sasha

He does not look back at him, but he can see his reflection in the ajar window just ahead of him — soft eyes hardened, round jaw clenched, obedient hands clasped behind his back. Daeron smells of death, too, same as all the rest of them. But beneath the foul odor is the fainter scent of boyhood: of hay and ink and the beeswax he uses to tame his curls each morning.

It’s a strange thing, Ormund realizes, how a boy can withstand an ambush meant to kill him and still smell so much like the child he is underneath it.

“From now on, no man passes these gates without my say-so. No raven lands without me vetting it first,” the man continues with his eyes fixed on the torchlit gardens below, where you and Gwayne had walked arm in arm only hours before — with no idea of what would await you at supper. “No one moves in this castle without my knowing of it.”

Daeron’s dark brows furrow. “You… You mean to say that… That you no longer trust the people in this castle? Not even your own men?”

Ormund turns slowly over his shoulder, pale eyes freezing over in a solemn look. “I trust no one who was not born of my own blood,” he answers, then trails his gaze off towards the hall Gwayne had disappeared down some minutes before. “And even then… sparingly.”

Daeron’s young face screws at the accusation behind his words. It is one thing to hear Ormund speak of strangers with suspicion; Daeron had grown used to the man’s unwavering paranoia. But it’s another entirely to hear him cast such suspicion at his uncle, who had put himself between the household and the imposters without hesitation hardly an hour past.

“But sire,” the boy stammers. “It was Uncle Gwayne who struck the false Arrion down. And the princess who dealt with the second, while you—”

His eyes lift to find Ormund’s chiseled features fixed into a hardened look; a cold stillness that Daeron has learned over the years to fear more than just his shouting. His body remembers the lesson before his mind; he takes an unconscious step back and drops his eyes to the floor again.

“Forgive me, I— I only mean that— That if you cannot trust your own blood, you cannot trust anything,” Daeron stammers. “And Uncle Gwayne, he— He loves her too, sire. Same as you do. Whatever else has come to pass between you, surely that ought to bind you together somehow.” 

Ormund falters slightly at that, unsure of how to respond for a flicker of a moment. But he’s spared from examining any of it further — the boy’s words or his own quiet shame — when the door creaks open across the room.

The Tumbleton maester shuffles in with his head bowed and his chains rattling around his neck. He lifts the hem of his white robe with his weathered hands to avoid what blood still lingers on the stone. “My lord," he greets breathlessly. “I’ve come to report on the lady's condition."

Ormund turns from the window at once, broad shoulders tensing as his racing heart climbs into his throat. “Well?” 

“The wound was shallow, thank the Seven, and the bleeding has stopped. She'll bear a scar, I expect, but nothing more,” the maester accounts, folding his hands into his drooping sleeves. “I’ve given her milk of the poppy for the pain. A generous dose, given the state I found her in."

Ormund exhales slowly through his nose, but the relief does not quite reach his eyes. “Is she awake?" 

“She is, my lord, though I would advise against visitors tonight. She is not herself, and too much excitement so soon could do her more harm than good,” the maester explains in a quavering ramble. Ormund’s blue-eyed stare ices over in an instant, and the old man shrinks slightly beneath the weight of it. “But— b-but a visit from her lord husband would surely do her no great harm, I’d say.”

Daeron nods at once. “I’ll fetch Uncle Gwayne,” he says, before turning on his heel and taking his leave through the adjacent hall.

The older man blinks after the boy with watery eyes. A slow confusion etches deeper in the wrinkles on his face. He had spent many weeks watching you and Ormund together — suppers shared, kisses snuck, hands laid on top of hands — and had mistakenly understood which Hightower had claimed the lady dragon as wife.

“F-Forgive me, my lord,” the maester clears his throat, stammering at his own error. “I had only assumed—”

“An easy enough mistake, to be sure,” Ormund dismisses with a curt nod, walking past the man and towards the door. The ghost of a smile hints at the very corner of his pink mouth as he goes. “One I intend to remedy myself, in time…” 

He does not wait for the maester's protest to catch up to him before he is gone.

He finds your chamber dark when he lets himself inside, lit only by the silver rays of weak moonlight pouring in through the narrow window across the room. The pale light washes over the bed just beside it, made of crumpled linen kicked halfway off the bed. The shadow of you stirs within it when Ormund shuts the door behind him with a gentle click, sounding much louder in the still silence. 

The smell does not reach him until then. The faint scent of copper blood, the sweetness of the poppy, and the herbal bite of whatever poultice the maester packed against your wound. It’s a cloying sort of scent; one that sits thick in the back of his throat. He swallows hard against it, exhales sharply through his nose, and closes the distance between you.

He finds you lying on your stomach, washed and changed at some point by careful hands into a thin ivory nightgown. One arm is folded beneath your head, while your other is splayed on the empty space beside you, as though you’d been reaching for something in your sleep. Some-one, perhaps.

A soft smile flickers at the edge of his mouth at the sight of it, as he lays his calloused palm along the soft warmth of your cheek.

You stir beneath his touch with a sharp inhale through your nose, lashes fluttering against the pull of the milk of the poppy. It takes a long moment for your bleary eyes to open, and longer still to make sense of the man’s shadowed form looming above you.

“Forgive me,” Ormund mutters. “I did not mean to wake you.”

Your brows pinch low in a girlish sort of confusion. “I… I don’t think I was sleeping,” you slur, rubbing slightly too hard at your eyes as they come slowly into focus.

Ormund breathes a fond laugh through his nose in response. “Of course not,” he says. “How do you fare?”

“I… I’m…” You can't seem to make out the words as you blink owlishly up at him, uncertainty swirling in your features and sitting heavy in your glassy eyes. “What are you… Why are you here?” 

A surprised laugh escapes him before he can help it. “Why am I here?” he echoes through his chuckling, smoothing a lock of hair from your temple. “Of course, I’m here— Why wouldn’t I be?”

His response seems to ease something in you as your tense limbs settle back into the pillows again. Ormund smooths the rough pad of his thumb over your cheek, and you lean into his touch like a cat. “Because…” you murmur back. “‘Cause you’re not… supposed to…”

Ormund’s eyes narrow down at you. “Not supposed to what?” he presses with a laugh. “Be here?”

“Love me.” 

The man’s chiseled face screws tight with offense at your words. It takes a long moment for him to make sense of them, as they cut through him like a blade through the chest. “I’m not supposed to love you?” he repeats lowly. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Gwayne…” you answer vaguely. The name alone sets something ablaze behind his ribcage before you’ve even finished the thought, which seems to come and go in your clouded mind. “He said that… that I was a game…” 

“…A what?”

“Something you wanted to win…” you continue, each word arriving slower to you than the one before it. “And that you don’t… don’t love me…” 

A darkness flashes behind Ormund’s eyes at the revelation, gone again before it can truly resurface. Whatever other right Gwayne may have to you as your husband by law, he had no right to say such a thing — not to you, and not after everything Ormund has done for you while his cousin was a hundred leagues away.

He does not tell you this now. He just leans closer instead, until his shadowed face comes further into focus in your blurry vision, and you’re wrapped entirely in the comforting scent of incense that remains on his skin — undeterred by the blood and the medicine and the poultice.

“I have fed you. I have held you. I have killed for you, and would gladly kill again if it meant keeping you from harm,” Ormund tells you in a low, firm voice as the rough pad of his thumb traces slow circles on your warm cheek. “Anyone can call it whatever they may like— but if that is not love, my lady, then some new word will have to be invented for it.” 

Your eyes go glassy and wide underneath him. Whatever doubt Gwayne had planted in you seems to unravel beneath the milk of the poppy, if only for a moment. And when Ormund leans down to kiss you, you accept it without hesitation — a slow slotting of your mouths, a small touch just to feel you, that deepens fast with hunger. 

You make a weak, satisfied sound against his lips and reach towards him with clumsy hands. Your fingers curl weakly in the front of his doublet and hold him there against you with a dwindling strength. 

Ormund knows, somewhere beneath the roaring of his want, that this is the wrong thing — that you are not fully yourself, and that your mind is still clouded thick with milk of the poppy. But still, some starved part of him needs you too badly to stop. Needs to prove the truth of his own words to you by pressing each of them against your mouth. 

You exhale slowly through your nose when the velvety pad of his mint-stained tongue ruts against your own. “Gwayne…” you sigh softly against him, lost somewhere in the fog. 

Ormund goes still for a long moment. 

Your mouths click softly with a wet sound when he pulls back from you, leaving you blinking up at him with drowsy eyes — wounded and utterly unaware of what has just slipped so carelessly from your mouth. Ormund stares down at you with a jaw clenched tight, and a hurt look flashing past his eyes. 

The maester was right, he thinks to himself. She is not herself.

He forces a trembling smile on his mouth and smooths his thumb once more along your cheek before rising to full height. “Sleep now, my lady,” he mutters and bends low at the waist to leave a lingering kiss to your temple instead of your mouth. “You’ll need your rest come morning.”

You mumble something too slurred to understand in response. You want desperately to ask him to kiss you again, to hold you and keep you warm as he always has, but your mind is already sinking into the poppy’s pull — unconscious again before he even reaches the door.

The smile drops from Ormund's face the instant he's back in the torchlit hall, vanishing so swiftly as though it had never been there at all. It’s replaced by something far more brittle as he strides down the lengthy corridor, knights falling into stride on either side of him. 

He passes Gwayne at the turn of the passage, escorted toward your chambers by Daeron. He’s cleaned up since the fight; his auburn hair still drying from a hasty wash, and the grime long washed from his face to reveal a fresh cut stitched above his brow.

Ormund's eyes turn to ice at the sight of him, and Gwayne falters under the weight of it — the unmistakable animosity behind it. But he does not ask why, and he does not turn back. He just watches his cousin's retreating figure vanish around the corner before pressing on toward you.

You're long asleep by the time Gwayne slips inside, easing the door shut behind him with a soft thud. Moonlight spills across the bed in threads of silver, catching in your face and hair and the pale curve of your shoulder where your nightgown has slipped askew. 

The sight of you there — unconscious and wounded somewhere he cannot see beneath the blankets — sends a fresh ache searing through his chest. But a gentler feeling stirs beneath it, even still; a reverent sort of admiration. You look more beautiful in this moment than he thinks he’s ever seen you before, with the fear and the blood of the unforgiving day long washed from your skin; with your features slack and peaceful with sleep and softened by the moon.

His shoes pad softly along the cobbles as he ambles to your bedside. He toes off his boots, unbuttons his coat, and eases himself into the blankets beside you in nothing but a pair of baggy trousers and a loose linen shirt. He reclines against the pillows beside you, mindful of your bandaged back and tense from the closeness between you that feels strange in a way it shouldn’t. 

It has been much too long since he lay beside you like this — longer still since he has loved you properly, without war or grief or guilt packed tightly in between you. For a moment, he almost feels like a stranger in his own body, lying beside an even stranger woman. But he settles anyway, with his arms tucked loosely behind his head, and tries to sleep.

He does not know how long it takes you to stir at the new weight in bed beside you. He only knows that he’s nearly asleep, or perhaps already is, when you begin to wake from your slumber. It takes you a long moment to place where or when you are, but you know Gwayne’s warmth on instinct, and some deep and girlish relief blooms warm through the fog accordingly.

“Gwayne?" you murmur to the darkness, voice thick with sleep.

“Yes?” he answers with his eyes still closed. And when you do not answer him, he peeks one eye open and turns your way. “Yes, darling?” 

You haven’t yet opened your eyes either, nor have you shifted from your curled position at his side — knees drawn to your chest, hands tucked under your chin. It takes you a long moment to find the words to respond at all, as all your thoughts move through the haze of the medicine like syrup. 

“I… I am sorry," you finally manage in a weak voice. 

Something in Gwayne's chest both aches and eases all at once as he sobers from his not-quite slumber. 

“I know…” he affirms through a sigh, and turns his heavy head along the pillow to watch the moonlight soften the edge of your sleeping face. And though he knows well enough now that you are too drunk on milk of the poppy to be questioned, he cannot help himself but to pry. “But you love him anyway… Don’t you?”

“…Who?" you murmur, slack features screwing.

Gwayne huffs a soft laugh through his nose despite himself, equal parts amused and exasperated. “Ormund.”

Your creased brow eases at the name. But still, it takes you a long moment to find the words to respond; and when you do, they escape in slow slurs. “I love that he loves me…” you confess in near-inaudible murmurs. “I don’t think anyone's ever loved me like that before… Enough to— to fight for it…”

Gwayne says nothing at that, though a hurt look etches into the sides of his eyes. “Would you come with me?" he asks instead. “To Oldtown. When all this is over."

You never open your eyes, but your features pinch in a pained look all the same. “What about Ormund?" 

“What about him?" Gwayne snaps, a little harsher than he means to. 

“I… I cannot… leave him," you slur, obviously sleepy but entirely sincere all the same. “How… How’s that fair?”

“Fair?" Gwayne echoes, brow creasing.

“Mm… He's the… the only person… in the— the whole world, I think, who… hasn't abandoned me yet…”

Yet. The word alone cuts him deeper than any of your previous confessions have that night. 

It is not the sentiment that wounds him, really; he has since made his peace with the fact that Ormund has earned some claim on you in his absence that he has not. It is that word — the yet — the idea that you are already bracing yourself to be abandoned again, like you had already made room for Ormund's eventual departure the same way you were forced to make room for Gwayne’s.

The man opens his mouth to press further, but finds your breathing has already slowed beside him. Your features even again as sleep claims you once more, and he watches you a little while longer in the moonlight. The anger he has carried since the garden loosens its grip upon him then, replaced by something far more aching in comparison — the distant understanding of what these long months have done to you, and of what his cousin has become to you in his absence.

Gwayne does not sleep himself for a long while after.

xii. KIN & CAPTIVITY

You sleep for two days beneath the poppy's heavy hand, and wake to a sky faded violet and dark blue and bleeding orange — with no earthly way of knowing whether it is dusk or dawn that paints it so. Your arms feel foreign to you when you finally push yourself upright from the tousled pillows; all heavy and unfamiliar, like you had borrowed someone else's body in your sleep.

A dull ache blooms along your side when you rise from the mattress. The wound beneath its bindings tugs tenderly with every stumbled step as you plant your bare feet on the cold cobbles below. It’s bearable now in a way it had not been before, though. It’s more of a distant, faraway throbbing now rather than a freshly sharpened blade, you find, as your sore legs carry you the short distance towards the entrance, with the frilly hem of your nightgown skimming at your ankles.

The door feels unnaturally heavy in your weak grip as you pull it slowly open. The low creaking sound fills the length of the quiet corridor. You find a guard standing post on the opposite wall — broad-shouldered and only vaguely familiar; one of the hundreds of faces that have blurred together these past months. Though you struggle now to tell whether he's been posted to keep you safe or to keep you contained. Perhaps there’s no longer any difference between the two. It only serves as a harsh reminder of precisely what you remain as here, however soft the bed or gentle the hands that tend you. 

Prisoner, still. 

“Where is—” you try to speak, though the words catch on something thick in your throat before you clear it away. “Where is Ser Gwayne?”

