…no” you whispered and shook your head gently before sighing quietly. “But without doubt it was an unfair move towards Novella…”

“I have no care for her.” He said and fixed his doublet straightening. “She got her marriage, your family got the treaty with Venice, what more might you want?” He asked and his eyes narrowed as he gave you a sidelong glance with his head tilted slightly forward.

“A marriage in which she’s miserable and unhappy—“

“You must learn to put your happiness above others.” He said. “…It would do us well.”

Francesco turned a little away to nod to another merchant or aristocrat your brother invited to celebrate the baptism of his firstborn. The smile he put on looked painfully fake, it did not reach the dark of his eyes and there was only coldness on his face — maybe except for the pride he wore like a cloak to hide what is inside.

You inhaled deeply again, rocking Piero gently as he fussed quietly, nearly silent squeaks alarming you as if you were a natural in this major. As if motherhood — if only a momentarily one — came to you easily. A relieved sigh left your lips the moment Clarice walked back in the room, now with Novella by her arm, shifting you leaned towards Francesco the last time.

“…I’ll join you in my rooms the moment I can slip from here.” You whispered before nodding quietly as your eyes spotted the mischievous glint in his own gaze, the dark irises softening to the point where even the color of them seemed lighter.

“…very well.” He swallowed before walking away — mixing with the crowd again as he had it in habit to do.

Your steps were light as you walked over to Clarice with a smile — one that her and Novella reciprocated with softness in their eyes. Clarice immediately reached for her son, now that he qui slept he brought he no trouble whatsoever.

“He fell asleep without problem.” You said, passing her the infant without trying to wake him.

Clarice smiled, taking Piero into her own arms and shushed him as he wriggled from being jostled. “It seems like you have a gift for children.” She joked only before cradling his head in her hand and pressing a light kiss to the pink forehead.

“If you’d excuse me for a moment” you uttered before grabbing the skirts of your gown as you passed them and walked out of the room.

The murmur died out immediately as soon as you stepped out and walked to your wing, trying to appear as composed. Yet your heart bear wildly, you could hear it in your ears as you passed the columns of the hall and doors to the rooms of others you didn’t dare not want to enter.

Your steps were hurried and you tried not run but you could feel the rush inside you as you came closer and closer to the wooden doors of your own bedroom.

They were cold against your palm as you finally pushed them in, your hand on the cold metal of the handle as you inhaled deeply and came in.

And there he was — pacing calmly around your chamber as if he was bored waiting for you, the dark curls looked brushed over and you guessed he probably was running his hands through his hair in impatience. Your eyes met as you tried to catch his breath. It’s been weeks since you last had the chance to be like this — not hiding in the alleys, kissing like some children not wanting to be spotted and scolded by their parents or like Bianca and Guillermo once did. And you felt utterly ridiculous by having to do it so secretly.

The moment you locked the doors and turned the key in them he moved — his steps hurried as he walked to you. One hand — cold long fingers, cupping your face as he pressed his lips to your in rush. Your lips moved against his as your fingers slid onto his torso to grip the velvet of his doublet. You felt his hands slid down — one moving to tangle in your hair and gripped to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss.

You gripped his collar the coldness of the gold chain around his neck was both striking and grounding.

“Francesco—“ you breathed pulling away as he kissed down to the corners of your mouth and then down more to your jaw and neck until you had to tilt your head back.

“Just let me— let me have you.” He murmured against your skin as your eyes flickered closed

He leaned lower, burying his face against the curve of your throat where the pulse hammered wild and frantic. Francesco inhaled deeply in the way a man drinks when he has been dying of thirst and the scent of you flooded him — sweet like honeyed perfumes all the ladies seemed to wear now.

The laces of your gown came out easily under the work of his fingers — each skilled of not from pen or coin flipped between them then from the times when you’ve given yourself to him completely. Again and again and again — each lace came out with a jerk and a sound of the fabric being pulled against the fabric.

“You’ve really denied Foscari?” You breathed and your head turned to him — your eyes glossy and soft with each caress “when he came to your house, asking you to marry his daughter? You denied him for me?” You’ve asked as your knuckles came to caress his jaw and then cheekbone feeling the sharpness of them under your skin.

“For us—“ he said and leaned into your hand with softness in his eyes you saw rarely “…so we may one day be the ones that are wed.” He said and his voice was rough, hoarse “not like Lorenzo and Clarice or Giuliano and Novella… on our terms…” he said and nodded as his hand went up to stroke the apple of your cheekbone with his thumb.

You pressed your cheek to his hand — large one that cupped the whole of profile and was pleasantly cool despite it all.

“…were you serious?” You asked and your eyes flickered up to him. “About wanting child with me?” You added and swallowed with both anxiety and hope in your heart.

Francesco hummed quietly — scanning your face, your eyes, the way your fingers curled into the fabric of his doublet as if afraid he’ll stride out of your room if anything.

“I was… and still am” he said and pulled you closed “…I will have a son of my own from you one day… if you’ll have me” he said and leaned but haven’t kissed yet — simply let his breath graze over your skin as the tension went up.

He didn’t get an answer — not with words but with lips. Your mouth pressed to his again in a rushed manner, lips crashing into lips in a bruising way that would leave your path panting and stumbling towards the bed as soon as you’d part.

