Dreamer

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.

aerion targaryen had not wanted a martell bride, that was the simple truth of it.

when the match had first been proposed, he had regarded it as what it was, another arrangement crafted by older, wiser people who believed they knew what was best for the realm.

best for him.

he remembered standing beside a window overlooking blackwater bay when the news had been delivered. "a princess of dorne?" he had said flatly.

his father had given him a look. "a beautiful princess of dorne."

"i do not particularly care." and at the time, he had meant it, or at least he had thought he did.

then he met you and, unfortunately for aerion, everything became much more difficult, because you were beautiful, not merely beautiful in the way courtiers described ladies to secure favor, you were genuinely, devastatingly beautiful.

you were kind.

gods, he hated how much he liked that. your confidence, your sweetness, your fire…

the trouble began when they were forced to spend time together, before marriage there had been dinners, walks, appearances and conversations neither of you could reasonably escape.

at first aerion had expected them to be tedious, instead he discovered that you were clever. you challenged him, argued with him and even laughed at him. the first time you laughed directly at one of his dramatic declarations, he had stared at you in complete disbelief. "how dare you laugh."

"because you sound absurd!!”

aerion's jaw tightened at your insolence, but something in him stirred at the sight of your unapologetic smile. no one- no one- dared speak to a targaryen so, let alone laugh at their pronouncements.

"you find me absurd?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"i find your declaration that 'all lesser houses should bow before the might of dragons' rather theatrical for a supper conversation," you replied, taking a sip of wine. "especially when the only dragon present is the one carved into your knife handle."

he stared at you, speechless for a moment. the courtiers nearby had gone silent, their eyes darting between you both like spectators at a tourney.

"you walk a dangerous line, princess," aerion finally managed, though he couldn't keep the faint hint of amusement from his voice.

“and i must admit, your family's reputation precedes you." you said with a shrug.

a flicker of his old arrogance returned. "as it should."

"as it should," you agreed, much to his surprise. "but reputations are often exaggerated. i prefer to judge people by their actions rather than their bloodlines."

"and what have my actions told you so far?"

"that you enjoy being admired," you said thoughtfully. "that you're accustomed to getting what you want. and that beneath all that targaryen pride, there's a man who doesn't particularly enjoy being laughed at."

he leaned forward, "and what else have you discovered?"

"that you're lonely," you said simply.

his immediate instinct was to deny it, to push back with some cutting remark about dornish impertinence, but the truth of your statement left him momentarily defenseless. "i have a family," he said finally. "a dynasty."

"a family is not the same as companionship," you replied, your voice softer now. "a dynasty is a burden. a companion is a choice."

the evening ended with an unspoken understanding between you. as you parted ways, aerion found himself watching you retreat, the sway of your dark hair against your vibrant silks, the confidence in your stride. he had come to this marriage expecting to endure it, to fulfill his duty and nothing more.

now, for the first time, he wondered if duty might not be such a burden after all.

then came marriage and forced proximity finished what attraction had started because now you were everywhere.

at breakfast.

at supper.

reading by the window.

laughing with your ladies.

sleeping beside him….

the chambers that had once belonged solely to aerion suddenly felt empty whenever you left them. you had somehow become part of every routine, and months later, the transformation was complete. aerion adored you. there was no point denying it anymore, the servants knew, everyone with eyes knew, he followed you around the red keep whenever possible.

if you entered a room, somehow aerion appeared shortly afterward, if you mentioned liking something once, it mysteriously arrived days later.

flowers. spices. books. rare dornish wines.

anything.

everything.

the greatest shock, however, was how gentle he became with you…true, aerion targaryen would never be soft, but he was gentle. his hand always found the small of your back, he noticed when you were tired, when you were cold, when court became too much. it was as though he had developed an awareness of you that bordered on obsession.

yours and his first major argument had been simmering for days. you wanted to visit your family in dorne for the harvest festival- a reasonable request, in your estimation. aerion, however, saw it differently.

"you are my wife," he'd stated, his voice dangerously quiet. "your place is here. with me."

"and i am your wife, not your prisoner," you'd retorted, "i have not seen my siblings in nearly a year. my mother sent a raven specifically requesting my presence."

that night in your chambers, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. you stood by the hearth, arms crossed, while he paced before you like a caged dragon.

"it is not safe," he insisted. "the roads are perilous this time of year. and i do not trust dornish hospitality toward a targaryen princess."

"my family would never harm me," you said, exasperated. "this is not about safety. this is about control."

he stopped pacing and faced you, his eyes blazing. "i have given you everything- books, wines, silks from across the narrow sea. is that not enough? must you always test the limits of my generosity?"