The man says nothing in response. He just turns in place and escorts you down the winding halls of the Tumbleton manse, closer and closer toward the sound of distant voices and the warm glow spilling out from beneath Ormund's solar door.

The room has since been scrubbed clean of the night of the ambush — no trace remains of the blood that had pooled between the cobbles, no lingering stain to mark where you had driven a fruit knife into a strange man's eye. Fresh rushes have been laid and the broken furniture replaced — but you still feel all of it the moment you pass through the threshold. The phantom weight of a blade's edge and a stranger's blood splattering warm across your cheek. 

The room may have forgotten it, but you have not.

Your eyes find Ormund on instinct, seated beside Daeron and an empty chair where Gwayne ought to be. Further past the threshold, your eyes catch a blur of white hair sitting on the opposite end of the round table — silver dreads coiled long down the back that you would recognize anywhere on any man in any hall of Westeros. The figure turns at the sound of the door, and the breath goes out of you a second later. 

“Corlys?” you call on bated breath before you can stop yourself. 

You go dizzy for a moment, as your mind tries to guess why a man as loyal to Rhaenyra as he would sit at Ormund’s table now — another one of his prisoners, dragged here in chains, perhaps; or maybe a negotiator, come under peace-banner to treat for terms on the queen's behalf. Is the war coming to an end? Will he be dead by Ormund’s hand on the morrow? Will any of you live to see it, with Rhaenyra’s army on the march? 

The man’s weathered eyes soften at the sight of you there. He’s on his feet in an instant, chair scraping loudly against the cobbles as he rushes across the room towards you — so suddenly that it startles Ormund's guards into motion. Their gloved hands fly immediately to the hilts at their sides before the high lord lifts a lazy, ringed hand to dismiss them.

“Let him go,” he mutters lowly and brings his chalice to his mouth.

Corlys embraces you in his strong hold. The familiar salt, sweat, and cedar smell of him reminds you so keenly of home after so many months surrounded by strangers — the nostalgia alone finds you more sharply than any blade ever could.

“I— I would’ve dressed more appropriately had I known you were here,” you joke weakly against his shoulder.

“Oh, none of that,” the older man mutters roughly into your hair. “Gods be good— I knew you were here somewhere, but I… I did not see you among the dungeons, and I feared that…”

He does not finish the thought aloud, but you feel the rest of it in his tightening grip upon your shoulders.

“How are my parents?" you ask, chin bobbing against his shoulder.

“They’re well,” Corlys assures you, pulling just far enough away to examine your face. His dark eyes dart swiftly over your features — the color drained from your skin, the mark of sleeplessness sitting in the hollows of your eyes, the heavy weariness of a woman just barely surviving the war — much older than the young girl left behind in the Red Keep. “Rhaenyra is treating them kindly, I promise you that much."

When you go to step back from him, his broad hand falls and brushes your side — directly over the tender wound hidden beneath your nightgown. You flinch at the sting that shoots up and down your spine, and Corlys's face hardens at once with a soldier's instinct.

“What’s happened?" he blurts, brows pinched low in worry before his head whips in Ormund’s direction — a protectiveness he’s had since you were a girl small enough to be lifted onto his shoulders flares behind his eyes. “What have you done to her?" 

“That, my lord, is the mark of Rhaenyra's assassins," Ormund answers with a smile, one that widens at the shocked look that twists the older man’s face. “Sent for the boy and me both… Though it seems your niece by law proved rather more capable with a blade than the— wimpish men who came to slaughter us all… I imagine her parents will think somewhat less kindly of the savage queen, once word of it reaches them, don’t you?”

Corlys's jaw tightens beneath his grey beard, though he says nothing further in response. 

“Come sit,” Ormund says to you, nodding his head towards the chair beside him to beckon you over. “You haven’t eaten properly in days. You’ll start to wither if you’re not careful.”

You walk slowly to the table and clench your teeth hard against the ache in your side when you sink into the cushioned seat. A servant sets your plate — cold chicken and soggy greens gone grey with overcooking. Before you can lift your silverware, Ormund is already reaching over with his own, cutting your food into careful, bite-sized pieces, as if you were a child who could not manage a knife herself.

You feel the heat of embarrassment flaring across your cheeks at the gesture, at how naturally it all comes to him. It draws Corlys's sharp eyes at once — which dart from Ormund's hands to your downcast eyes and back again. Whatever understanding settles in him then, he is not fool enough to speak aloud just yet.

“The maesters tell me that the fat of livestock is beneficial to the bones…” Ormund muses idly, beneath the soft scraping of his knife against your plate. “Though I wonder how something so slippery in substance can truly be benign." 

He laughs softly to himself before he settles back into his chair with a nod of satisfaction in your direction. A servant circles the table a moment later with a decanter in hand, filling each cup as he goes. Corlys lays his palm flat over the mouth of his own before it can be poured.

“Oh, do try the wine, Lord Corlys,” Ormund says, lifting his own cup for a slow sip. “I find it wards off the… fetid air of this place…”

Corlys does not lift his hand until the servant has moved well past him. “What are you about, Hightower?" he wonders lowly, dark eyes narrowing across the table. “Is this some kind of final repast? Pigeon pie before the executioner's block?"

“On the contrary," Ormund says, licking ale from his lips and reaching for his fork again. “We hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company for quite some time… You will be of great assistance to us in our… little endeavor." 

“As what?" the older man presses. “A hostage?"

“Does the savage queen harbor so tender a heart that she would cast away her crown for the sake of her wayward Hand?" Ormund lilts as he cuts into his chicken. “I think not…. The Velaryons, however… With their lord as forfeit, the men of Driftmark will think better of entering King's Landing. And without them, the city will again eat of its own disorder."

A long silence follows, thick as a castle wall. You can hear the low fire crackling in its hearth and the distant clinking of a guard's armor beyond the door. Daeron shifts in his seat, small hands fidgeting around his cutlery as he summons the courage to speak.

“H-How will that help?” he wonders timidly. “When the Winter Wolves are clawing at our gates?"

Your stomach drops with a sick feeling at the innocent question, further when you feel Ormund tensing at your side. You’ve learned his temper well enough these past months to know when his composure’s bound to crack. But the man says nothing now in response, not with Corlys in the room. He just turns his head and flashes the boy a cold look that needs no words to voice its weight.

Daeron freezes at once beneath it. The color drains swiftly from his freckled cheeks, and his eyes drop back to his plate without another word from him.

The silence sits heavy over the table, broken only by the soft scraping of cutlery against porcelain. You find yourself scanning the shadowed edges of the hall around you without quite realizing it as you chew idly at a mint sprig — past the hearth and the servants pressed silent along the walls — searching for some sign of Gwayne. But he is not here; and you are not certain now whether it’s a mercy or not.

“Do you know…” Ormund says at last, reaching for a pear from the bowl at the center of the table. “More and more, I am inclined to limit my diet to the vegetable kingdom. Just as the people of Naathi do." 

Corlys sighs hard through his nose at the feeble attempt at small talk. “If you have finished with your instruction—"

“What do you see in them, anyway?" Ormund interjects, features screwed in confusion. “The… Targaryen element, I mean. You’re a traveled man. You’ve seen the world’s wonders. Why limit yourself in a… tedious alliance to the brutish and the incurious?" 

Your chest wrenches at his words — the way he speaks so cruelly of your family, your blood, as though you were some lesser creature to him. You do not speak the hurt aloud now, though; you just stare down at the plate he’d made for you, with your appetite gone suddenly thin. 

“What do you see in them, my lord, if you don’t mind my asking?” Corlys retorts evenly, holding Ormund's gaze across the table. 

His dark eyes flit to yours on instinct — to your bowed head, to your untouched plate — before returning to Ormund's face, where a faint pink color has begun to speckle across his pale cheeks. It’s not quite embarrassment, but something close to it; a small crack of exposure at being caught soft somewhere he has built his whole reputation on being anything but. 

“Well…” Ormund hums, recovering easily as he glances toward you with a fondness he couldn’t disguise if he wanted to. “It’s not quite the same, though, is it? She is a Hightower now. She will carry Hightower children, who will carry the Hightower name… And when this war is won, and the bitch queen is defeated at long last, I daresay she will find little enough reason to turn back toward her Targaryen ancestry at all…” 

He slices a sliver of fruit with his long blade and lets his pale eyes settle on you in an expectant look. 

“Wouldn’t you say so, my lady?”

Your eyes lift slowly to meet his. “Where is Gwayne?” is all you ask of him.

Ormund’s gaze freezes briefly over at the deflection. “Somewhere sulking, I’d imagine,” he answers casually, turning away as he slides a sliver of pear into his mouth. “Ser Criston is dead, turns out, and they were… quite close, as I’m sure you well know.”

Daeron winces faintly at his uncle's cruelty, but rises at once when Ormund tips his head toward the door. “Show her," the man commands of him, and lets the young boy lead you down the torchlit hall with a kind hand laid carefully beneath your elbow. 

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Daeron murmurs to you when Ormund is out of earshot. “Please forgive my uncle—” 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you tell him, as stern as you can muster in your state. “I know what he can be, Daeron… And it is not your burden to carry.”

He flushes faintly at that, freckled cheeks burning a soft pink color as something short of relief settles his tense shoulders. He says nothing more as he opens the door to a smaller, quieter chamber at the end of the winding hall.

You find Gwayne there, sat alone at a modest table with a modest plate before him, picking lazily at his solitary supper. He sits slouched at the edge of a small couch with his head bowed and his elbows rested on his knees. His auburn hair, usually swept back, now hangs loose and unkempt around his face. He glances up at the sound of the door, and his tired features soften with surprise as he rises to meet you halfway. 

“Sit, sit— Surely, you mustn’t be on your feet so soon,” he blurts, rough hands curling gently around your elbows to guide you to the empty spot on the chaise. And though you do not entirely need the help, you take it gladly, and wince only slightly when you settle in beside him. “Ormund didn't give you a hard time, did he?" 

“He was in uncommon good spirits, actually," Daeron answers for you as he shuts the door behind him, scoffing with a boyish look of anger twisting his features. “He has been since Lord Corlys arrived— as though he were on the eve of some great victory. He seems to believe that with Lord Corlys as hostage—"

A sudden commotion sounds down the corridor. A muddle of raised voices, the scrape and clatter of a falling chair, and something that sounds a little like a muffled cry of anguish — though none of you know yet that it is only Ormund, calmly slicing a finger from Corlys's hand with the same knife he'd used on his pear. The man’s melodic voice carries faintly down the hall a moment later, calling for the boy by name. 

Daeron startles at the sound of it. He tenses on instinct and offers you both a quick, apologetic look before shuffling out of the room and further towards the chaos — leaving you and Gwayne alone in the sudden quiet that follows. The silence feels suffocating, heavy with the confession you’d made the night before that you have no awareness of now.

Gwayne is the first to break it, tearing a piece from his bread loaf and extending it towards you without a word.

“I’m not hungry," you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I think it’s the medicine. It’s making me nauseous—”

“Try…” he presses with a soft smile and pleading eyes. “For me."

You exhale hard through your nose and take the small bite from his hand, pinching it into your mouth if only to make the tension in his gaze ease a little. It is the least you can do for him now, really. 

“Are you well?" he wonders aloud.

You sigh hard through your nose and swallow down the bite; the question feels rather laden these days. “I’m well… Even though I’m sure I look like death…” Your weak smile widens into a realer one when Gwayne nudges your knee with his, flashing you a scolding look at your self-deprecation. “What of you? Ormund told me about Ser Criston… I know the two of you were quite— close."

Gwayne scoffs an emotionless laugh and bows his head to the floor again. “He gave himself the dust…” he mutters roughly. “I imagine we all will, before this war is through."

He’s grown so used to his own pessimism that he doesn’t fully register how cynical the words are until his eyes lift to meet yours again, wide and glittering with a silent worry as they flit between both of his. His chest deflates with a sigh beneath his quilted doublet a moment later.

“I fear you should not be here when the battle arrives.”

“I won’t be,” you assure him. “Ormund said the armory is the safest—”

“At all,” Gwayne corrects with a stern look, peering at you from behind the auburn tendrils hanging over his forehead. “You or Daeron. We do not have the numbers, and Ormund is far too proud to see it that way… The two of you could flee on Tessarion. You could be leagues away from this place before any army arrived. Far enough from whatever death rides for us here—” 

“And you?” you press. 

Gwayne meets your concerned gaze with a crooked smile. “Well, someone must stay and keep my cousin from putting the realm to the torch when he realizes you’ve gone, mustn’t they?”

He reaches for the goblet of ale on the table and raises it in one swift motion. He pauses with the rim of it just shy of his mouth when he catches the sad look pooling heavy behind your eyes — a quiet sort of grief that only deepens the longer you’re forced to watch the stark realization wash over him. 

Gwayne lowers the cup to his thigh while his mouth runs dry, and tries to find the words to speak again.

“...You don’t want to leave him, do you?” he whispers on bated breath, blue eyes turning slowly to glass as they flit back and forth between your wet ones. “You’d sooner face a certain death than leave Ormund behind—”

 “You left me behind to face a death you thought was all but certain, too, once,” you remind him with a soft smile that wavers behind the burning tears you fight hard to blink away. “So it seems we’re cut from the same cruelty, you and I…”

Gwayne says nothing for a long moment, as your words settle over him like a slow blade cut from stomach to sternum. He told himself when he married you that it was his duty; and he told himself the same thing when he rode blindly behind Criston into war. It was always duty, and it was always worn over him like a mask that didn’t fit — but he thought of it as righteous all the same. He doesn’t fully understand until now, sitting before you with your tears turning amber in the candlelight, that it never once felt like righteousness from where you stood.

“I never should have gone…” he sighs hoarsely and turns away again, shaking his head at himself. “Whatever cause I told myself I was serving… It wasn’t worth… all this.” 

“If I had it my way, I would go back to a time before I met him,” you say in a whisper, as if the weight of the truth of it were much too strong to speak any louder. Gwayne’s eyes lift to yours and soften with a strange sort of relief, only to find your gaze gone distant at the window over his shoulder. “I would’ve fought harder to keep you here. I think I could’ve, if I tried hard enough—”

“You couldn’t have,” Gwayne insists with a sad smile spreading slowly across his mouth. “I was much too stubborn for any of that— too certain I was riding off to do some good in the world. But I suppose that was before I learned that the world only got worse the longer I was away from you…”

“I suppose that’s true,” you say with a wet laugh that catches briefly in your throat. You turn away to swipe your wrist across your cheek, dabbing discreetly at the warm tear that had fallen from your lashes. “If our last night together wasn’t enough to keep you in that bed, I don’t know what could have…”

“Well… It took a world of strength on my part, I’ll have you know,” he lilts with a tight-lipped smile, lifting his hand to brush another tear from your cheek. The pad of his finger is rough against the soft, burning skin there. And he lets his touch linger there against your jaw a little longer. “Far more than it’s ever taken me to fight in any battle, to be sure…” 

Your breath catches when his thumb traces the same tender path Ormund had not long ago. “Careful, Ser Gwayne…” you whisper, smiling softly to yourself when you catch the man’s gaze flitting down towards your mouth. “You’re meant to be in mourning.”