And that was it indeed. As soon as you pulled away, a string of drool connected you both before he pulled you into him by the hair again. Stumbling you were guided towards your bed that stood clean and proper — made by maids in the morning when you were getting ready for the mass.

You felt your gown loosen up the moment the back of your knees hit the mattress. The gold chain that was wrapped around his doublet came off and hit the floor with a clink before your hands grasped hurriedly at the fasting of the dark velvet to take it off.

With each kiss planted and each piece of clothing stripped from you your heart beat as if it would beat its way through your bones and skin and fell into his hands. A gore way but oh so tender at the same time.

“I will never tire of the sight of you” Francesco murmured against your lips before laying you down on the softness of your bed and his fingers skillfully pulled the fabric of your small clothes just to toss them carelessly on the floor to lay with the fabric of his doublet and shirt.

His hot lips pressed against your thigh and the followed by planting each little peck closer and closer to your aching core in a teasing manner just to pull himself up and caged you between his arms with a smug smirk on his face while looking at yours covered by blush.

“You speak of loving me yet you treat me so unkindly” you gasped quietly as your fingers moved to wrap around his wrist.

“Do not worry… I shall give you everything you might be in need for” he murmured against your neck as his fingers travelled down to rub you gently and collect the wetness that almost dripped from your core.

“Touch me then—“ you whimpered as you thigh grazed against his hip “please Francesco—… I will perish if you—“

Your words were cut off by his hips slotting their way between your legs, his hardness pressing against your inner thigh and pulsing with need as he claimed your lips into another kiss.

“May I?” He asked as his hands held your hip and waist to ground himself.

“Yes— god please, yes” you whispered as your fingers buried in his dark locks.

You felt his tip grazing over your entrance — teasing you as the first drops of precum collected in the pink flesh. You gasped quietly as the first few inches pressed into you and you could hear Francesco’s quiet grunt as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Your eyes squeezed shut as he bottomed out pressing his hips to your bottom.

“Oh god—“ your head tilted back against the mattress as you felt him filling you completely.

“You don’t want anyone to hear us, do you?” He rasped out before pulling away just to thrust softly into you and wetting his lips at the tightness of you that enveloped him so sweetly. “They will know… but not today… today you’re just mine” he added and pressed his lips to yours.

His pace fastened — soft, little thrust quickly turned into more sensual ones, faster ones as he rocked his hips steadily. Dark eyes scanned your face to watch over every little expression — every grimace of pleasure, every gasp and little frown he learned you made when he hit the right spot with his cock.

Your breath was ragged already — weeks without properly touching each other, nothing more than a kiss or a warm embrace showing themselves with how desperate you both were. How desperate to touch, grip, how desperate for pleasure that was building steadily in your lower belly.

This soft tingling you grew so fond of, the coil in your stomach that you were sure only he could make you feel as his cock worked steadily inside you — wet sound echoing in the room with each thrust, a lewd sound really but oh god how hot it made you all over, you it made you crave more and more until your couldn’t take more.

“What a beauty… Botticelli is a fool for choosing to paint Simonetta and not you.” He said as his fingers pressed into your hip — unmistakably trying to leave a mark no one but him will know it’s there.

“Francesco do not say that—“ you murmured as your eyebrows pulled into a frown and you could feel your eyes water under your eyelids as you felt the warmth spreading.

“It’s true—… he’s either a fool or he’s blind” he mumbled as sped up with a grunt to the point where his hips were snapping against yours.

“You’re cruel for saying that.” You closed your eyes and your chest lifted and fell down with each breath.

“…Mayhaps I am… but God knows my words are truth” he said and his hands slid to grip your waist.

You gasped as he shifted — pulling you against him as turning violently. Your landed on his lap — each knee on other side of his hips and you gripped yours instead. His chest was heaving as he looked up at you with pleading in his eyes that watered themself and you could feel him pulsing inside you desperately.

Your hands wrapped around his arms as you slowly begin to rock his hips against his — a gasp left your mouth as you felt him hitting this sweet, sweet spot that made your toes curl and cheeks to pink up even more.

Your thumbs brushed over the sharpness of his jaw as your head tilted back even more and his nose grazed over your skin — breath hitting over it with each tingle of pleasure you felt.

Your hair sticked to your forehead and bare back as a moan escaped your mouth — not able to keep quiet in the chamber as you moved with desperation.

Francesco’s fingers pressed into your skin as you whimpered as he seemed so settle to mark you in some way — even if painful.

A surprised whine left you as you felt the wave of pleasure crash into you at full force — you wrapped your arms more securely against him hiding your face in his hair as you stepped from the cliff and fell into the abyss as the coil finally snapped.

You clenched on him as he held you — hands gripping you as if he was scared you’d leave, leave him when he was so soon to follow. A mere thrust away he spilled too — deep inside you with a groan and face pressed into the crock of your neck as you felt his eyelashes and hair tingling against your skin.

A soft breath, a caught one and you simply held each other in a quiet embrace before Francesco spoke up — his fingers brushing away the hair that stuck to your forehead.

“You are both my doom and salvation” he rasped out as his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat with the swallow he took — pupils blown wide as he looked at you in awe.