"generosity?" you laughed without humor. "you give me trinkets while denying me the one thing i truly want- a connection to my home, my family. these gifts are chains, aerion. beautiful, expensive chains."

“you will not go and that is final.”

the finality in his tone was absolute, a royal command that brooked no argument. he stood before you, not as the gentle man who brought you rare wines, but as the targaryen prince who expected obedience.

for a long moment, you said nothing. you simply looked at him.

"very well, husband," you said, your voice dangerously soft. you turned away from him and walked to the window, gazing out at the darkened gardens of the red keep. "as you have commanded me."

a flicker of triumph crossed his face, quickly replaced by confusion. this was too easy. he had expected tears, pleading, another sharp retort. he had not expected this quiet, hollow acceptance.

"good," he said, his voice gruff. "it is for your own protection."

you didn't turn around. "of course. everything is for my own good. i am a fragile thing, after all. a targaryen princess who must be kept in a gilded cage, lest i break."

the sarcasm in your tone was a subtle poison. he took a step toward you. "that is not what i meant."

"isn't it?" you finally turned, your face a mask of serene indifference that was more cutting than any glare could have been. "you do not trust me. you do not trust my family. you do not trust my judgment. you only trust your own will."

you walked past him toward the adjoining dressing chamber.

"where are you going?" he demanded, his voice tight.

"to bed," you replied without looking back. "alone. i find i am not in the mood for company tonight."

you disappeared behind the screen, leaving him standing alone in the grand chamber. the silence that fell was heavier than any shouted words.

he stood there for a long time, the silence in the chambers growing heavier with each passing moment. the victory felt sour, hollow. he had won the argument, but in doing so, he had lost something far more valuable. the rooms, once filled with your vibrant presence, now felt cavernous and cold. the fire crackled, but it offered no warmth.

an hour passed.

the moon climbed higher in the sky, casting silver shadows across the rugs. he could not sleep. he could not think. all he could do was feel the vast, empty space you had left beside him. he was a dragon prince, heir to a dynasty, and he was being tormented by the absence of his wife.

finally, with a low growl of frustration, he pushed himself away from the chair and strode toward the dressing chamber. he didn't bother to knock. he threw the door open with enough force to make it slam against the stone wall.

you were curled up on your side in the smaller, simpler bed, facing away from the door. the room was dark, save for a single candle burning low on a table. you didn't startle at the intrusion. you didn't even move. you had been expecting him.

"get up," his voice was a low command, rough with exhaustion and anger.

you remained still, your breathing even. "i am comfortable here."

"i did not ask for your comfort. i gave you an order," he said, taking a menacing step into the room. "you will not sleep in here like a scorned servant. you are my wife. you will sleep in my bed."

slowly, you rolled over to face him. your face was illuminated by the flickering candlelight, serene and utterly devoid of the passion he so often provoked in you. "i am obeying your command, husband. you commanded i not go to dorne. you commanded i stay here. i am staying here. is this not what you wanted?"

his jaw tightened. "you know what i meant. do not play these games with me."

"i am not playing a game," you said, your voice quiet but clear. "you made it clear that my will, my desires, my home- they mean nothing. you have decided what is best for me. so i have decided what is best for me tonight. and that is to sleep alone."

the calmness of your response was infuriating he had not expected this quiet, unassailable wall of indifference. it was a rejection far more profound than any shouted insult could ever be.

he crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not bruising. "i will not be made a fool in my own home. you will come with me now."

you allowed him to pull you to a sitting position, your body pliant, but your eyes remained locked on his, filled with a chilling resolve. "drag me if you must, husband," you said softly. "force me back to the bed you wish to share. but know this. you can command my body to be there, but you cannot command my heart to follow."

his grip on your arm loosened. he looked down at you, at the woman he adored, who was now looking at him with the weary resignation of a prisoner.

he stood there, torn between the urge to throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to bed or leave you be.

"it was not my intent to make you angry with me." he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

it was a pathetic attempt at an apology. he wasn't truly sorry about the slight, just sorry that you were upset, and you knew it.

"i am not in the mood for your excuses, aerion," you replied.

the thought of sleeping apart- of a night without your warmth, your scent, your skin pressed against his- was unbearable.

"please," he breathed, reaching out to gently take your hand. he pressed his lips to your knuckles, kissing them with a reverence that made his usual arrogance seem distant.

the targaryen pride that usually demanded submission from others suddenly bent its spine for you. he released your hand and dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor of the chambers, the silence of the castle amplifying the sound.

he reached for the hem of your sleeping gown, his hands shaking slightly as he worked the silk upward, exposing your legs to the golden glow of the firelight. aerion didn't waste a moment, he pressed his lips to the inside of your knee, his mouth hot and eager against your skin.

he worked his way down slowly, kissing his way along your calf, his tongue darting out to trace the path, his breathing growing heavier. he reached your ankle and gently kissed your bare foot.