“I am,” he nods, heavy eyes darting between both of yours. “For a… great many things…”

Gwayne leans in to kiss you then, a brief brushing of your mouths to test the waters. Your lips lock together — once, twice, and then a third time. It grows more languid on the fourth, when they slot together and linger there. His tongue darts softly into your mouth, allowing you to taste the bread and wine and achingly familiar tang of him. You sigh hard through your nose and melt into the man without trying, curling your hands into the front of his coat to keep him pressed there against you.

Gwayne’s hands are much more hesitant when they splay along your arms, too scared of hurting you to caress your waist like he truly wants. But you aren’t quite full of the same worry, it would seem, as you climb over his lap in one swift motion when the initial angle proves too awkward to bear. You only vaguely register the taut pull in your side when you swing your thigh to straddle him, though the feeling of him against you is much louder in comparison — so much so that a whimper sounds in your throat when he pulls so suddenly away from you, mouths parting with a wet smack.

“We cannot…” he says, shaking his auburn head through a set of ragged pants. “You’re hurt. You’ve only just woken—”

“Please…” you whisper, breath fanning warm across his chin as you press your forehead to his. Your fingers tremble where they rest along the sharp edges of his jaw, shaking with the need to prove yourself after the wound you’ve dealt him, and perhaps the longing to feel wanted by someone in the midst of this war-torn realm. “I need something, Gwayne… I need you—”

Your hips roll over his lap in a slow, assessing grind. A groan sounds low in his throat at the feeling of you, and whatever restraint he had left in him gives out entirely. 

He keeps his head tipped back, and his mouth parted obediently for yours while pale hands settle over your spread thighs, fingers balling into the soft cotton of your gown as you continue the same slow rocking of your hips. He can feel the warmth of your cunt as it presses hard to the crotch of his trousers, leaving a wet mark on the fabric the more you move on top of him.

You sigh hard against his mouth when your clit nudges his slowly stiffening cock. His hips buck hard against yours at the sensation, hissing sharply through his nose. A moan spills from your mouth before you can help it. 

“Oh—”

Gwayne’s palm flies to your mouth before the pretty sound can pierce the quiet. Your eyes widen, while his glassy ones harden in a playful glare. “Best be quiet, dear wife…” he pants in a low, amused sort of lilt. “Unless you’d like my throat to catch the end of Ormund’s sword.”

He feels your smile curl slowly behind his palm, right before your hand lifts to wrap around his wrist. You slowly drag his fingers away, just enough for the pads of them to rest along the plush of your bottom lip.

“Perhaps he likes to stand watch…” you quip.

Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but the words die somewhere on his tongue when you take his fingers into your warm, wet mouth. Your tongue lolls over his pale skin — tasting of soap and sweat and the bread he’d been picking at before — and your eyes flutter softly shut, as though you were taking some sort of comfort in the action.

“Well…” the man huffs when he finally finds the breath for it. “I do not wish to find out now…”

You smile softly around his fingers and move your hips over his once more. Gwayne’s chest deflates with a slow breath at the warm, unwavering pressure upon the most sensitive part of him. The feeling of his fingers in your mouth and the velvety folds of your cunt spreading around him threatens to undo him completely — you’re on him and all over him, in a way you haven’t been in some time but a way that he has dreamt about vividly and more often than he’d care to admit.

Gwayne watches with his head lolled back and his eyes heavy-lidded as you continue to bring him a slow pleasure with your hips, with your drooling cunt kissing him through the merciless layers between you. His fingers never once stray from your mouth — you suck on them as if they were his cock, which only seems to make the budding sensitivity building in his trousers more unbearable.

And your glassy eyes never stray from his, either, as a strange sort of pride begins to blossom in your chest. You watch the way the pleasure you bring him swallows him whole — the way you can tell that he knows this is wrong, and how that wrongness only makes it feel all the more right.

You forget about your own pleasure in the watching. You forget about the stinging wound in your side, the distant chaos down the hall, and the war inching closer and closer with each passing moment between you.

In this moment, now, there is only Gwayne. And his pleasure. And his touch. And his love for you, which you plan on seeing evidence of stained upon him one way or another. Whether that be in your cunt or in your mouth or in his pants like a teenage boy.

You tell him as much, as your lips smear wet along his pulse. “Do you want to cum inside me?” you mutter, half-muffled against him. “Or in my mouth—”

“Inside you,” Gwayne pants through ragged breaths, feeling his sensitivity soar at the thought alone. “Inside you, please…” 

He watches from down the bridge of his nose as you work at the tie of his trousers. His hands ball harder into your nightgown when you tuck the hem under his balls with one hand and spit into the palm of the other to coat him with your saliva, fingers drifting the soft pink tip down to the base made of meandering blue veins. 

Gwayne groans low in his throat at the feeling of your fist wrapped around him, and just barely manages to peek his heavy eyes open again when he feels you shift atop his thighs. 

You pierce yourself over the head of his cock with a little more ease than you did the first time, though he tries not to think about that now, as your weeping cunt suckles all the rest of him in. He forgets to breathe until you’ve settled flush over him again, exhaling all your pretty sighs into his neck. 

Gwayne noses into your hair and presses you closer with two wide hands splayed along your shoulder blades. He inhales the scent of you — of sweat and something distinctly sweet — and revels in the warmth of you against his chest. It had been too long since he’d had any sort of tenderness like this, since he’d had you like this. And the thought that any part of him could have ever left any part of you makes him feel like crying.

“Forgive me…” he pleads in a sigh that fans warm along your temple. “I should not have left you. I should not have left at all. It was not fair to you.” 

You tense in his hold, feeling hardly deserving of any apology, or the way you find him looking up at you when you part from his neck — with his ocean eyes heavy and glittering beneath his adoration for you. But you try to pretend that you are — deserving of his love, of him — and let his warm seed filling your cunt to the brim mere minutes later be affirmation of it enough.

xiii. TWILIGHT & TIDINGS

Dusk settles thick over the wilting roses and hanging wisteria of the gardens below. The sky darkens to a milky violet hue, the same color as the wine filling the cup Gwayne holds loosely in one hand, forearms braced against the cool stone balustrade as he watches the sun set slowly over Tumbleton — perhaps the last one he’ll ever get to see. The thought should probably scare him more than it does, but the wine and the dread have numbed his senses too much for any of that now.

The door behind him, further in the bedchamber, creaks open and shut again. Gwayne does not turn at the sound. He’s learned the slow, assured cadence of his cousin’s footsteps long ago and exhales hard through his nose in irritation accordingly.

“Must you insist on haunting every quiet moment I manage to find in this wretched place?” the auburn-haired man mutters to himself, half-echoed into the goblet he brings to his mouth. 

“The riders have sent word,” Ormund says, ignoring the jab entirely as he stands beside him at the rail without invitation. He leans his elbows upon the ragged stone and stares off at the dwindling sunset ahead. “Rhaenyra’s host will likely make Tumbleton by break of day. The afternoon perhaps, if her outriders continue to prove as sluggish as they have thus far...” 

“How reassuring…” Gwayne deadpans. “I do love knowing precisely how many hours remain before I might die."

“Better to know than not, I’d say…” Ormund hums. “A man who does not know when his death is coming is bound to waste his final hours poorly, don’t you think?” 

Gwayne turns slowly to squint at the man beside him. “And how do you intend to spend yours, cousin? Surely not bothering me, I hope.”

“That, amongst other things…” A faint, humorless smile twitches the corner of Ormund's mouth and fades again when he turns over his shoulder to scan the empty chamber behind them. “Where is she, anyway? Your lady wife— I did not see her at supper."

“The maester’s quarters,” Gwayne answers with his eyes fixed on the darkening treeline beyond the walls. “She’s been ill these past few mornings. Sick to her stomach. She insisted it was nothing worth troubling over, but I couldn’t let it fester unattended… Who knows what tomorrow may bring…”

Concern flickers behind Ormund’s pale gaze. “Is she… Is she well?” he wonders aloud, and tries hard not to seem as vulnerable as he feels when the question spills from his lips.

Gwayne’s brows pinch in a fleeting look of confusion. Because he has known his cousin the whole of his life and had never once, in all those years, seen him trouble over anyone other than himself. Gwayne cannot tell whether or not that makes the whole of this better or worse, but he answers him honestly anyway. 

“She’s fine,” he nods. “Or, at least, she will be…”

“Good…” Ormund nods with a hard exhale through his nose that sounds almost like a breath of relief. His gaze returns to the darkening gardens below, and his hubris returns to him just as quickly. “Perhaps she’ll be fit enough to share my bed tonight, then. Before whatever comes for us tomorrow. It’s only right, I should think, all things considered."

Ormund flashes him a smug smile, and Gwayne’s warmth turns ice cold in an instant. “Well, perhaps she’d like to decide for herself— All things considered.”

Ormund huffs an emotionless laugh. “I think we both know well enough what choice she'd make, cousin," he says, almost sympathetically so. “It’s been… what? Nearly a year now, since you last took her to bed at the Red Keep?”

Gwayne does not ask him how he knows that. He just narrows his glacial stare into thin slits and corrects him in a flat voice. “It’s been a week, cousin. And a fortnight before that.” 

Ormund’s proud expression falters slightly; a wounded crack in the armor of him before he can smooth it away again. Because he knew well enough that you cared for his cousin — he’d heard you confess as much when your mind was half-gone on milk of the poppy — but he had mistakenly assumed that all your remaining tenderness was reserved only for him. That Gwayne had all the perfunctory titles before gods and men and Ormund had everything else. The insinuation of otherwise finds him like a blow to the stomach. 

“Well, how touching…” Ormund says in a voice gone cold, all pretense of idle conversation long abandoned now. “Though I do hope you enjoyed reclaiming what you so… carelessly abandoned in King’s Landing. Your wife is very generous for forgiving you so.”

“Yes, my wife has proven profoundly generous, considering how swiftly she forgave you for burning my letters so she’d believe I was long dead,” Gwayne retorts without missing a beat. “That was the whole of your plan, was it not? To starve her of everything but your own kindness, until she thought you were the only comfort she had left in the world?”

“I was the only comfort she had left in the world,” Ormund reminds him. “And I never forced anything from her that she did not give freely—”

“Of course not,” Gwayne shakes his head. “You only made certain she had nowhere else to turn, and then had the gall to call it protection." 

Ormund’s pink mouth thins into a bitter grin. “Call it whatever you like, cousin. She still came,” he lilts as his pale eyes narrow in amusement. “And came… And came… And came—”

Gwayne’s mouth parts to argue as anger sears its way through his chest; a fire extinguished by the sudden creaking and slamming of the door behind them. 

He turns over his shoulder and finds you rushing through it, eyes rimmed red and glassy in the flickering candlelight. You falter in place when your eyes find Ormund standing in Gwayne’s chambers. A fresh wave of emotion twists at your features before you can help it. Both men fall silent at the sight of it — whatever argument had been building between them dies in an instant, replaced now by a shared alarm.

Ormund is the first to step back into the warm room, and the first to find his voice. “What’s wrong?” he asks, so tender that you could cry all over again. “What’s happened?” 

You cannot seem to make your mouth move properly around the words you need to confess. Your throat only tightens further, as new tears spill hot down your cheeks. You simply shake your head in response as your feet carry you past Ormund entirely, and straight into Gwayne when the man passes through the balcony threshold. He leaves his goblet on the small table there and accepts you in his arms when some guilty instinct pulls you toward him rather than away.

You bury your face in his neck and shudder with a choked-back sob, fingers twisting hard in the fabric of his doublet. Gwayne goes rigid for a fleeting moment, shocked by the suddenness of your affection and by the cries that follow it. But his strong arms come up around you all the same, with one kind hand smoothing slowly down your back. 

“What is it?" he murmurs into your hair. “What's happened? Tell me." 

You shake your head against him, like some unconscious part of you doesn’t want to say the words aloud — like not speaking them at all will refute the truth of them somehow. You wrap your arms tighter around his shoulders as your warm tears wet the fabric of his coat. 

“The maester,” you sniffle. “He thinks I’m with child.” 

The silence that follows is deafening.

Gwayne freezes against you before he can help it. His eyes lift instinctively over your trembling shoulder, to where Ormund stands frozen across the room. The expression he finds written across the older man’s face is answer enough without Gwayne having to ask the question aloud — an unmistakable mixture of hope and dread and relief and possession, all glittering in Ormund’s pale blue eyes. 

Gwayne cannot say, in this moment, whose child it truly must be. But he understands from the look on his cousin’s face that it does not matter. There is no answer that will ever convince Ormund the child is not his own; no truth that will ever unseat what he has already decided to believe, what he has already decided belongs to him. But Gwayne keeps the argument to himself, for now at the very least. Because there is no room left for it tonight — not on the eve of this battle. 

Whatever reckoning is coming will simply have to wait a little longer still.

xiv. DEATH & DRAGONFIRE

Ormund crosses through the crowded foyer of the Tumbleton manse — flooded with commanders shouting orders, knights readying their weapons, and squires darting low between them with bundles of arrows and spare tack. Ormund’s eyes scan over the chaos from where he stands still within it, assessing each man as he walks by, until his gaze settles inevitably on you.

Across the hall, shrouded behind flitting bodies of departing soldiers, Gwayne stands before you with his head bowed in a solemn sort of look. He smiles softly and ducks down to catch your teary gaze, pretending not to be as scared as he truly feels, if only for the moment — if only for you.

He says something to you that Ormund can’t quite make out from here, and only vaguely sees you mouthing “come back” to him in response, before your chin lifts to accept the man’s kiss.

Ormund’s jaw flexes as he swallows through the hurt soaring up into his throat, and watches Gwayne disappear into the flock of knights and bannermen streaming out through the open gates with Daeron close behind. He watches you linger in place for a few moments longer with your heart lodged high and thrumming in your throat — not unlike it had been the morning you found out your husband had left you for battle the first time, though this new grief has since been made jagged by everything that has happened between you since. Made heavier, perhaps, by the small, small weight growing slowly in your stomach that neither of you has fully reckoned with yet.

The two knights charged with your safekeeping guide you inward then, deeper into the bones of the castle and away from the yard's noise. You pass directly before Ormund on your way, waiting there at the head of his own column near the doors. His pale eyes find yours across the crowded space between you, and you stop short despite yourself. 

The brief distance between you is made cavernous by the knowledge that you are still his prisoner, at least in the eyes of all the men watching, and that whatever tenderness has grown between you these past months cannot be shown so easily moments before the Hightower host rides out to meet an army carrying your own blood in its banners.

So you simply raise your chin and offer him the words any dutiful lady might offer any departing member of her household. “May the Seven guide you, good knight," you say, voice clear despite the soft tremor beneath it. “And lead you not into shadow and death.”

“I thank the lady for her prayers…” Ormund answers formally, inclining his head with a polite nod. He inhales a sharp breath through his broad nose and presses more quietly then, “…And request, perhaps, that she grant her favor… so that the lord commander might go into battle with her blessing carried in his heart.”

A long beat passes between you, a silence that needs no words to fill it. A look of understanding floods Ormund’s pale eyes a moment later, at the wordless affirmation that you had already pressed your handkerchief into Gwayne’s hands and left Ormund asking only for the scraps of you.