“I love you.” You mumbled cupping his cheeks and stroking over his skin with your thumb.

“I will worship you till day I die.”

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it! I had the luck to publish it on literal steps of Palazzo Pazzi in Florence and oh my god Florence is really as beautiful as they say it is. Literally I’m like… okay I’m in Florence, Francesco Pazzi where are you? 😛 Also I wanna thank you SO MICH for 3k followers you mean the world to me!!!

taglist: @ghostlybfgf @trixxxel @userhotd @qardasngan @elisabethturner1919 @sczlxdy @itspbjellytime @morriganstark @aerangi @nanascharms

King Viserys' and Queen Aemma's second daughter, as fierce and beautiful as Rhaenyra, with your father’s kindness and your mother’s temperament. And perhaps your sister’s mischief. 

And the first Targaryen Princess to be married.

You were both only children then, fresh faced and blushing in the eyes of the court. And yet, you and Gwayne found one another naturally, not from arrangement or calculation, but from pure attraction. He sought after you from the very moment he was introduced at his father's side from Oldtown, green eyes casting across yours with a unique politemess. The Hand of the King’s son.. The first time he had taken your arm was mere weeks after his arrival, a feast celebration held in the Great Hall for your mother's upcoming birth.

The music had softened into something slower, gentler, the kind that filled the spaces between conversation instead of drowning them. Laughter drifted through the hall beneath the glow of a hundred candles, their flames dancing against polished stone and silver goblets.

There was peace there.

For once, no whispers of succession. No sharpened glances, no blood yet staining the future that none of you could see. Baelon still lived inside your mother’s belly, the realm still believed that tomorrow would resemble that day, and everyone drank as though happiness were permanent.

You hid a smile behind the rim of your goblet as your sister traded another clever remark with a lord twice her age. The wine was sweet enough to dull the noise without stealing your senses, and only the music filled your ears until you heard him.

"Princess..."

A single voice came from your side, poignant and certain.

Your head turned almost as quickly as your feet did, skirts whispering across the floor as you faced the speaker.

Ser Gwayne Hightower.

And you knew the face long before you knew the man. Across tourney grounds and council feasts, across the crowded courts where neither of you had ever found reason, or courage, to cross the distance. He had always seemed carved from Oldtown itself with his proud posture and emerald stitched into every thread of his doublet, auburn hair catching every stray beam of light.

So appeasingly handsome.

That night however, he looked less like a knight before a princess, and more like a man wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

"I mean not to impose," he said, offering a respectful incline of his head, "though I wondered if I might have this dance." For a heartbeat, the world continued around you while your own stood perfectly still. You let your gaze linger on him, amused by the faint uncertainty hidden beneath practiced confidence, tempting to look around to study if your father’s were perhaps watching.

But no one was, far too taken with their own celebrations, even the snaking advance of Otto Hightower had been shadowed by his son’s chivalry.

"So," you said at last, lowering your goblet into the waiting hands of a servant, "you've finally decided to stop staring from across the court."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before a reluctant smile answered it.

"I had hoped," Gwayne admitted, extending a hand toward you, "that when I did, I might say something considerably more impressive."

Your lips curved despite yourself, taking his hand as you set the goblet down onto an empty table. They slotted into his with a shiver up your spine, the warmth of his swarming your hand gently.

And as a well trained Knight and son of the Hand, word swept faster than either of you knew.

Sweetness across feasting tables soon became hushed kisses in the library and whispered promises, where he asked you to first be his. And you had accepted, spending the weeks and months that passed dreaming of a future that would not come so simply.

You wore your house colours on that day, stark crimson and white, as he did his own, graced in a black cloak that bore the royal sigil, as you wore his. Your mother and father present has smiled on proudly, your sister at their side at last ready to take your arm to share the joy. And Gwayne, he looked upon you with such a blinding adoration you had not known where to look, but when he had kissed you at the altar, all else seemed to fall away.

It was where you belonged.

Such happiness that shouldn't have ended like this, where only darkness loomed in the present. Where Queens passed to another and your younger brother with her, leaving only choices of heirs and legitimacy remained.

The Dance of Dragons divided everyone in its path, renouncing Princess Rhaenyra as heir, and the state of the realm overtaken by your husband’s house. Trust and loyalty faltered where you were at a loss, cradled behind court and torn from your marriage and family entirely.

And that’s where it began.

—

King Viserys’ death had succumbed the realm to a deep sadness, perhaps not the strongest or fiercest, but their good King was gone. But that was not all for you, he was your father, your leader, and though the family had grown through the years, you and your sister had dealt with it only together.

Snakes snuck fast around the court, ever more lurching their way closer to you both, because as your father’s last breath was breathed as the years had passed, it was said that your older sister’s name was not on his lips, but your younger half brother Aegon.

He was but a boy, callous and cruel and unnamed by your father, other than by the word of Alicent Hightower.

Gwayne held you that night, the whole time you had wept for him, for your sister and the news that swept faster than any false rumour. He did not speak, but his arms stayed around you, feeling your betrayal as much as rage thundered in his chest. Because there was nothing to be done.