"lay back, my darling," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing the boyish panic for a more settled, desperate need.

you obeyed, sinking into the softness of the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. "you are not to make love to me tonight," you reminded him, your voice breathless as he settled between your spread thighs.

he froze, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against your inner thigh. the command was a stone wall thrown up in the middle of his desperate supplication. for a moment, the arrogant prince warred with the pleading man. he had come here to conquer this silence, to erase the distance with the one language he knew you both spoke fluently. to be denied it now, when he was on his knees, was a humiliation he hadn't anticipated.

he lifted his head, his eyes locking with yours in the dim light. they were dark with a mixture of frustration and a raw, aching need. "you would punish me so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "you would have me worship you and then be denied?"

"i would have you understand," you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor in your limbs. "you cannot buy my forgiveness with pleasure. you cannot command my affection with your hands or your mouth. you denied me my will. tonight, you will be denied yours."

he stared at you, and you saw the moment he understood. this was not just about sleeping arrangements. this was about power, about respect, about the very foundation of the strange, fierce love you had built. he had tried to wield his authority like a sword, and you had just turned it back on him, showing him its edge.

slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head again.

for a long moment, he remained perfectly still, his forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. then, slowly, as if testing the boundaries of his new submission, he turned his head. his lips, soft and reverent, brushed against your inner thigh, a question asked without words.

when you did not pull away, he grew bolder. his kisses became open-mouthed, his tongue tracing lazy circles against your skin, tasting the salt of you. he was worshiping, just as he had promised, but with a new, desperate humility. his hands, which had been clenched at his sides, came up to rest on your hips, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there, a silent plea for permission.

"let me," he breathed against your skin, his voice thick with a need that went far beyond the physical. "let me show you."

you remained silent, your body still, but you did not stop him. that was all the encouragement he needed. he shifted, settling more comfortably between your thighs, his shoulders pushing them wider. the firelight gilded the white-silver of his hair as he lowered his head, and then his mouth was on you.

there was nothing hesitant about it.

it was a hungry and desperate.

aerion targaryen, the proud prince, was a man starved, and you were his feast. his tongue flattened against your folds, a broad, firm stroke that made your back arch off the bed. a soft gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't contain. he heard it, and a low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

"gods, you taste like honeyed syrup," he slurred, his words muffled against your cunt. he was messy, unrefined, his usual aristocratic grace completely abandoned. he ate you like a man dying of thirst, his tongue delving inside you, fucking you with it before moving up to circle your clit with a devastating precision.

he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked, hard. your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the strands, holding him to you. he took it as encouragement, his enthusiasm redoubling. he alternated between sucking and flicking his tongue rapidly against you, one of his hands moving from your hip to slide two fingers inside you.

"is this for me?" he growled, pumping his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth never ceasing its assault. "this sweet, perfect cunt? all for me, my love?"

you could only whimper in response, your hips rocking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was so expertly giving.

he was a mess, his face slick with your arousal, his chin dripping. he looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust and adoration, and the sight of him- your proud husband on his knees, his face buried in your cunt, worshiping you with his entire being- sent a bolt of pure ecstasy through you.

"that's it, my darling," he coaxed, his voice a husky whisper. "let me taste you. give me your forgiveness, pretty girl."

he curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out, and sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking with a relentless, rhythmic pressure.

“please? please?…” he continued to beg, his voice sounding whinier and whinier. "sleep with me in bed, come back to me..."

the tension that had been coiling in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. you cried out his name, your body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head as you came.

he stayed with you through it all, his tongue lapping gently, his fingers stilling inside you as you shuddered through the aftershocks. when you finally went limp against the sheets, he gently withdrew his fingers and placed one last, lingering kiss on your swollen, sensitive flesh.

he crawled up your body, not to lie beside you, but to hover over you, his arms braced on either side of your head. he didn't try to kiss your lips. instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling slightly. he was still hard, a testament to his own desire, but he made no move to seek his own release.

"i am asking for forgiveness" he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, “i am regretful, my love.” it was different from his earlier attempt. this was not an excuse. it was a true apology of a sort, stripped of all pride, offered in the aftermath of his complete surrender. "not for making you angry. for taking your will."

he lifted his head, his face still glistening with your essence, his dark eyes searching yours. "i will spend the rest of my nights proving my respect to you, if you will let me."

aerion looked at you as though you had hung the stars over king's landing with your own hands and perhaps, in his mind, you had.