But then you step in closer, near enough that only he might hear the words that follow, and press your palm gently to his armored shoulder in a gesture that would read as courteous to anyone glancing past, but means the world entire to him.

“You do not need it, my lord,” you murmur. “Let your babe in my belly be favor enough. Carry that into battle instead—”

And come back to me, too, you do not say aloud, before turning to follow the knights waiting for you at the threshold.

Those are the final words Ormund hears from you before the entire world falls apart.

The battle that follows thereafter is only a slaughter masked as a fair fight. Rhaenyra’s host arrives in an overwhelming tide of black and crimson; in numbers enough to swallow Ormund’s forces whole three times over. Whatever carefully laid plans he’d spent the past moons constructing begin to unravel at his feet before the first war horn had even sounded — the bastard dragonrider he’d recruited out from under Rhaenyra's own banners arrives drunk on stolen wine, and then drunker on his own self-importance. 

Ulf the White rises from the mud Ormund had beaten him into and mounts the great beast called Silverwing. Neither the blacks nor the greens could possibly win what follows.

Dragonfire proves indifferent to the color of the cloak it finds as all of Tumbleton begins to burn. Ulf drives the beast low and screeching over the rooftops, painting the sky with flaming mixtures of hot orange and ash grey. And when the first roar of flame shakes the thick castle walls, the two knights tasked with your safekeeping abandon their posts outside your door — their own primal instinct for survival surpasses whatever oath had bound them to guard you, a Targaryen prisoner, of all people. 

You hear their booming footsteps vanish up the stairs from where you’re locked shut on the other side of it, with only an ancient plank of wood to guard you from a certain death. You have no idea whether Tumbleton still stands above you at all, or whether you’re only sat here waiting for the ceiling to come down on and bury you where you stand, along with the fragile thing blooming in your belly.

Your hands shake around the small blade you were left with, still slightly too heavy in your grip and dull with disuse, when another pair of footsteps rush down the stony steps outside — five minutes or five hours later. And even though you are certain in that moment that you are going to die in this place, you mean to make whoever comes through that door work for every inch of it.

“Stand back, my lady—!” A familiar voice calls out from the other side, muffled by the distance and the sounds of war raging on up above. It takes you a long while in your panic to realize to whom the voice belongs, and the blade falls loose from your grip.

“Daeron?!” 

He answers you with the harsh scrape and grind of steel as he pounds his sword into the rusted lock outside. He huffs heavy breaths with each blow, muttering small curses beneath the force of his boyish strength. The door pounds hard against the threshold beneath his blade and knocks dust from the frame, until the corroded mechanism finally gives way with one sharp click. The heavy oak swings open a second later, and you find the small boy standing there, with his blue eyes wild and his round cheeks caked with soot.

“We have to go,” he pants, already reaching for you with the hand not gripping his sword. He curls his pale fingers around your arm with more strength than you thought him capable of — with more strength than he probably realizes, in his haste — and hauls you out of the armory before you can find your footing properly beneath you. “Dragonfire’s taken the city. Tumbleton is lost. We have to go.”

“Where is Ormund?” you call to him through panted breaths, holding your skirts in a fierce grip to keep from tripping over them. “Where is Gwayne?!” 

Your questions get lost beneath the deafening sounds of war, shrouded beneath clouds of thick black smoke. Daeron’s hand stays locked tight around your wrist as the two of you race up through the castle's ruined bones and out into the courtyard, utterly unrecognizable now — with stone crumbled down to rubble, with banners burned to scraps, with bodies of burnt and bloodied men sprawled in tangled piles of death. 

You stumble over a young soldier with his lower half cut down the middle, and nearly lose your footing entirely when your slipper lodges into armor half melted from flame. Daeron hauls you up with a knight’s strength and carries you onward.

The air is thick and scorching in your lungs, smelling of smoke and ash and the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh. Every breath is dragged through a stinging throat while dragons cloud you in their dark, sweeping shadows overhead. Another rush of orange flame rolls between the alley — far enough away not to scald you, but close enough for the blistering heat to steal your breath. Daeron pulls you onto the nearest parapet, where you weave between fallen knights and burning timber.

It is there you find Ormund, in the heat of battle with a Winter Wolf. His ornate armor is dented and coated with ash and sticky with dark crimson blood — some of it his, most of it not.

For one hitched breath, you’re surprised by the state of him; unaware that a man like him could even bleed. On the very next breath, your chest swells with a stinging worry when his strong jaw catches the man’s wooden shield and sends him staggering to the jagged stone railing beside him. Ormund struggles to catch his footing as his head swims from the mighty blow, and the white-haired man looms over him with an axe raised at the ready.

You are not quite smart enough to think through your actions like a proper strategist, but you are close enough, at the very least, to act. You rush toward him, shoving him hard out of the blade’s path with more strength than you realize — more strength than necessary perhaps — and fall with him onto the unforgiving ground below. 

Daeron surges past you both with a boyish cry tearing through his throat and drives his sword up through the man’s bearded chin. The Winter Wolf’s eyes dim and then bloom with tears of crimson that soon pour from his mouth and nose alike. It takes more force than Daeron thought it would to remove the blade from his skull then. He pulls it out with another strangled cry, and flinches back when the man crumples to his feet without a sound. The boy stands over him for a moment, chest heaving as his sword drips sticky red — the first man he would ever kill, and likely not the last.

Ormund blinks up at you from the ground as you scramble to your feet beside him, still dazed from the blow to his skull and the smoke clouding his vision. The world around him swims through the ringing in his skull and the acrid reek of blood and death and cooked rot. Disbelief floods his strong features at the sight of you there at all, kneeling over him in the middle of a battlefield with your skirts ruined and your hair mucked with ash. 

The worry that finds him then is far sharper than any blow to his skull could be. You should not be here, his dizzy mind races. You should not have been running through the burning streets at all, not like this — not with his baby in your belly. His bleary blue eyes flit between your face and your middle as a boyish look of terror twists across his ash-stained face at the thought of what a single misstep, what a single falling stone could cost the two of you.

“Are—” he attempts to choke out, but his voice comes out hoarse and strangles him. “Are you—?”

“Where is Gwayne?” you ask, heaving through the smoke in your lungs.

Ormund shakes his head between your hands when you reach for his dirtied cheeks, blazing hot beneath your palms. “I... I don’t know…” he pants, grimacing when his skull begins to pound again. “I’ve not seen him since the lines broke—"

You are already moving before the sentence has properly left him. You rise from his side and press further into the cloud of smoke and ruin, heedless of the danger still soaring overhead — or careless of it, otherwise. Ormund scrambles to his feet on unsteady limbs. “Where are you going?!” he calls after you, then coughs loud when the words burn in his throat.

“I cannot leave without him!” you shout back and press on regardless of whatever certain death surely awaits you ahead, lifting your hand to your eyes in a feeble attempt to shield your watery vision from the stinging smoke.

Ormund has no choice but to follow you, in the end — not with you rushing through a burning city on your own, with nothing to shield you or the child he’s put inside you. He trails much more slowly behind, using Daeron as his crutch to do so. 

The smoldering remnants of Tumbleton steal the breath from your lungs the further you trek through it, stumbling over dying men and shoving past broad-shouldered knights running the opposite way. You squint through the smoke and the shadows of flying dragons for any sign of auburn hair among the fallen.

Then the wind shifts and the smoke thins for a brief moment, long enough for you to catch the scrap of blackened linen skittering across the blackened ground at your feet, along with a million flecks of ash. It’s the handkerchief, you realize, the one you had pressed into Gwayne’s breastplate the morning before he left, now filthy and lost in the ruin.

Your heart stutters in your chest as your eyes trace the path where the cloth had blown in. Further down the burning street, half-buried beneath a collapsed section of wood and a pile of dead and dying men, you catch the unmistakable flash of auburn hair matted dark with blood and ash.

“Gwayne!” 

His name stings in your burning throat when you rush towards him, nearly tripping over your dirtied skirts as you go. You’re on your knees beside him before you’ve even processed the motion, clawing away the heavy rubble from his still form with bare hands — the jagged stones scraping your palms, the broken wood splintering in your skin, the hot ashes burning your fingertips. Your hands are bleeding by the time you free him, but even then he does not stir. 

His eyes remain closed, lashes long against the apples of his soot-stained cheeks. It’s harder to tell if his chest is moving from beneath his heavy armor and the grey smoke stinging your eyes.

“Gwayne…” you huff through panted breaths, taking his blackened cheeks in your hands. “Gwayne. Wake up. We have to go—”

Ormund reaches you a moment later, breathing hard as he props himself up against Daeron’s shoulder — both of them stricken pale, covered in smoke, and splattered with the vivid blood drying tacky on their skin. Ormund feels the boy’s shoulders tense beneath him, and it takes the older man a moment longer to understand why; not until Gwayne’s limp form comes into view beneath you. 

He had thought, once, that he might be happier if his cousin were dead — prayed for it, even, the further he fell for you. But the sight of him now, dead or near to it, makes his chest swell with a white-hot grief he hadn’t thought himself capable of until now. And the sound of your choked-back sobs when the man refuses to wake only makes the feeling rage all the more.

“We have to,” Ormund calls to you, voice hoarse through the smoke. He flinches alongside Daeron when another shadow sweeps low overhead; another deafening screech followed by another inhuman torch of great orange fire. Ormund’s wide eyes flit back to you when the dragon passes again, only to find that you hadn’t noticed anything at all.

“Now!” the man shouts gruffly. “Before the beast circles back!”

Your head turns slowly to face him, peering up at the two of them with wide, teary eyes. “He’s not waking up…” you whimper as heavy tears meander in slow tracks down the soot on your cheeks. “Why is he not waking up?”

“I do not know, and we cannot linger here to find out why,” Ormund spits, a little more merciless than he means to. Something in him splinters at the sight of you turning back to Gwayne again, just as he has seen you do a hundred times over. It makes him stagger out of Daeron’s hold and stumble closer to you, taking your shoulders in his rough hands in an attempt to pull you off of the man. 

“Get up!” he shouts roughly. “We stay here, we die with him—”

“I’d rather!” you scream back with a fury he has not seen from you before, not since you’d slaughtered that man with nothing but a fruit knife. The rage in your words burns hotter than the dragonfire crackling all around you, though your teary eyes still soften under the weight of your girlish grief — enough for Ormund to loosen his hold upon you. 

“So either help me carry him,” you choke out through sputtering breaths. “Or leave me here.” 

Ormund stares at you for a long, furious moment — jaw clenched tight, chest heaving beneath his bloodied armor. The last of his argument dies behind his gritted teeth at your words, and at his unwillingness to call your bluff. He growls a frustrated breath in the back of his throat and drops to Gwayne’s other side. “Help me with him!” he snaps at Daeron while another dragon flies low through the valley of ruins surrounding you.

xv. HEARTH & HOMECOMING

Gwayne wakes to wind. The harsh kind. The kind that tears at him from every direction and rushes past his ears like it means to deafen him entirely. For a long moment, none of it quite makes sense to him — not against the last clear memory that paints the back of his mind: him running through clouds of ash, blade drawn and raised against the shadow of a soldier he could hardly see through the dark black smoke. 

But now the world has gone wider, and emptier, and colder. And there is no more ground beneath him at all.

His stomach lurches violently right before full consciousness finds him. He is airborne, he realizes — thrown belly-down over warm sapphire scales that rise and fall with each labored beat of Tessarion's wings. An unyielding pressure binds tightly across his ribs, by some sort of harness lashing him to the beast's back. 

Beneath the wind's roar, he can just barely make out the rhythm of Daeron's voice ahead of him — commands snapped in High Valyrian between each answering wingbeat. He can only vaguely feel your hands upon his back, curled tight in his cloak, but it’s a touch he thinks he could recognize blind, if need be, in any corner of the realm, in any life at all.

“Gwayne?!” you call out over the whipping wind when you feel him twitch to life before you. Your voice frays slightly at the edges, from the pressure that threatens to snatch the air from your lungs completely.“Gwayne, can you hear me?!”

He can, to be sure, but answering it feels impossible now. He’s much too disoriented by the notion of solid ground being a thousand miles beneath him, and too busy trying to gulp down the roaring wind into his aching lungs. He cannot seem to manage any words at all until Daeron finally steers the dragon over unfamiliar territory, where the land below unfurls into a set of rolling hills that catch the last light of the day in shades of orange-gold. 

A rogue farmhouse comes into view, ringed by acres of a quiet meadow and half-swallowed by the hillside. A modest coop leans against the far wall of the small cottage, with chickens that scatter in a panicked explosion of feathers when Tessarion's shadow looms overhead. A few goats bolt for the treeline with bleats of alarm, while a herd of long-haired cattle hunkers low against a stone fence.

Tessarion settles atop the hill’s crest with one final shudder of her wings. Ormund is the first to rise from her great scales, chest still heaving beneath his armor in time with the dragon's own labored breaths. You unlatch yourself and Gwayne from the saddle straps before taking the hand Ormund offers down to you. Together, the two of you ease Gwayne's half-sluggish weight between you and guide him when he stumbles down the dragon's lowered wing.

“Careful now, cousin…” Ormund says, stepping back from Gwayne when his boots finally find unsteady purchase on the ground. He hides his own lingering nausea behind his dry quip. “Do try not to be sick on me, will you?”

“Oh, fuck off…” Gwayne slurs, leaning the bulk of his weight against you as he blinks hard to clear his bleary vision. You hold him up despite your own dwindling strength, with one hand wound tight around his back and the other splayed along his breastplate — never mind the mixture of ash and blood turning to paste upon him there.

“It’s a small ask, I should think, for saving your life.” 

“And you shall have my gratitude the moment the world stops spinning, cousin, I assure you…” Gwayne answers drily, watching his cousin stalk further down the hill with his eyes narrowed into thin slits.

A figure emerges from the low stone doorway of the farmhouse — younger than his weathered appearance first suggests, from decades of unrelenting farmwork that have turned his skin to leather well before its time. His wiry face is carved with permanent creases of worry that deepen with terror at the sight of the dragon settled atop his otherwise quiet hillside. He grips a hayfork tight in his calloused hand, as his eyes dart warily between the beast and the four strangers descending slowly upon him.

“We wish you no harm, good sir," Ormund calls out in a kind, borderline diplomatic tone despite the obvious carnage still splattered upon him — dried blood crusted along his armor, a bruise blooming dark across his jaw. He waves a gloved hand behind him to where Gwayne still sways unsteadily, flanked close by you and Daeron. “We ask only for shelter. And perhaps some food and water for the wounded, if you can spare it.”

The farmer’s wary gaze flicks between the four of you, taking in the scorched and bloodied armor — the ash still clinging thick to your hair and skin, and the soot-stained sigil half-visible upon Ormund’s dented breastplate. Whatever hospitality might’ve been afforded to you in that moment disappears entirely when the man’s weathered features freeze over all at once.

“Hightowers,” he spits, more to himself than to any of you as his grip tightens on the fork’s worn, wooden handle. “You’re Hightower soldiers, aren’t you?”