Neither of you were in the position to change it or revoke their decision, only stand idly by as the Red Keep made way for their new ruler. And when the news had reached Rhaenyra by your Raven, before any other, the war had truly begun.

They had usurped her throne.

Though only more death was to come. Where Lucerys' death fueled the fire, Jacaerys’ stoked it into an abcess, shifting the realm into finally. And with your sister to take King’s Landing, to journey back home and sit upon the throne of swords that was at last to be hers, you were to be at her side.

Standing proud, no matter how fractured.

But you couldn’t leave him, not yet. Even as he stood far away distantly on battlefield in a sea of green, wiping away your very dynasty, you were not enemies, nor traitors to your alliance, you were simple torn. 

Letters were passed for as long as they could be, after leaving court for good, you had decided to reside with your sister and nephews, Gwayne alas being called upon to raise the Hightower banners. And he did, reluctantly and wrongfully, he hung his head low the last time he had kissed you, watching you take to the skies across the narrow sea.

That was beyond a year ago, the last word you had received before they had began getting lost, by death or payment to burn them, was that he was settled at Rook’s Rest.

It was no secret that the pair of you were a danger, the union that once delighted the realm, now a tear in the very structure they had wanted to built. Even as you stood at her war table, speaking strategy and warding soldiers their way, you thought of him, and even your Rhaenyra looked upon you with despair.

Because she knew, and more than most.

You held each other for those nights that surrounded you in darkness and fear more than anything else. Through every loss, every upset and worry, you bore those burdens together in the privacy of her solar, hidden away from the rest of the world just as you would when you were girls.

And just so, she did not speak a word, not even as you had finally had enough, succumbed to the worry, the need to find him. Grief had overwhelmed her enough, and Rhaenyra did not stop you, but not because she had been weak, because she knew you’d be back, and she knew where you were going.

More so, who you were going to.

—

Long slender silver wings spread through the sky, gliding through the misted clouds as blue casts a shadow beneath the stars.

Grey Ghost.

And he lives true to his name, flying low in silence, keeping beneath the valley and into the cover of trees. Moonlight strikes the sharp membrane of his body, curving with the wind from head to tail, but you remain out of sight. Wind catches your hair, tangling the strands that fall, the shine reflecting onto your face as you duck into the saddle, fingers tight around the rope.

He keeps quiet as he is known to, reserved and patient but somehow now a tense silent. There is no rumble, or loud screech of excitement that passes through the air around you. The flight was less than a mere hour, driven swiftly by your held and held from the memory that he had last given you direction to.

Rook’s Rest.

In the heart of the Crownlands and seated on the northern shore of Blackwater Bay, the encampment lo and behold lit up through a sparse in the trees, surrounded by sconces and hundreds of tents camouflaged by tree cover.

“Māzīs, Grey Ghost.” Approach, Grey Ghost.

You called out to him, flying in a turn far above them into a small break in the woodland, diving out of sight and settling with a thud to the ground as his feet planted into the earth. You slid from him carefully, steadying yourself as you patted his side, rubbing along the silver scales gently, clasping your hand around the dagger at your side with the other.

Restless nights come frequent in battle, leaving men tossing and turning in their cots from aches and sore backs. But that did not keep Gwayne awake. Nor was it the watch he was put on in the early hours that did so, it was the sound. The soft whooshing that echoed through the treeline and around the camp, swaying the bushes with it. Many would call it the wind, or a storm rolling in and nothing more, but he had been around enough dragons and their riders to know the difference.

The way you had taught him years ago.

“No their wings are here..” Your hand placed over Gwayne’s own, pressing gently to the beast’s belly, “his underside is hardly noticeable. It keeps us from harm, shielded and invisible to attackers.”

“But the sound is unmistakable, even in ambush. It is low, guttural, far more effective than your canons or torches.” You continued, feeling the heated brush against your fingertips as the dragon bristled.

He studied them ever since. At a distance and far from the depths of the dragonpit, he watched on. Every ride you’d take with Grey Ghost, every conflict that required them to fly out in their hoards. They were a power unlike any other in the world, a force of be reckoned with, and one that still shook his bones whenever he had been faced with one, but there was something familiar.

His fingers drop from the quill and ink, sliding the parchment aside on the small desk, lit only by two candles, casting shadows as he goes to stand.

His eyes fart every direction as he exits the tent, to and from and back again heeding the snores and dying rumbles of drunkards in the nearby pavilions. But he pays no mind, that isn’t what he follows. At first it was a guess, only a thought but he picks up the pace when he sees it.

The great silhouette that hides expertly behind the tree wells, long and slender, and far too big for a horse. His hand clasps around the pommel of his sword, keeping it tight to his waist as he stalks nearer. From this angle it’s hard to tell. The size was large enough to stand out but not as large as Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not one of their own.

Its colour is blank in this light, no shine, and no scale and his eyes go to squint sharply to make it out, but he barely makes it another step before.

Crack.

A twig crunches from behind, spinning on the spot onto his heel to catch a shadow moving beyond the creature. His grip tightens around the steel as he stalks around, a heavy exhale spilling from the beast’s nostrils, almost annoyed.

But the shadow was heading so swiftly through the trees Gwayne had no choice but to chase it. If it were the enemy, they could burn the whole encampment with a single command. And the thoughts run through his head before he can stop himself, “Who goes there?”