“We are,” Ormund nods but offers the man no further ground on the matter. His pale eyes narrow slightly as he watches the farmer settle back onto his heels, as though he were half readying himself for a fight. “We’ve come all the way from Tumbleton, my friend. Burned to the ground this very day by the black army’s dragons— women and children among them. We are not your enemy here, ser, I assure you.”

The farmer’s expression does not soften. It only seems to harden further, as suspicion sharpens his attentive eyes. “I’ll offer no green cloak shelter under my roof," he cuts in, accent thick with the valley's rougher speech. “My boy died at Honeywine, fighting against you lot."

“As I've said…” Ormund continues evenly. “We’ve come from Tumbleton. I offer my condolences for your son, to be sure, but it was not my blade that took him."

“Were those not your banners on that field?” the farmer spits back. “Were those not your men?”

Ormund says nothing in response, though his jaw flexes hard beneath his own dwindling patience.

“Rhaenyra is the rightful queen," the farmer snarls into the silence, eyes flicking dismissively over you with an obvious contempt. “And no green cloak sets foot past my door— and certainly not whatever Targaryen traitor you’ve dragged along with you to warm your beds.”

The insult has barely enough time to leave his mouth, and the pitchfork in his white-knuckled grip has hardly enough time to twitch before Gwayne is upon him. He moves faster than you would’ve guessed for his state, drawing his sword and slicing through the air in a blink. The silver blade lodges in the man’s throat before he has properly ascertained whether or not the farmer had truly meant to strike them at all.

He crumples to the dry grass without a wet gurgle and a fleshy thump, dead before he even hits the ground. 

For a long moment none of you speak. The wind blows on indifferently, carrying the distant lowing of startled cows across the quiet hillside — the world settles back into its usual stillness, uncaring of the death at your feet, or the ones left leagues behind you at Tumbleton.

“Well…” Ormund huffs, brows bouncing as he examines the body. “I confess, cousin, I didn't know you had it in you."

Gwayne wipes his blade clean against the dead man's breeches. “He'd have gutted us the moment our backs were turned,” he mutters through a jaw clenched tight. “And I’ve had more than enough bloodshed for one day…”

No one argues the point any further as you step past the body together and let yourselves into the house beyond it. It’s a modest thing, made of low ceilings and a few small rooms that would suggest that more than one soul lived here once. A hearth has died to black ash in the corner, and a sprawl of stale food is laid out on the table in the small kitchen area — a loaf of dark bread, a broken wedge of cheese, and a flagon of half-gone ale. 

A dead man’s last meal, abandoned mid-bite at the sound of dragon wings passing overhead. 

Gwayne collapses out of your arms and onto the mattress against the wall when the weakness takes him again, while Daeron forces himself to eat the bread and cheese Ormund ushers him to take — though he’s still too hot on adrenaline to truly feel his hunger. “Oldtown will need warning,” the boy says to his uncle, with smoke still dark against his freckled cheeks. “We’ll need to rally more men to help scavenge what few soldiers remain at Tumbleton.”  

Ormund lets him go despite his own fatherly sort of instinct telling him otherwise, and you hear him lecturing the boy on the other side of the door as you tend to Gwayne. “Fly straight there. No detours— No stopping at all, save for the beast herself needing rest. Do you understand me?” 

You watch through the small, square window as Tessarion ascends once more into the milky orange sunset, wings beating once then twice before she bounds off the hillside and into the clouds above.

When Ormund returns, he finds you working at the side lever built into the stone, attempting to pump water into a bucket from the hidden cistern overhead. Your face screws with the effort — the handle is rusted stiff beneath your grip, and you’re barely strong enough to earn the smallest trickle from the faucet. 

A smile lifts the corner of Ormund’s mouth as he watches you; a princess of the Red Keep, wrestling with a farmer’s water pump that’s likely older than you are. Something in his chest warms despite the unforgiving day, and a quiet laugh escapes him as he closes the distance between you. 

You’re too concentrated to notice him there until his warmth presses close behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body at your back. You burn hotter on instinct at the nearness of him, stomach lurching when he reaches around the side of you for the stubborn lever. He presses it harder, maybe, or in some angled way you hadn’t managed to before, and the pump gives way almost instantly. Water gushes clear and cold into the wooden bucket at your feet.

“There…” Ormund mutters, breath fanning warm along your neck.

“Thank you…” you mutter on bated breath and glance briefly over your shoulder at the man. His dark curls hang wild over his forehead now, and he’s since abandoned his ruined armor for the pale linen he wears beneath it. The thin tunic sits close against his broad chest, but you turn away again before he can catch you staring too long.

“You’d do good to rest as well,” Ormund tells you as you bend at the waist for the bucket, curling the handle into the bend of your arm. “You’ve had as long a day as any of us. And the babe—”

“The babe is fine,” you say, sharper than you mean to at the reminder you carry in your stomach. Your fleeting ire softens with a sigh, and you shake your wild head at yourself. “And I am fine, as well. Truly. I was not the one fighting out there.”

“Aye, but you could’ve just as easily gotten yourself killed pulling him out of that rubble,” Ormund scolds, pale eyes cutting to where Gwayne languishes on the mussed tatters that can hardly be considered blankets.

“And you could’ve just as easily gotten killed had Daeron and I not been there to save you,” you counter, with a sterner look settling in your tired eyes. “We are all of us fortunate to be breathing tonight. And I'd rather not spend what little of it remains arguing over what nearly did or did not happen.”

Ormund’s features soften with a slow inhale through his nose. His broad chest deflates beneath his baggy tunic on the exhale, as the wrinkles etched into the sides of his eyes deepen with sympathy rather than scolding. “I only worry for you…” he confesses quietly. His warm hand rises to settle at the waist of your worn dress, thumb tracing slow arcs over your stomach through the stained fabric. “Both of you…”

Tired and half-ashamed of yourself, you slip out of his hold and migrate the short distance to Gwayne. He’s awake, or waking at least, by the time you reach him — peering up at you with a bleary, blue stare as you sit gingerly at his side and dip a rag into the basin. The trickling sounds much louder in the quiet as you wring it out again, dabbing carefully at his porcelain skin until the ash and blood give way.

“How do you feel?”

“Alive…” he rasps and attempts to smile, though it takes more strength out of him now than it should. “Which is rather more than I expected… given the last thing I remember clearly.”

He shifts on the mattress and grimaces at the unforgiving weight of his armor, though the smile you give him eases the ache in his chest a little. “Well, you gave us all quite the fright, you know?”

Ormund scoffs bitterly to himself as he crosses the cottage to the hearth in the corner. He plucks at the thighs of his trousers before crouching before the pit of it with a great huff. He takes the small flint and steel from the farmer’s abandoned kit and strikes the two against each other to fill the silence. Sparks spit orange and die just as fast. He mutters curses under his breath at the failed attempt.

“Did I?” Gwayne hums like he doesn’t quite believe it, dragging his attention away from his cousin and to your pretty face leaning over his. He’d lift his hand to your jaw if he had the strength for it, but now can only seem to rest his fingers over your smoke-stained skirts. “My apologies, dear wife… I seem to have made a habit out of frightening you, it would seem…”

You laugh to yourself and dab gently at the cut above his brow. “It would seem that way, yes—”

“How touching…” Ormund grumbles from his spot by the hearth, glancing over his shoulder at you rather than the flint he can’t seem to spark. His eyes are just as dull as his voice, “Oh, please, do go on. I’m sure there’s a great deal more groveling in you yet, if you dig deep enough for it, cousin.”

You huff in annoyance while Gwayne’s jaw tenses beneath the cold rag. “I don’t believe anyone asked for your commentary, cousin.”

“No, but you’ll take it anyway. Seeing as I’m the one who hauled you out of that courtyard while you were still half a corpse—”

“Enough,” you snap beneath the harsh splashing of the cloth you drop back into the bucket at your feet. The word leaves your usually gentle mouth a lot sharper than either of theirs had, enough for both of them to fall silent and their gazes to snap instantly to yours. You tip your head back and rake your hands down your face, limbs going suddenly heavy when the long, brutal day finally hits you. “I cannot… live like this any longer.”

“Of course not,” Ormund assures you, with a misplaced relief already softening his features. “We’ll be back in Oldtown soon enough, once Daeron's sent word. We’ll have proper walls again. With proper beds—"

“That’s not what I meant…” you sigh, voice fraying at the edges. “I mean… this. The two of you circling each other like wolves every time you’re alone together. I cannot live like that— We cannot.”

The silence that follows your words, your ‘we’, feels far more suffocating than the dragonfire still clouding their lungs.

“Well, perhaps you ought to have thought of that,” Ormund squints, voice low enough to cut through the hurt searing in his chest. “Before deciding you could not survive a night without seeking comfort in both our beds—”

“Careful, cousin…” Gwayne warns, glaring despite the way the world spins around him when he pushes himself up. “Or I’ll finish what I started with that farmer outside.”

“You can scarcely sit upright,” Ormund scoffs, turning back to his fleet and steel. “Let alone swing a sword at me.”

“I managed well enough with the last man who threatened her, didn’t I?”

“Perhaps… But what about the one before him?” the older man sneers. You’re on your feet again at that, walking towards the window before either of them can see how tightly your face screws with emotion. Ormund rises and sets the steel down with a harsh click against the hearthstone. “Where were you when that hedgeknight had her pinned to the ground with her skirts torn to her thighs—"

“Fighting a war, if you’ll recall,” Gwayne counters, heedless of your retreat. “Which I’m sure you do, seeing as you read all my letters at length, and burnt them before they could be read by whom they were intended—”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Ormund quips in a sanguine sort of voice, venom hidden beneath a layer of amusement. “You speak of these letters like they’re some great offense, when it was your leaving that put her on this path to begin with. Which is surely a far greater crime than anything I have done—”

“Yes,” you cut through on an exasperated breath that carries throughout the quiet cottage. “And I forgive you. Both of you.” 

You turn slowly around to face them again. Your tears glitter in the low light, collecting like dew upon your lashes under the weight of their stares.

“I forgive you, Ormund— for the letters and the lies and for… every calculating thing you have done in the name of keeping me… And I forgive you, Gwayne, for leaving me, which allowed me to be taken prisoner at all.” Your chest deflates with a wavering breath, as though the confession has lessened the unbearable weight upon it. “And I love you. Both of you… And I care not what manner of woman that makes me.” 

Neither man speaks for several long moments. Gwayne's hands loosen slowly from where they’ve curled tight at the edge of the mattress, while Ormund’s fingers roll into fists. The fury from their previous argument fades from their hardened faces now, and leaves something much softer in its wake.

“Now…” you huff, voice steadier than it likely has any right to be. “I am going to find whatever passes for a bathing chamber in this place… Surely there must be something connected to the springs, so… When the two of you have finished speaking to one another properly, honestly… You may come find me…” 

You do not wait for either of them to answer you before turning on your heel and disappearing down the dim, narrow hall. 

The following silence is filled with the absence of you, and the accusations hanging thick in the air — including the truth you’d just left them with. I love you, both of you. Neither of them seems to know what they’re meant to do with a revelation such as that, or the one that had come before it the previous night.

Gwayne stares at the empty space where you had stood for a long moment after you’ve gone, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth through a fury he cannot seem to swallow.

“Why?” he hears himself say. His auburn hair hangs heavy over his eyes when he turns back to Ormund, standing still by the hearth with his gaze fixed down. There is no more anger left in him, only a confusion that twists across his ash-stricken face. “I understand that you love her, and I’ve no place to blame you for it, but— why lie to her about such a thing?” 

Ormund scoffs a brittle laugh. “I do not expect you to know this, cousin, seeing as you were more concerned with playing with swords with your brothers-in-arms, but… She did weep for you before she took my bed. Often, at that.” His pale eyes lift, heavy with a withheld emotion but harden with an artificial amusement all the same. “I figured it was mercy on my part. Giving her something… real to hold on to. Or perhaps that’s only what I told myself to justify what I did— I do not know.” 

“You could’ve just told her the truth of it,” Gwayne says with squinted eyes. “You could’ve kept her just as close without burning my letters— without becoming… this.” 

“Well, love has made fools of better men— Isn’t that what the poets say?” Ormund says with a humorless grin. “It has simply made a crueler fool of me, I suppose…”

Gwayne nearly softens with sympathy at that, as much as he can for a man who has always possessed a sort of cruel streak. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you for it,” he confesses, without malice. “And I don’t imagine we’ll ever much care for one another, either…”

“It is not your forgiveness I ask for, in truth,” Ormund answers. “Nor is it you I particularly care for.”  

Gwayne exhales a soft laugh through his nose at that. “But… We do both love her—” He nods his head towards the dark hall you had disappeared down. “That much, at least, we’ve never disagreed on.”

“No,” Ormund shakes his head. “I suppose we haven’t.”

“And the child…” Gwayne continues, though the thought of saying it aloud begins to choke at him. “Whoever’s it proves to be— Whoever’s blood runs through it… It will be half of her… And half of us regardless, whichever one of us put it there.” 

Ormund’s jaw clenches tight as he nods slowly to himself in response, fingers twitching anxiously at his sides. “I confess, I have thought of little else since…” he mutters to himself, before his lowered gaze lifts to meet his again. “And I will not lie to you and pretend I don’t believe it’s mine— whether that’s because it truly is or because I want it to be so, I could not say, but… I do know there is no world where that child comes out with your hair or— your nose, gods forbid, and I feel anything less than what I feel for her now.”

“…Then I suppose we’re of one mind on that, too,” Gwayne hums with a tired smile.

An unfamiliar and hard won relief passes between them then, perhaps the first true agreement either of them has managed to reach since boyhood that didn’t end in a verbal or physical blow. So they sit with it a little while longer, knowing it will never undo what’s already been done, but knowing too that a new sort of beginning has just blossomed before them, as uncertain as it still remains.

“Well…” Ormund huffs. “Shall we go tell our lady wife what we’ve managed?”

Gwayne nods and rises from the bed with a heavy breath and a faint grimace. “She’ll be pleased to find we didn’t end up killing each other, no doubt…” 

They find you first by the soft, steady trickle of water — from a narrow spring channeled through the cobbled wall into a shallow stone basin, warmed only slightly by the dwindling summer air outside. You use the scrap of soap among the farmer’s meager belongings, smelling of something herbal and earthen in scent, and wash the remnants of war from your skin. The water rushes like clear silk down your body; the ash and blood and grief swirl something dark into the drainpipe below until your skin runs clean again.

You hear them before you open your eyes — two sets of adjoining footsteps pausing by the threshold. Both men fall silent at the sight of you there, bare skin glittering beneath the last slivers of golden sunlight filtering in rays through the window.

“You’re finished, then, I take it?” you ask with a knowing, half-nervous smile, standing beneath the spigot and letting the water rise in your cupped hands until it washes in rivulets down your breasts. “Talking, I mean?”

Gwayne inhales sharply through his nose, then nods slowly despite himself. “For tonight, at least…”

“And?” you press, eyes flitting wildly. 

“And… we shall likely never much care for one another,” Ormund answers with a wry warmth coating his melodic voice. “But that we are, as it turns out, both hopelessly incapable of caring for anyone else quite the way we care for you."

“Hm… That’s good enough for me, I suppose…” you grin, tired eyes glittering with a newfound life as they dart between the two men before you. “Now— Are you going to stand there and gawk all night, or are you going to join me?”

Gwayne blinks owlishly while Ormund's brows rise to his hairline. They share a brief glance between them before turning back to you. “…Which of us?" the former wonders aloud, with blue eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Both of you.”

You return to your bath with that, raking the water through your hair far too casually for the invitation that had just spilled past your lips. The hesitation hangs thick in the small, humid room as the two men remain frozen on the knifes edge of disbelief and desire.

Ormund, unsurprisingly, is the first of them to move. He was always the surest of them, and that fact doesn’t change even now. He plucks his tunic up and over his head from the neckline and leaves it in a heap by the door along with his trousers that follow soon after. 

He strips himself bare of clothes and titles alike, and joins you in the shower as nothing more than your lover — not as the lord of Oldtown, but as yours alone. 

His broad shoulders block the flow of water as he towers ahead of you, golden skin glimmering with rogue bruises and scatters of soot that had gotten through the many layers. Right before he leans down to kiss you, he catches your hesitant gaze darting again to Gwayne, still lingering at the threshold, rooted in place by his own uncertainty.

“Do hurry, cousin,” Ormund croons lowly, with something uncharacteristically fond sitting in his eyes. “Or don’t… Just means there’s more for me.” 

Ormund closes the distance between you then. His chapped lips press gently to yours, soft but still ravenous in the way he swallows your mouth whole. His tongue feels the velvet as it licks against yours with an unabashed hunger. You sigh hard against him when his cock presses to your thigh, stiffening slowly hard against you there. He growls a low breath at the proximity, and you lift your hands to his neck where his pulse thrums hard beneath your touch.

Gwayne’s hesitation slips away at the sight of it, less consumed by jealousy than he perhaps expected to be. He watches a sliver of your pink tongue dart out to taste Ormund’s as he reaches blindly for the buckles of his heavy armor — the arms, the breastplate, the belt. You hear them fall heavy to the cobbles as Ormund’s wet mouth trails down your neck.

Your head tips back to accommodate his kiss and your fingers thread through his curls, going darker and heavier beneath the water. Your heavy eyes find Gwayne’s across the room when the metal of his armor clatters to the stone floor. You watch him unfasten the gold buttons of his Hightower green gambeson until he slips the quilted fabric from his shoulders. The canvas of his pale torso is displayed for you then — lean and hairless and blooming with fresh bruises. 

He loosens the tie in his trousers and shoves them down to his ankles, smiling to himself when he catches your eyes drifting down to his cock. You reach a hand towards him while Ormund’s mouth ducks to your left breast. Gwayne closes the brief distance between you and lets you pull him into the stone shower. He swallows the pretty sound you make when Ormund’s tongue flicks across your pebbled nipple, made more sensitive than usual in the past weeks. 

Your free hand rises to cradle the back of Gwayne’s long auburn hair, still heavy with smoke and ash. His nose nudges the side of yours beneath the weight of his kiss — all tongue and teeth and spit. His front presses flush to the back of you as his wide hands curl around your waist. His long fingers settle just over your stomach, which seems to have grown slightly fuller with the babe — though he cannot tell if it’s only his mind deceiving him so.

Ormund watches the two of you through his lashes as he drags his mouth to your right breast. His kiss-swollen lips close around the delicate nipple, and his distant pang of jealousy fades only when he feels you shiver against him and press him closer by your hand in his hair. 

He pulls off of you with a wet smack.

“Well, if you’re going to fuck him, get it over with,” he says, though it comes out a little harsher than he means — coated in a jagged layer of envy he tries hard to smooth away. Your lips click faintly when you part from Gwayne, the two of you turning to look at him with heavy-eyed gazes. “As long as you save some for me, of course. I didn’t come all this way for scraps.”

You keep the man close with a hand wrapped around his wrist while Gwayne urges you against the wall. Chills pebble across your bare skin when your back hits the cold stone. The clear water runs over him, dampening his hair and streaking down the smoke stained upon his skin. You swipe him clean with your free hand, and sigh against his mouth when he kisses you again. Gwayne urges your thigh around his hip with one hand, while his other guides his stiff cock into your velvet confines.

Your cunt squeezes him in an unrelenting grip when he pierces you — the bulbous tip giving way to the inches of soft blue veins, which give way to the coarse thatch of dark hair at the base, which settles just perfectly against your achingly sensitive clit. 

Gwayne’s heavy head falls into your shoulder as his hands grip hard at your hips; a release swells within him the moment he’s nestled inside of you after the stress of the unforgiving day, and all the unforgiving weeks that came before it.

Your contented sigh fills the quiet room when his hips roll forward and back again, finding a clumsy sort of rhythm due to his injuries and fatigue. You press him closer with one palm splayed along his shoulder blade, where the cooling water falls over him in clear rivulets, and only vaguely feel Ormund guiding your free hand to his cock. He smiles to himself when you begin to pleasure him without thinking twice.

“Does that feel good?” Ormund lilts into the not-quite silence, filled by your whimpers, Gwayne’s muffled moans, and the shower falling over the two of you. You nod your head against the stone, heavy eyes fluttering. “Yes? Do you like it when he fucks you?”

“Yes…” you whimper, twitching slightly beneath Gwayne when his hips buck into you just so. The auburn-haired man buries his whine into your neck, lips smearing along your pulse point.

“Are you going to cum for him?” Ormund asks, wrapping his warm, wide hand around your knuckles — helping your fist move up and down his hard cock when you lose rhythm.

Your bleary eyes open to meet his at the faux-sympathetic lilt in his voice. 

“Do you want me to?” 

He shakes his head, water dripping from his wet curls. “Not yet,” he hums. “You’ll wait for me, yes?”

Your head tips back against the wall with a whine in the back of your throat, but you abide him all the same. 

Your nails dig crescent shapes into the soft skin of Gwayne’s shoulders when his thrusts never cease, despite Ormund’s merciless instruction. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut when his hips pick up speed against you, trying to focus on the cold stone behind you and the feeling of Ormund in your fist rather than Gwayne’s cock between your thighs.

“Please cum…” you plead in a whimper in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it. Your cunt pulses around him at the pressure on your clit, and Gwayne shudders with a strangled moan at the feeling. His thrusts turn shallow. “I need to feel you, Gwayne, please—”

He punches into you once, hard, and tenses against you. His battered body goes heavy as his cock jerks within your pulsing confines. Your belly goes warm with his seed a moment later, as he melts against you with a drawn-out groan. The soreness returns to his limbs when the pleasure starts to dwindle.

“Alright,” Ormund blurts before his cousin’s high has time to properly fade. He pulls your hand away before his own orgasm can start to bloom and pats Gwayne’s shoulder with his free hand.  “My turn. Come on. Up you go.”

Gwayne exhales a faint laugh and shudders when he pulls out of you. He grips his softening cock by the base and leans against the stone wall at our side, letting it cool his blazing skin. “If this is going to work between us, cousin,” he says with narrowed eyes. “You are going to have to learn to wait your turn.” 

“Patience was never a virtue of mine,” Ormund scoffs and takes the younger man’s place before you. You prop your opposite leg upon his hip this time when the other starts to ache. He grips onto the plush of your thigh with one hand and fists his cock in the other, letting Gwayne’s cum ease his mounting of you. “I’d have thought you’d learned that by now…”

He swallows your moan in his kiss when his cock slides with you, already leaking like silk around him. He wastes little time fucking into you accordingly, with you already more than worked open for him. 

He does not hit you as deeply as Gwayne, but he stretches you wider — a delicious sort of burn that ebbs quickly when he’s buried to the hilt. The ache in your legs and between your thighs is swallowed by the orgasm blooming in your stomach, which only grows when the coarse hair above Ormund’s cock ruts mercilessly against your delicate clit. 

Ormund’s mouth smears down your jaw and neck and shoulder when your heavy head tips back. Your bleary eyes flutter slowly open when you feel Gwayne’s knuckles smoothing across your blazing cheek. He cups your jaw in his calloused palm, and you lean into his touch like a cat. His thumb traces slow patterns over your damp skin while a lazy smile sits crooked on his mouth.

“It’s okay…” he mutters softly to you when your gaze turns watery and pleading, as though you were silently searching for his permission to cum for Ormund — to love him. Tendrils of wet auburn hair sway around his temples as he nods. “It’s okay, my love. Go on…”

Your face screws in a pained look as a whine sounds deep and pitiful in your throat. You feel Ormund’s smile curl against your neck before he pulls away, nostrils flaring as he looks down at you from the bridge of his nose. He inhales deeply, and the scent of soap and sex and smoke fills his lungs.

“There it is…” Ormund hums roughly at the pleasured twisting of your face. His grip tightens on your waist to pull you into each of his thrusts, and another whimper dies behind your gritted teeth. He chuckles through a moan of his own. His following words come out choppy through panted breaths. “Come on, then… I can already feel you— clenching around me… So go on. Cum for me, my love— and I’ll give you my seed as thanks. You deserve it, don’t you?”

Your body tenses beneath him as you grab him harder by the shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his golden skin from your dull nails. The knot in your belly loosens at once, and your hips buck beneath his as though you were chasing and fleeing from your pleasure all at once. Your cunt flutters and drools like honey around Ormund’s cock, whose merciless thrusts within it have refused to cease. 

The man hides his face in your neck as his own pleasure begins to swallow him whole, and Gwayne ducks down to press his mouth to yours in a searing kiss, so that he might taste all your pretty noises upon his tongue. 

“Yes…” you hear Ormund praise into your skin. The word leaves his mouth like a mantra through gritted teeth. “Yes, yes, yes—” 

He stills against you, holding you hard enough to leave bruises on your hips when he fills your loins with his cum — three warm ropes that your suckling cunt milks every inch of him for. He heavies against you a moment later, as his cock softens slowly inside of you.

None of you moves for a long moment thereafter. You stand there beneath the spring, slowly starting to lose its pressure, in a mess of tangled limbs and mouths and hearts. Gwayne’s lips press firmly to your temple as your high comes and goes; Ormund’s trails sloppy kisses along your hammering pulse while his own orgasm ebbs from his body. 

Beyond the narrow window, the sky is losing its color and the war is waiting to be won; but in this moment now, there is only the three of you, and the smallest of miracles growing in your stomach.

“Perhaps… Perhaps we’ve fucked another babe into you…” Ormund muses crudely when he pulls his face from your neck. He groans quietly when he pulls out of you, swatting at your thigh with one hand and fisting his sensitive cock in the other. He washes the remnants of cum upon it, and smiles as you sink further into stone behind you. “One from each of us, for good measure. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Gwayne’s eyes narrow, more amused than truly cynical. “I don’t believe that’s how that works, cousin.” 

“Oh?” Ormund tilts his head with a mock sincerity. “Forgive me— I didn’t realize you’d trained as a Grand Maester between here and Tumbleton.”

A drunken laugh sputters from your lips as you shake your head to yourself. “The two of you are… entirely hopeless,” you mutter fondly to yourself, and sigh at the mixture of cum going sticky between your thighs.

“Entirely,” the two of them scoff in sync, with smiles that fade in tandem accordingly.

“Alright,” Ormund bites in a brotherly sort of annoyance. “Enough of that.” 

"Nonsense." His reflection smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I enjoy taking care of you. It allows me to shed the day."

"And what is it that you wish to shed?" You raised a brow, reaching for your wine on the corner of the vanity. Gwayne's hands stilled on the last pin, his eyes lifted from your hair to your reflection.

"The mess in King's Landing." You slowly nodded. He continued. "My father writes that we may soon be at war."

"Succession can be an ugly business," you offered, not exactly in comfort. You watched his gaze trace over you, the slight tightening of your shoulders, the way your fingers had tightened around the stem of the goblet.

"Sunbeam?" The word came gently, knowingly.

You set the wine down. "The topic has presented itself."

His shoulders drew back, a single degree of motion that tightened the line of his doublet across his chest. He pulled the last pin free and placed it with the others, the small click of metal on marble sounding unnaturally loud in the now tense room. "I do not find this conversation useful."

"Why, Gwayne," you turned on the stool, your knee catching the edge of the vanity. "A child to call my own, is that so great an ask?"

"Yes!" The word broke from him. "You know it is! I do not wish to be a father."

Your hand found his sleeve before he could step away. Your fingers closed in the velvet, bunching the emerald fabric between your knuckles. "You would be a marvelous father. I see you with Daeron. I see how much love you have to give, how gentle you are with him. Why can we not give that to a child of our own?"

"I have told you how I hated growing up here. How hard it is to be a child at Hightower." He pulled from your grip, not roughly, but with a finality that was worse than roughness. "I cannot in good conscience bring a child into this life. My position does not require me to do so." He turned and walked toward the bed, his back straight, his hands already working at the clasps of his doublet.

"Gwayne,"

He shrugged the doublet from his shoulders, letting the green velvet fall across the chest at the foot of the bed. The linen beneath was wrinkled from a day of wear, clinging to the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist. "When we first met, you told me you did not desire to be a mother." His voice had gone flat, measured. "I promised you a life free from tradition, and I have given it."

You rose from the stool. Your feet met the cold stone floor, and you crossed the space between you, shift whispering against your thighs. "I have changed my mind on what I want. I am allowed to desire more."

He stood with his back half-turned, his hands resting on the carved footboard of the bed. "And how long until you change your mind on what I am permitted to have?"

You stopped a pace behind him, as if the question had put a wall between you. "Gwayne. Husband." Your voice dropped. "I would never seek to take anything from you. I ask you to understand how difficult it is for me. To see other ladies with their babes, their swelling bellies, their children at their skirts, and to have nothing for myself!"

He sat on the edge of the bed and bent to pull at the heel of his first boot. The leather groaned as it gave. "This decision is not about you."

"How!" The word tore out of you before you could shape it. "How can your refusal to have a child have nothing to do with me? Why do you even bother to come to this bed and lay with me just to withdraw yourself before you spill your seed?"

His hands stilled on the second boot. The room seemed to contract, the walls pressing inward with the weight of what you had said. He straightened slowly, his spine uncoiling vertebra by vertebra, and when he turned to face you, his blue eyes were dark.

"Because I love you! Because you are my wife and I desire you."

"One can hardly tell." Your chest was heaving now, your breath coming in shallow pulls that tasted of wine and something bitter beneath it. "You spend all your time with your lover instead of me. I go days barely glimpsing you."

"I thought Ormund fulfilled your every desire." He stood, his full height casting a shadow that fell across your bare feet. "You fought so hard to have him. Does the reality of him fail to measure up to the fantasy?"

You flinched. The motion was small, a drawing-back of your shoulders, a tightening of your fingers against your own palms. He saw it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you like a drawn wire, thin and singing with tension. You could hear the sea again, the endless, indifferent crash of water against rock.

Gwayne exhaled, forcing air through a tightened throat. He stood and placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the hollow above your hipbones, his grip firm without being hard.

"Sunbeam." His voice had lost its edge as he spoke the gentle pet name. "You are everything to me. Whatever you desire within my power, I will grant it to you." His thumbs traced a small circle against your hipbones. "But children,"

You reached up and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. The tears had come without your permission, hot and sudden, blurring the candlelight into streaks of gold. You wiped them away with the back of your wrist, your jaw set hard against the quiver that threatened your lower lip.