He calls through the night. Not loud enough to wake the others, but enough it was direct, but no answer came, so he follows, brushing branches out of his way as he catches up. And then his arms fall in front of him, feet quickening as the silhouette grew more human.

“Hey—“

His arms clamp as hard as he can, twisting the unknown figure in his grip as he seethes. The breath burns in your throat as you plant your fist in front of you, colliding with the pad of tunic, kick fighting toward the man’s shins. It collides with a crack, heavy and thick through boot.

Gwayne barely staggers before his reflexes catch hold, his free hand seizing your wrist while the other circles your waist, dragging his supposed attacker’s momentum into his own. You stumble backward together, boots tearing through damp earth until your back meets the rough trunk of an oak.

His sword is half-drawn, ready to raise just as moonlight slips delicately through the branches. A low screech responds, short and quiet, bristling through the hedgerow hair behind. And that’s when he sees it. Eyes wide with the same shock reflected in his own.

“…Gods.”

His grip loosens at once, standing before you just close enough that his knees don’t buckle.

“You?”

“Gwayne?” You whisper breathlessly, his name leaving your lips in disbelief, a cold shiver wracking your body as you catch your breath.

He shoves his sword back into its scabbard with more force than necessary without so much as a look, the hand at your waist loosing its hardened grip, but holding you closer by instinct.

“What,” he demands, voice caught somewhere between fury and relief, “in the Seven Hells are you doing here?”

You only frown, easing your wrist from his hand to slide the dagger back between your belt.

“I might ask you the same.”

“I am stationed here.”

“And I am merely visiting.”

“Visiting?” he repeated incredulously. “You flew into an active war camp in the middle of the bloody night.”

“I landed well beyond it.” You counter, gesturing to Grey Ghost lowering himself to tuck into the dirt.

“Beside it.”

“There is a difference.”

“There is not.”

Before either of you could speak again, the trees behind you shift, a great pale head emerging from the darkness with uncanny silence, its silver-grey hide almost disappearing beneath the moonlight. Grey Ghost regards Gwayne with calm, intelligent eyes before lowering his great snout beside you, as if to confirm you were unharmed.

The knight scarcely looks at the dragon now, bowing his head back without blinking, eyes still wild and shocked as they turn back onto you. His attention settles entirely on you, the hand at your waist drawing into you by the slightest .

“What possessed you?”

The sharpness had left his voice, and he rethinks his words where only fear remains now, stepping closer, searching every inch of your face as though to look for hidden wounds and blood.

But there is none.

“When the sentries reported news of a dragon encroaching..” His voice drops rougher. “I thought it was an advance scout. I thought Rhaenyra or Daemon had come to us.”

You hold his gaze, breathing steadily where it threatens to hitch.

“I heard there was a Hightower encampment from your letter.” You answer him, pausing before you continue.

“I only wanted to see if you truly were here.” Your voice threatens to break, shaking as you begin to feel the warmth of his palms around you.

“You could have sent word.” Gwayne argues, and it’s a blunt instrument, one of no use of fire in it, one he only attempts not to take you into his arms right away.

“And if it had been intercepted?”

“I would rather receive intercepted letters than news that my wife had been killed wandering through enemy woods.”

Silence passes between you then, wind whispering through the pines, carrying the distant sounds of the sleeping camp far below. You lookedown for only a moment before meeting his eyes again.

“I had to see you.”

Four simple words you give him and they strike him harder than any blade. His jaw tightens at that, his other hand raising slowly, carefully to your face, only hovering.

“But if someone sees us…” he says quietly, glancing back towards the camp. “If anyone finds you here-“

The look you give him then isn’t defiance or stubbornness, it’s with longing.

The sort that comes from too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered prayers, and too many days waking alone. The ones you had both spent far too long inside of, a nightmare. There’s a desperation in it, an ache that neither dragons nor crowns can soothe. Gwayne simply stares at that and you see the conflict unfold in him, everything that has been expected and ordered of you both.

Duty and reason and fear, but something more.. love.

Each emotion wrestles the next until the rigid lines of his features fracture beneath their weight and his mouth parts as though to argue again, to tell her you that should leave, like he should do, that all of this is madness.

But no words come and he can’t bring himself to speak them. Instead, something inside him gives way, his hands rising almost hesitantly, rough palms cradling either side of your face, afraid that you might disappear if he held holds you too tightly.

He exhales a breath, surrendering as he thumbs at your cheeks, drawing you to him. He bends without another word, his forehead brushing your own for the briefest instant before his lips finds yours in a kiss that carries the weight of the separation. It’s gentle despite the urgency behind it, the sort of kiss that speaks every word he couldn’t say before, if he’d ever have you again.

His eyes never leave yours, not even as he pulls away.

“…How I’ve missed you, my love.”

And it’s real, the closest thing to the reality you’d lost years ago that you’d longed to hear. Your eyes flutter close at his whisper, holding onto the words as he stands breathing, alive in front of you.

“You underestimate me, husband.”

A groan bites low in the back of throat. Husband.. That word, that title that has been shoved too far behind all else. The knight, the man, the commander.