"This only works if we all abide by our original promises." His voice was quiet now, almost tender, and his hands remained on your hips, steadying you as though you might sway.

You nodded. The motion was small, a single dip of your chin, your lip trembled despite the pressure of your teeth against it. He watched your face for a long moment, eyes tracing the wet tracks on your cheeks, the dark clumping of your lashes. Then he bent and pressed his lips to your forehead. The kiss was warm, dry, and lingered long enough that you felt his breath stir the loose hair at your temples.

His hand found the small of your back, and he guided you toward the bed. You climbed onto the mattress, the linens cool against your bare legs, as you climbed under the covers. You lay on your side with your back to him. The bed dipped as he settled behind you, the space between your bodies a handspan of cold linen and unspoken words.

Sleep did not come. You shifted once, twice, the shift twisting around your thighs. You listened to the sea, to the creak of the old tower settling against the wind, to the measured cadence of Gwayne's breath behind you.

At some point, the mattress shifted. His arm came across your waist, heavy and warm, and his chest pressed against your back. You felt the steady drum of his heartbeat against your shoulder blades, the brush of his breath in your hair. Your eyes closed. The salt-smell of the sea and the cedar-and-warmth scent of his skin settled around you, and the steady rhythm of his breathing became the only sound in the room. Finally, you found rest.

Morning light poured through your windows casting long pale rectangles across the stone floor. The Whispering Sound stretched beyond.

You sat on a low chair beside Bethany, who perched on her own stool, a thing built for her small frame, its legs painted yellow. Her feet swung back and forth above the floor, heels bumping a rhythm against the crossbar. A linen apron, far too large for her, had been folded twice and tied at her back, though a wing of it hung loose over one shoulder. Beneath it, her green dress remained clean.

Behind you, Daeron sat hunched at a smaller table, his shoulders curved forward over a leather-bound text. His quill scratched notes, the same passage, the same annotations, the same dull accounting. You could hear him turning pages with more force than the parchment deserved.

"Here, love." You guided Bethany's hand, wrapping her small fingers around the handle of the brush so her thumb sat on top. "Grip it here, between these two fingers. Like holding a little bird, firm enough that it won't fly away, but not so tight you crush it."

She stared at her own fist with enormous concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The brush wobbled. She dipped it into the shallow clay dish where you had mixed a pool of red and a daub of white, dragging the bristles through both colors until they swirled together into something soft and roseate.

"Pink!" she announced, lifting the brush high above her head like a banner. A drop of paint flew from the tip and landed on her apron, neither of you paying it any mind.

You laughed. "Is pink your favorite color?"

She nodded with her whole body. "Yes!"

"My pretty little pink lady," you told her, and her face split into a grin so wide it crinkled the corners of her blue eyes.

She held the brush for another moment, then set it down. Her fingers went directly into the paint dish. She pressed her fingertips into the mixed pigment, then stamped them onto the stretched canvas before her, leaving a small print of color on it. She smeared her palm across it, dragging the pink into long arcs. The brush lay forgotten.

You watched her. The light from the window caught her hair, that fine auburn, so close to Gwayne's it made your chest tighten. The same blue eyes. She tilted her head as she examined her work.

You could see it so clearly, a child with this hair, these eyes. Gentle and curious like him, spirited and artistic like you.

You turned your head toward the window and blinked. The light stung, which was useful. The argument from last night pressed forward. You blinked again and swallowed once, hard, and turned back to Bethany before the heat in your eyes could become anything more. It did no good to dwell on a path that was closed.

"Daeron, my sweet," you called over your shoulder, keeping your voice light. "When you have a moment, would you like to join us?"

"I would love to," he said, and you heard the weight of sincerity in it. "However, I fear I may never have a moment with these dull histories. I have read the same passage a dozen times." He let out a groan, his forehead dropped onto the open book with a soft thud.

You giggled. "Is the history of the Reach that boring?"

He nodded his head against the page, his voice muffled by parchment. "It is."

Bethany turned on her stool to look at him, her paint-covered fingers hovering midair. She studied the boy slumped over his books with frank curiosity, then returned to her work as though she had concluded he was not her concern.

"Dornish history is fascinating," you told him, "and that is not just because I am biased." You paused. "Perhaps ask your uncle if you may expand your subject matter. You are a prince of the realm, after all."

Daeron lifted his head. "Will you teach it to me?" The question came quickly, almost before you had finished speaking. "I do not like this tutor. He is duller than the texts." His face fell even as he asked, the hope in it already curdling toward anticipated refusal.

"Of course!" you said.

His expression transformed. The guarded set of his mouth loosened. His shoulders straightened. He opened his mouth to respond, and then the door crashed open against the wall.

"Careful with that!" Ormund's voice cut through the room like a blade striking stone. He strode in ahead of eight servants who labored beneath the weight of a massive roll of cloth, their arms trembling with the effort of keeping it level. Two more servants rushed past you to the large table in the center of the room, clearing the surface with an efficiency that spoke of fear.

Ormund was practically bouncing. His boots struck the floor in quick, sharp beats. He crossed to you, took your face in both hands and pressed a kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered a half-breath longer than a greeting required.

"You must see it," he said, his thumb brushing your jaw as he pulled back. "It is magnificent." He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours without hesitation.

You rose from your chair and laid a pat on top of Bethany's head as you went. She did not look up. Her fingers were deep in a fresh pool of yellow now, and the world beyond her canvas had ceased to exist.

The servants began to unfurl the tapestry across the cleared table. The fabric unrolled in a slow cascade. Silver thread caught the morning light and threw it back in splinters. The stone arches of the Sept emerged from the weave, each block distinct, the geometry precise. Above the arches, midnight silk stretched across three quarters of the tapestry's width, and against that darkness, the constellations of the Sunspear glittered in thread so fine it seemed to pulse with its own light.

Ormund released your hand and circled the table, his steps quick, his chest expanded. He watched the tapestry unfurl with possessive pride and something close to vulnerability.

"I had the astronomers at the Citadel map the southern sky for the weavers," he said, turning to face you. His eyes were bright, the blue in them sharpened by the light from the window. "So you might have your stars." He let out a breath through his nose. "I made this for you."

You stepped closer. The tapestry sprawled across the table, and you took it in piece by piece, the silver thread of the Sept, the stonework so detailed you could almost feel the grain of it beneath your fingers. The night sky above, where the constellations you had known since childhood were rendered in thread so fine the lines seemed to shimmer. They glittered, but they looked caught, pinned against the dark by the weight of all that stone below.

"It is a masterpiece, Ormund. Truly. The craftsmanship is flawless." You kept your voice even, your hands resting on the table's edge.

Something in his shoulders released. He exhaled, his body loosened from the set it had held. "Then it pleases you?"

You looked at the tapestry again. His city. His faith. But he had put in a tremendous amount of effort, that was evident.

"It pleases me greatly," you said, forcing your mouth into a smile that reached your eyes through effort alone. "Daeron, Bethany, come look!"

Daeron had barely begun to push his chair back when Ormund spoke without turning. "Daeron has much reading to do, lest he fall behind in his lessons."

"Surely he can afford the briefest of breaks," you said, keeping your tone light.

Ormund's gaze moved to Daeron, then back to you. "He has never displayed interest in art regardless." A pause. "Daeron, return to your books."

The finality in his voice was a door closing. Daeron's hands returned to the table. He sat back down, pulled the book toward him, and stared at the same passage for the fifteenth time.

"Perhaps he finds the choice of subject boring," a smile started on your face, the kind that carried an edge beneath its warmth.

"Do I bore you, princess?" Ormund asked, his head tilting.

"No," you said. "I find you... very entertaining."

Bethany bounded over with uncoordinated urgency, her hands covered in dried paint, pink and yellow and something approaching orange where the two had mixed on her palms. You caught her under the arms and lifted her onto your hip. She was getting heavier. You adjusted your grip and turned her toward the tapestry.

"I used to look up at the Sword of the Morning from my bedroom window each night when I was little," you told her, pointing to the constellation on the tapestry. "Do you see it there?"

She nodded. Her paint-sticky fingers reached toward the fabric, and you caught her wrist gently before she could touch the silver thread. "Pretty," she sang.

Ormund stood across the table from you. His eyes moved from the child's face to yours. The sight of you holding his child, the gentle way you spoke to her, the way she leaned into your shoulder as though she had always belonged there, he drank it in.

He wanted this. Not merely to have you in his bed, or the stolen hours and whispered conversations in the dark. He wanted to come upon this sight every day of his life, this version of the world where everything was already his.

Yet the gods had seen fit to give you to Gwayne. A man who did not know you as he did, who could not see what Ormund saw now.

"Daeron, please, set aside that book." Your voice cut across his thoughts. You frowned at the boy, whose eyes had gone glassy. "I am sad looking at you sulk."

Two moons had passed before your nameday arrived on a tide of preparation so thorough, so relentless in its detail, that even the servants seemed to hold themselves straighter.

But the day began before any of that. It began with Ormund's mouth at the crook of your neck.

He inhaled against your skin as though committing the scent of you to memory. His lips pressed there, then opened, sucking lightly at the place where your pulse beat just beneath the surface. You stirred, not yet awake, your body responding before your mind caught hold of the morning. He placed a kiss on the hollow of your throat, and you felt the weight of him through the thin sheet, his cock already hard and heavy where it pressed against your thigh.

He kissed further down your body. Slow. Patient. Each press of his lips a mark upon the landscape of your skin, trailing from your collarbone to the valley between your breasts, lower still, across the plane of your stomach. His fingers gathered the sheet and drew it downward, inch by inch, exposing you to the cool morning air and to his gaze.

He parted your legs and let out a sharp intake of breath as he looked at you, your pretty cunt, the flesh tender and flushed, evidence of how thoroughly he had used you. He used his thumb and forefinger to part you open, exposing the bundle of nerves at your apex, and then his mouth was on you, his tongue pressing flat against that aching point of pleasure.

You woke fully and immediately, your hands flying to his hair. Your fingers tangled in the copper strands, gripping hard, pulling him closer, and he moaned against you, the vibration of it sending a shockwave through your core that made your spine arch off the bed.

"Good morrow, princess." The words were spoken into your flesh, his lips moving against you as he said them, his breath hot and damp on your wet skin.

His hands came to your thighs, spreading them wide, opening you to him completely. He kissed you there, his tongue tracing the length of your slit, circling the swollen bud at your apex before dipping lower, pressing into your hole, tasting you from the inside. You tried to buck your hips against his face and he let you, his grip loosening to allow you the movement. His mouth followed wherever your body pushed him, tongue never leaving you. Ormund loved this. When you used him for your pleasure, when you took what you needed from him without asking permission.

"What a divine creature you are," he murmured against your wet flesh.

He slid two thick fingers into you, and your body arched off the bed once more. The stretch of them sent a jolt through you that made your thighs tremble. Your legs settled over his wide shoulders, the solid muscle of him bracing you, and his free hand found yours. His fingers intertwined with yours, gripping tight, holding your hand as his mouth worked you, fingers curling inside you, stroking that place along your walls that made your vision blur and your breath come in short, ragged gasps. He stroked you there while his tongue circled and flicked at your clit in a rhythm that built and built and built until it crested, a climax that tore through you like a wave breaking against rock, leaving you shaking and breathless and pulsing around his fingers, your hand crushing his as the pleasure ripped through every nerve in your body.

You came down slowly. The room returned in pieces, the pale light through the window, the salt air, the sound of your own breathing and the distant cry of gulls. And then you opened your eyes and found Ormund above you, his body positioned over yours, hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself slowly as he lined himself up with your entrance, the head of him flushed and leaking.

The bell chimed in the distance.

Your hands planted firmly on his chest. "What is the problem?" he questioned, his voice rough, strained, the words pushed through gritted teeth.

You sat up, your legs still weak beneath you. "We do not have time. You must go. You know well how Gwayne hates to find you here."

Ormund's face blanked. He laid back against the pillows, staring at the canopy above. "I was not aware he still came here."

You glared at him. "What an ugly thing to say to me on my nameday."

"It is the truth." He propped himself up on his elbows, his expression caught between irritation and something that almost resembled contrition.

"It was foul." The words left you sharply, cutting the air between you.

He exhaled through his nose, shifting against the sheets, his cock still painfully hard against his stomach, the head flushed an angry red. "Surely you can understand my position, to be pushed out of bed in this condition." He gestured downward with a tilt of his chin. "Just a few moments, dove. I will be quick."

"No." You stood from the bed, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your bare skin, your legs unsteady beneath you. "The last time Gwayne saw you as you were leaving my chambers, he was furious, and I would like not to argue with my husband today."

You pulled on your shift, the linen settling against your skin, thin enough that the morning light through the window turned the fabric translucent where it fell against your legs, and moved to your vanity. The comb caught in the tangles at the back of your head, and you worked through them with more force than was necessary, your eyes fixed on your reflection in the polished glass.

Behind you, Ormund dressed. You could hear him in the sounds; the rustle of fabric, the sharp clicks of clasps. He was fuming. You could feel it in the silence. He watched you as you moved about the room. You refused to turn around, pulling the comb through your heavy hair until it fell in a smooth curtain down your back. If you did, he would get his way.

You had moved to the open window, looking out over the bay, the morning light catching the sails of fishing boats far below, the salt wind stirring the loose strands of hair at your temples. He came up behind you, and his hand came to rest around your throat. His fingers settled against the sides of your neck, his thumb resting against your pulse, and he used the grip to gently guide your head to turn toward him.

He kissed you deeply. Thoroughly. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you could taste yourself on him, salt and musk. His lips moved to your shoulder, pressing a kiss there through the thin linen of your shift, his breath warm through the fabric.

"You will have to rectify the situation this evening," he whispered into your ear, his hand still loosely around your throat.

"I am afraid I cannot."

His hand dropped from your throat. "Why?"

"I am spending this evening with my husband."

Ormund's brow drew together, a deep frown carving itself into his features, the lines around his mouth hardening. "You give him too much grace," there was a touch of malice in his tone.

You shook your head. "Ormund."

"He has abandoned your side for a fortnight," Ormund pressed, his voice hardening.

"I have not been abandoned. We are each exercising our freedoms," you countered, your voice level, controlled.

"You have a husband who prefers to spend each night in the company of a serving boy rather than lay with you. You are abandoned."

You turned on him. The look you gave him could have stripped varnish from wood. "I wish I had chosen a servant to warm my bed as well. At least then they would know how to hold their tongue."

Ormund took a step back. Something shifted behind his eyes, the sharpness giving way to something rawer. "You can be so cruel, princess," he said, genuine hurt beginning to seep into his tone.

You stepped forward. "It is you who are cruel."

Ormund stood there. He knew, somewhere beneath the irritation and the arousal and the wounded pride, that he should attempt to apologize. This was not how he had wanted this day to go. He had planned this morning for weeks, had imagined waking you with his mouth, the sounds you would make, the way your fingers would pull his hair, the way you would say his name against his lips afterward. Now you stood before him with your arms crossed and your eyes refusing to soften.

You spoke before he could find the words. "I do not wish to look upon you for the rest of the day."