But here he was, your husband. The one you could joke with, the one would only underestimate himself before he ever would you, because he knows better. And yet it’s the only thing that you can manage, a jest.

“Perhaps for a moment.” He admits through a teary smile.

“Then you are the idiot.”

Your noses nudge together as a smile finds your lips from his own, your arms reaching around his middle.

“Indeed I was.”

His grip grounds you back into the tree bark, your turn to groan as you mouth at his lip, teeth tempting to bite into the plush flesh. Something growing beneath the shock and the longing, something hungrier.

“Not here.”

And as he takes your hand again, leading you through the dark, you feel the thumping in your chest, the once regret of your decision falling to nothingness.

—

"How I've missed you my love.."

His words ring in your ears, loud and clear as you pass through the trees, ducking and stalling behind bushes until you find the tent. His own. In the distance wings flap quietly, carrying on the wind just further out of reach, to safety knowing that you are once again.

Fingers clutch at the sides of your arms, bracing through the thick fabric and taking you under the draping entrance of the tent. Smoke and burnt incense fills the space, filling your nostrils with a burn, all adorned in shades of emerald green, but that isn’t what catches your attention. It’s the warmth, the dirt beneath your feet on the measly carpeted floor where he urges you backwards.

“I have not wanted to wait..” You moan into his mouth, a gasp escaping your lips as your back braces into the wooden beam at the pavilion’s center.

One hand roams higher, cupping your cheek with a delicate fondness, tearing away from your lips hesitantly with a tremble. Like doing so pained him.

"Then I shall not make you.” He breathed against them, warm air tickling your jaw and sending a shiver through your body. He was so close, so real, and near, for the first time in a long time. It felt like it had.. “For tonight.. you have me."

"I always do." You corrected with a hum, bracing your back further into the bite of the worn wood, fingers resting along the stitchings of his doublet.

"You torture me.." He whispers into your lips without protest, not against, into, across, a brand into your skin, burning hot and searing before he captures them again.

Hotter and more desperate, anchoring you with his body as his hand clutched at the layers of fabric around your waist, his tongue sweeps across your lip to allow him to pass. And you do, kissing him back with the same eager ferocity you have held back for longer than you can remember. Your fingers tighten around the nape of his neck just to drag him into you, his knee pressing between the damp heat of your legs.

You remember this. The push and pull, where the nights drew long and heated, and where the only terror was the thought of someone seeing. The blush crept up his neck often at the thought, abandoning all honour just to have you. Where alcoves in corridors would become your greatest sin and he would whisper promise and vows into your ears, running hot beneath layers of steel and armour.

His true desire, his fatal flaw. The one he’d abide all laws just to feel you against him once more. And now he has you, there’s no holding back. Gwayne’s eyes flutter shut as he takes every moment to linger over your skin, lips worshiping along the hollow of your throat, slowing to feel the thrumming rush of blood, kissing at your jaw as his teeth bare at your collarbone. His fingers follow, unclasping the ties of your armour just as patiently he undoes you.

A gasp leaves you as the material falls away, cool air pebbling your nipples and dimpling the rest of your skin, your hands bracing against the broadness of his shoulders to steady yourself.

He opens his eyes when his knees finally met the floor, glancing up at you with materials strewn in piles across the floor, his own shirt hanging open and unkempt in the low light, green tunic long discarded. From here you can see him, not the soldier or the enemy, but truly, the knight, the man you’ve known for far longer than any of this. The one that bent the knee to you without question, the one that had kissed your hand at every meeting, the one that had held you through every dark night.

That look hasn’t changed, only hardened with the lines on his face and the faint dirt that clings to his brow. But green eyes are blown, tender and starving, his mouth hanging open as his hands trace the flesh of your calf up to the plush of your thighs.

He hooks his fingers around the riding leather of your trousers, tugging slowly to shuffle them to the floor, inhaling with a sarcastic grimace, uncaring of the ash that falls away from them despite himself.

“Never will I become accustom to that.” A smile cracks across your face, nodding your head back against the wooden beam with a creak. Dragon back has always had its scent, like fire and smoke and the faintest tinge of blood. But he didn’t care for that now, not even while it dusted his fingers and filled the air, the knot of fingers tangling into his hair only drawing him closer. Hungrier.

“Unlike this..”

He places your leg over his shoulder with a careful bend, shuffling closer, bracing his palm onto the wood behind you. He purses his lips at the skin of your knee tenderly, mouthing sharply while locking eyes with you. Heat pools in at your core, a sudden rush of blood with his breath ghosting over your legs.

“My beautiful..” He placed a kiss, right over the bend of your leg, his eyes fluttering closed once more, “sweet..” Another right at the apex of your thighs, and again for every scar and blemish that he passes, stopping short just to glide his hand up the rest of your body, steadying at your stomach to hold you in place, “wife..”

Shades of green blink up at you, lidded and glazed over, nosing at the flesh of your thigh. Gwayne looks almost angelic in this light, as if gazing up at you, shivering and wanting above him, could wash away every wrongdoing and crime duty had made him commit.

“My undoing..”

He whispers low in a rasp, grazing over your mound with his teeth as he breaths cool air onto your cunt, lips parting breathlessly as he kneads the backs of your legs, beckoning you closer. You don’t speak, not yet, but your face flushes a deep crimson, the back of your neck burning as you buck your hips absentmindedly. He hears you, listens without needed a word. And he wastes no time, because that’s all he needs, the broken, pitched whine hitching from the back of your throat.

You have me.

Gwayne plants one last kiss at your navel, resting up on his knees as his tongue licks a heavy, flat lick through your folds. He traces every curve, gathered the arousal as it drips down onto his mouth, parting your heat with the drag of wet muscle and his want. A groan rumbles out deep from his chest, fingers grasping tighter to anchor you to him, the taste of your sweetness makes him lose all control of sense.

Your teeth bite hard into your lip, piercing near enough to draw blood just to stop yourself from making sound. Your hips buck into him again, this time caught by grip of his hands, circling attentively at your waist as he sucks swirling teases around your swollen pearl, dragging it between his lips only to hum into you as your hand clamps over your mouth.

“Give it to me, my love..,” He centres himself not even a breath away, dragging two fingers from your middle to tease along your slit, scissoring them around his tongue as he dips in again, “let me taste you.”

But he doesn’t pull then, not once, not for air, nor for any sound that passes by the tent. He’s fixated, wholeheartedly, and utterly on you. His feet plant deeper into the dirt, tugging you further to him to nuzzle himself into your heat, his nose dragging across your clit as his tongue plunges at your entrance, dipping into your hole with one sharp flick. The length of his fingers curl tight into the spot inside you that makes you reel, your head rocking back as his mouth slips between, collecting the wetness that pools from your drooling cunt.

“My love..” You whisper through a whine, eyes darting around the space blindly before landing back onto him, sucking in a breath as to feel your thighs begin to shake. That familiar slow pull of your body falling and losing control, the muffle of moans into your palm heightening your need.

And he was nothing if not dutiful, and now he was determined. He palms your thighs apart, leaving space only for him, fucking you onto his tongue as he hooks an arm at your legs, undeniably and shamelessly worshiping you at your feet, like a septon would at the altar, praying with every dragging promise of his tongue.

You arch your back, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, fighting silently to keep your voice muffled, but the sensation is too overwhelming. Every deep, swirling lap of his tongue feels like a spark igniting a fire in your gut, sending you closer and closer to the edge. But he only uses it, propelling his face deeper into your heat, tongue lavishing with one final swirl around your bud that sends your release crashing over you.

Your eyes clamp shut, sudden and burning as white blots behind your eyes, your vision blurring while his gaze only stirs on you. Auburn hair sits mussed and unkempt, a blush across his cheeks as you drip deliciously from his lips.

"That's it, sweetling... let it go for me," He coaxes it from you, a soothing command, without stopping. The tremors break shivering through your legs, hips rocking back into the beam and into his firm hold as slowly stands, keeping his lips pressed into you, tasting your release, tongue swirling over your swollen clit for every drop of pleasure he can drink in. His breath stays hot and heavy, guiding you through your peak, your body beginning to feel boneless.

Your breath hitches as you feel it. The devoted ascent, the worship with lingering, wet kisses he had claimed before. Once to the inside of your thigh, then another to your hip, stubble grown over months in battle grazing deliciously over your skin as he works his way back up.

His tongue traces the line of your navel, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, pausing as he tempts to stand, latching his mouth around your breasts, swirling with his tongue across your nipples until they grow hard and sensitive under his touch. Gwayne traces the trail from your chest to your neck with murmurs, rasped words spilled only for you. Missed you, missed this.. They continue until he captures your mouth once more, resting his forehead against your own, in a deep, hungry kiss, tasting himself and you on his tongue.

“My sweet girl.” He rasps, hands swarming your body all over with warmth as he rests himself into you, unlacing the collar from his shirt to fall away. It leaves only his breeches, now tented so painfully hard you could see it, brushing your thigh as your eyes flick between you.

He would have no protest if that were all he had from you, to give and pleasure you all the ways he saw fit. But he had to have you, this was different, this was craving and months worth longing. And so he gives you everything he takes.

You taste yourself from him, glistening sweet on his lips and chin, pressing back into yours with a growing desire. And without breaking it, his arm slides beneath your knees, the other firmly at your back. It’s effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, damp heat pressing against the rough fabric of his breeches as you rock yourself back down onto him. The furs curl at your back, sticky and hot as he lays you onto the bed.

"Gwayne please, I need you," You plead, breaking the kiss to reach down and place your hand over his clothed cock, rubbing over the thin fabric to feel him. He shrugs it away with a groan, nuzzling into you as he frees himself, your fingers grasping as you take his cock in your hand. You swipe your thumb delicately over the sensitive head, smearing the precum around the aching slit. He kisses your cheek and temple to kiss your cheek, mumbling into your hair as he stutters in your grip.

"Please.." You beg again, tugging your hand around his length to draw him toward your entrance as he settles over you.

"I know, I know..." The bed dips as Gwayne places one last kiss to your lips before sitting back onto his legs, peering down at the sight of you, so undone and beautiful before his hands are on your thighs. He strokes the soft skin, curling over you as he takes his cock into his own hand, resting the tip of him hovering over your weeping cunt, “My poor wife.. I've kept you waiting for too long, hm? So wrong of me...”

You whimper quietly as his hands find the backs of your thighs, splaying out fully as he holds them open, angling them back toward your head, the breath knocking from your lungs as you moan.

“It has been too long for both of us..” He confesses in a groan, sliding himself closer that his cock nestles itself through your folds, throbbing against you as you grip the sheets.

A hand draws to your face, catching your head before it lulls backward, gently making you look at him, his gaze bearing into you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His hips flick, one careful thrust that settles himself all the way inside of you, the head of his cock nudging towards your cervix. The angle sucks him so deep you feel him there, your mouth falling open as his length nestles deep into your womb.

His mouth drops open in a thick, broken groan of your name, for the first time not a whisper, but a breath as he used to, without hiding and with pure affection, “Seven hells.. "

He settles further over you then, the hard lines of his chest bracing just above your breasts, skin catching along skin as he captures you in his arms, caging you with a hand curling at your nape. Only then does he move, the rhythm slow and torturous as he slides inside of you, body curving with the drag of his hips.

“Gwayne..”

“That’s it.. say my name again.”

And you do, over and over in pathetic, mumbled whimpers that pitch from the back of your throat. The pale muscle of his legs inch you back into him, slapping with every drive he gives you, his palm smoothing over your thigh to hook it to his side. It’s an anchor, your other leg locking around him as you take him.

“Yours.. take me, sweetling. Take all of me..”

“Thought I already had it.”

“You do..” An arm circles underneath your waist, pulling you up and into him, rising onto his haunches as he settles you into his lap, your legs sliding around his back. The angle hits deeper there, his length sinking inside of you tight to the plug of your cervix, keeping you into him as he fucks up into you, “Gods you do.”

He rocks himself then, head lulling into your forehead as you whine, the air punches from your lungs with every thrust he gives you. It’s fast and messy, rolling his hips with every pass just to grind and feel more of you, to nestle himself right where he belongs. His groans press into your ear, breath hot across the mussed hair at the corner of your head.

Your hands claw along the strain of his back, long streaked lines that make him hiss, driving deeper into you as he takes heavier grasps at your hips, locking your legs around his middle. The sheets ruffle beneath you, tangling with the weight and force of what you can only feel.

All of him.

The pressure burns bright in your belly, walls clenching around his thickness with every thrust that mercilessly drives harder into you.

A sheen coats your bodies, along the crook of your back and between you, dripping with arousal at your core around him and a swear between your breasts. His tongue catches it, tasting the salty sweetness between you in a train to your neck.

“Divine you are.. every part of you.”

Your moans muffle into the clutch of his hand, and his face shifts, a broken look in his eyes and across his features. How he wants to hear you properly, to let the it fill the space the way it used to, the way it should. But the risk is too much, and so he settles for the feeling, the vibration of you into his skin and the convulse of your body drawing closer to your edge beneath him, the tears pooling at your eyes simply from pleasure that makes you both lose it.

“Not leaving you, not now.. or ever.” He proclaims it like an oath, more than just want it declaration, it buzzes against his skin as he stutters over you. Tears pool in your eyes, his breath hot at your ear while his eyes close tightly, breathing you in, making what he can last.

His movements grow frantic, pulsing with a desperate need inside of you while his hips slam faster and needier, your walls convulsing around him in one heavy snap. The orgasm rips through you, harder than last time, squeezing him like a vice as you bite into the flesh of his hand, moaning his name and curses that follow.

He coaxes you through your release in tandem with his own, hushing against your lips gently, cooing as you whine through the sparks igniting inside of you. his hips stutter all at once, faltering as the flex of his arms threaten collapse, but he catches himself, dragging the length of his cock deeper and deeper, guttural sounds mingling with your breath as he spills.

But neither of you stop, even while spent. You only still, resting into the rise and fall of each other’s chest heaving into one another.

“I love you..” You manage out through the tingling and twitching in your body, coming down from a high that only seems to reignite with his touch. He stays nestled inside of you, rocking gently as he fills you, spend leaking around his length onto the bed.

“And I love you, more than anything.”

He settles you onto the throw of plush pillows before he enters you fully again, this time sliding behind you as his chest slides up your back. And he didn’t leave you, not once, taking you over and over until the candles had burned low and the sheets lay damp and worn between you.

—

Both of you knew that you could not stay.

Tomorrow, you would be on either side of the war.

You would be needed at your sister’s side, flying in on Grey Ghost’s back to command an army and take the city of King’s Landing. And he would remain. Vigilant and honourably, with his sword drawn and waiting. The pair of you both uncertain what was to happen, uncertain when, if, you would ever see one another again, or how it would ever happen.

But for now, alliances and sworn oaths did not matter, the only one that did was your own, the vows you laid before the septon years ago.

The rise and fall of his chest lulls you, your fingers tangling and combing tenderly into the damp strands hair falling into his face. His hand traces the dip in your back, hushing you as a familar rumble echoes from the distance, slowly calling you back. But you don’t rise, not yet..

Histories would write of victories, of gory deaths and betrayal, however in between it all there were lines of dotted ink written of something else. Of the two people that stood vigilant between the Greens and the Blacks.