You turned from him and crossed to the chair by the window. You tucked your legs beneath you and settled into the cushion, your back to him, your gaze fixed on the harbor below. He stood there for a long moment. Then he leaned down, carefully, as though approaching something that might startle, to press a kiss to your cheek in farewell.

Your hand came up. Palm flat, fingers extended, stopping him before he reached you.

"Whatever you wish, princess."

What you wished, it seemed, was to punish him.

The feast was an exercise in torment.

Your celebration sprawled across the hall in a riot of color and sound that bore Ormund's fingerprints on every surface. The musicians played songs you had told him you liked. The dishes had been selected because you had mentioned enjoying each of them, throwaway observations that Ormund had filed away. The flowers, clusters of pale gold and white blooms brought from the Reach, had been chosen because their scent reminded you of flowers in Dorne, a memory you had shared with him in the dark of his chambers.

All of it. Every last element. For you.

Yet you refused to spare him a single glance.

Instead, you clung to Gwayne's arm.

Ormund watched, his wine untouched, his teeth grinding so harshly the sound was nearly audible. He watched the way your hand rested in the crook of Gwayne's elbow, your fingers curled against the deep green leather of his doublet, your body angled toward your husband as though pulled by a tide only the two of you could feel. Gwayne never stopped touching you; a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, a palm resting warm and possessive over your knuckles on the table. You allowed Gwayne to press kisses to your forehead, to your cheeks, to the back of your hand. Each a small, public, devastating display of intimacy.

Ormund's thoughts churned, maddening and relentless, a litany he could not silence.

It was he who adored you, who was devoted to you, who suffered many indignities to be by your side, even for a moment.

It was Ormund who loved you.

He caught himself mid-thought. This feeling was one he had circled for months without once allowing it to land. He loved you. Love that consumed and structured and devoured, that rearranged the architecture of his interior life.

Had he ever said that to you? He searched his memory, turning over every encounter, finding nothing. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps if you knew how he felt, if you understood the depth of it, you would see. You would see how he cared for you more than Gwayne ever could. More than Gwayne ever would.

Gwayne leaned close and whispered something in your ear.

Your lips parted slightly, lashes lowered. Then your eyes swept across the room and settled on a point behind Ormund's shoulder. Your gaze lingered there a moment too long.

Ormund turned his head. He followed the line of your sight across the hall and found a knight, a large man, thickly bearded, his skin tanned dark from years of campaigning under the sun. He sat, downing yet another cup of ale, the foam clinging to the coarse hair above his lip. He laughed at something, loudly and without grace, and slammed the empty cup down on the wood with a crack.

Disgusting. The word formed in Ormund's mind with physical recoil. The man was an offense. Coarse, common. That you had looked at him, even briefly, even in passing, struck Ormund as offensive.

He turned back to face you.

Your eyes flickered to his and you held his gaze.

The hall moved around the two of you, music swelling, laughter rising, none of it touching the space between your eyes and his. You held him there, pinned, and then you tilted your head, a fraction. Gwayne whispered something else in your ear. His lips brushed the shell of it, his breath stirring the hairs that fell against your neck.

You smiled, eyes stayed locked on Ormund's. You turned and kissed Gwayne on the lips, firmly. A bold display. Ormund thought that it would have hurt far less if you simply killed him.

Gwayne guided you through the door of your chambers with his hand at the small of your back. The feast had left a residue on your skin, the faint sweetness of wine and the press of a hundred eyes that had watched you all evening. You wanted to shed all of it. His mouth traced the column of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste you as his lips moved. You moaned as he sucked a particularly sensitive spot below your jaw. You felt the familiar comfort of his arms encircling you, the steady rhythm of his breath, and yet your mind drifted elsewhere.

You let him hold you, his fingers pulling at the tie around your neck holding your gown up. He felt the stillness in you, the absence of response, and paused. Your body felt passive in his arms rather than melting into him as you usually did.

"Make amends with Ormund," he murmured, pulling away from you.

You clung to him. "You do not know what he said."

"I know him." Gwayne's eyes held yours in the low light. "It was something prideful, cruel, and stupid."

You exhaled a short breath through your nose. He was not wrong. Ormund's words from earlier that day still sat beneath your skin like splinters, the way he had spoken of your marriage, the implication that your husband did not desire you.

"And yet you would have me give him my forgiveness?" You shifted. "I thought you do not like when I am with him."

Gwayne sighed, the breath leaving him slowly. "Yes," he admitted, "but somehow it is worse when you quarrel." He leaned down then, his lips meeting yours. When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours. "I will go. You can send for him, and I will see you in the morrow for a ride."

You studied his face; the fine bones, his mouth pressed into a line that was not quite frustration but bordered on it. He was beautiful in this light. "Are you certain?"

He looked over you, thinly veiled disappointment flickering in his eyes. "It is not me you are thinking of now anyway."

The words were unfortunately true. You placed your hands against his chest, leaning up to kiss him. "I love you," you whispered.

His hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading through the heavy fall of your hair. "And I you, even moreso, sunbeam."

Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have in the sudden silence.

You stood motionless, the night air cool against your bare skin. The hearth crackled behind you, casting dancing shadows across the room.

You pulled a silk robe from the wardrobe, letting the fabric slide over your shoulders without bothering to fasten it. The material clung to your curves, sheer enough that candlelight passed through, gilding your golden skin in amber warmth.

You moved to the door and spoke to the guard stationed outside. "Fetch Lord Ormund."

The guard nodded, eyes carefully averted, and disappeared down the corridor. He knew better than to acknowledge what transpired in your chambers.

The knock came quickly and unsurprisingly.

Ormund had barely closed the door behind him before his hands were on you, pulling you against him. "Do you not think you should apologize to me first?" The words came out steadier than you felt, your chin tilting up to meet his gaze.

He stilled. His hands, still spanning your waist, tightened almost imperceptibly. Then he released you, stepping back only to take your hands in his. He brought them to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his mouth warm and his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did not speak kindly to you, and for that I am most sorry."

The anger you had nursed all day, that hard knot beneath your breastbone, began to loosen.

"You drive me mad, princess," he continued, his thumbs tracing circles on your hands.

"Perhaps you are just mad, my lord."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward in genuine amusement. He leaned in, his lips brushing your cheek with a lightness that made you lean toward him, chasing the contact. "I only wished to share in this day with you. To make it perfect for you."

You saw it then, the earnestness that lived beneath his pride, the vulnerability he armored. You lifted your hand to his face, your palm fitting against the strong line of his jaw, feeling the tension there, the slight tremor of restraint.

"No," you clipped. You pulled your hand from his grasp and turned, walking to the seat by the hearth.

"No?" he repeated, his voice hardened, confusion beginning to give way to the temper that lived so close to his surface.

You turned to face him. Stretching your legs before you, occupying the entire space, leaving no room for him beside you. Your robe parted slightly with the movement, revealing the golden expanse of your thigh.

Ormund followed, standing before you, his frame blocking out the fire and casting you in shadow.

"On your knees, my lord."

His left brow rose, a minute betrayal of surprise which he quickly suppressed. Then slowly, he gave in and sank. One knee then the other on the stone floor. He had knelt countless times before altars and septons in prayer. But this devotion, before you. This was worship.

You gave him a smile of pure satisfaction, feeling the power of the moment settle. Your tongue darted out to wet your lower lip and you watched his eyes track the movement with hunger.

"Apologize," you said. "Properly."

A breath of amusement escaped him, moving his chest. "No one speaks to me the way you see fit to."

You said nothing, eyes fixed on him, demanding he show you true humility. Submission.

"I am sorry for my words, princess."

You let out a small, knowing laugh. "Liar."

Surprise flickered across his features once more before giving way to admiration. He stood, moving your legs and arranging them over his lap as he sat next to you. His hand found your bare thigh as he leaned, covering your body with his, his face just inches from yours.

"I have never wished to cause you harm," his voice was barely above a whisper, raw with emotion. "Everything I do, everything I say, it is only with your best interests in mind." His eyes scanned yours, searching for belief, for forgiveness. You bit your bottom lip, feeling your heart flutter at the tenderness in his voice.

"I know it," you said, placing your hand on his shoulder. "Thank you for caring for me so." His heart beat faster and you heard him audibly suck in a breath. His lips parted slightly as he took you in, then the tension released from his shoulders.

He pressed his lips to yours, slowly, deeply. He pulled you into his lap effortlessly.

"The day was good to you?" he asked, when you finally separated, his voice barely concealing his desire.

You nodded, fingers finding the hair at his nape.

"Then let me ensure the night pleases you just as well."

You lay on your back afterwards, the length of your body exposed from the waist down, one knee bent lazily, the other leg stretched long. Your breathing had slowed as your body settled. Between your thighs you were tender, still wet, the dull throb of a cunt that had been fucked hard and well.

Ormund lay beside you, propped on one elbow, the cut of his abdominal muscles flexing as he shifted his weight. A flush across his chest, a thin sheen of sweat still visible along the line of his collarbone. He held your hand in his and pressed his lips to each individual knuckle.

You watched him. When he finished, you moved your hand to his face, your palm settling against his jaw. He turned into the touch and leaned forward to kiss you. It was nothing like the rough kisses of earlier when he had pinned your wrists above your head and thrust into you. This was soft.

He pulled back just enough to speak. "Wicked, wicked creature."

"Surely you do not speak of me," you said, and a guilty smile curved your mouth, the kind that promised trouble and meant every word of it.

His own mouth answered with a slow, crooked smile, and his hand moved down your naked body. His palm skimmed over the swell of your breast, the plane of your stomach, and then down, slowly, caressing the bare length of your leg from thigh to knee and back again. "Of course you," he answered. "You have corrupted me. Mind, body, and soul."

You gave him an amused look, one brow lifting, your head tilting just slightly against the pillow. "If I remember correctly, my lord, you begged me to invite you to my bed."

He chuckled. "A fair humiliation to endure for the privilege of loving you."

Loving...

You turned your head on the pillow toward him, and your expression shifted, the amusement still present but something careful surfacing beneath it. You began to sit up, pulling the sheet across your lap. "Ormund?"

He was not a man to be ashamed or ignored. He met your gaze with steady confidence. "I love you."

You stared at him. He had never said that before, not in the dark of night when he had buried himself inside you and whispered filth against your ear, not in the mornings when he had held you close not wanting you to leave his arms. You opened your mouth. "Ormund, we discussed—"

"I know what we discussed." His voice was soft but it cut you off cleanly. The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable. "But I was already in love with you then."

You bit your lower lip, your brows drawing together just slightly. He moved closer to you on the bed, closing the distance you had tried to create. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest. You let him.

"Set your husband aside," he said, his mouth near your temple. "Be my lady wife." His hand moved up your spine. "I will fulfill every promise he has failed to deliver. Give you the children he refuses to."

Your eyes stung. Moisture gathered along your lower lashes, and you blinked rapidly, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. Children. The word alone was enough to crack something open inside you, the longing you carried every time Gwayne pulled away at the last moment and left you empty in more ways than one. You pulled back just enough to look at him. "And if I do that, Ormund, what will your people say of me? That I am a Dornish whore? A Martell sent to ruin the good men of Hightower?"

"You will be the Lady of Hightower," he said.

"I am already Lady Hightower."

The words felt like a slap, though you had not intended them as one. Ormund's jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed slightly as something shifted behind them. Not quite anger. He hated being reminded that Gwayne was your husband, and that he was merely a paramour. It made him feel replaceable. He wanted to be forever.

Your voice softened. "I can keep you as a companion, perhaps even carry your babe." Your hand came up to his chest, your palm flat against his sternum. "But you will never be my husband. You understand that, do you not?"

"No," he said, and the word came out sharp, bitten off. "I do not understand."

You exhaled through your nose. "Then I am afraid we cannot continue this arrangement. Twice in one day you have overstepped."

The sheet fell from your lap as you slid off the edge of the bed, your bare feet finding the cool stone floor. You stood, naked, your body still marked from the evening. You moved without looking back, heavy hair swaying against the small of your back as you bent to retrieve his shirt from the heap of discarded clothing on the floor. You picked it up, turned, and tossed it at him. It hit his chest and he caught it reflexively.

"You will show yourself out," you said, disappointment plain in your voice. "Again."

You turned and walked toward the bathing chamber, making it only a few steps before his arms came around you from behind.

Ormund was tall, broad, and he enveloped you completely, his chest against your back, arms crossing beneath your breasts, his chin resting on the top of your head. He ducked down, pressing his lips to the place where your neck met your shoulder. "I am sorry, princess," he whispered against your skin. "I do not—"

You said nothing. You let him hold you, your hands coming to rest over his strong forearms, your fingers curling lightly around the muscle. He held you tighter.

"I wish to give you everything," his voice was rough at the edges. "I wish I had met you first."

The regret in his voice was unmistakable. You closed your eyes. "Ormund." A pause. "It may not make sense to you, but Gwayne and I do love one another. He is a good husband to me. He was very kind to allow me to keep you despite his many reservations."

The words were firm, certain, delivered without cruelty but without apology. You felt the breath leave his chest, a slow exhale against your hair. You turned within his embrace, facing him now.

"We will not have this conversation again. This only works if everyone plays their part, do you understand?"

He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face. Then he nodded.

You rose onto your toes and placed a kiss on his lips. "Good."

He kissed you again. His hand came to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair.

Ormund understood clearly that you would never choose him over Gwayne. He held you a little tighter. If the place by your side was occupied, he would simply have to make it available.

As the towering shadow of the Hightower stretched across the streets of Oldtown, the salty breeze rising from the harbor carried the scent of the sea through the avenues. The city’s distinct air was a world away from the gloomy, treacherous atmosphere of King's Landing. Inside the manse, you sat by the window, your eyes fixed on the grand courtyard where the gates opened. During Gwayne’s long, perilous journey to the Red Keep, your heart had known no peace. You were still a newly-wed bride; the deep, vibrant excitement of being newlyweds and the aching longing for your husband had weighed heavily on your chest for days. You and Gwayne had grown up together, attending tournaments, festivals, and trade pacts side by side. The gods had shown mercy in your fate: what appeared to be an arranged match was actually a genuine marriage of love.

You looked breathtakingly beautiful in your gown of deep green cloth, embroidered with intricate silver thread; yet far more than your beauty, it was the impatient longing and loving light in your eyes that illuminated the room.

Your waiting finally ended with the sound of hooves echoing against the stone streets and the heavy rumble of carriage wheels. The manse’s massive wooden doors groaned open.

The moment you heard those hoofbeats, your heart began to race. Without a second thought, you left your room and hurried down the broad marble staircase of the manse, rushing toward the courtyard. As your skirts glided across the marble steps, your eyes were locked solely on the man dismounting his horse.

Gwayne released the reins from his black stallion and stepped deftly down to the ground, spotting you the very second his feet touched the earth. His face—weary after days buried under road dust, royal burdens, and heavy armor—lit up in an instant at your sight. The exhaustion in his eyes dispersed like morning mist, replaced by absolute relief. As you ran toward him, he opened his arms wide, utterly indifferent to the cold hardness of his armor or the presence of the surrounding servants.

When you threw your arms around each other, time seemed to stand still. Holding you tightly, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, drawing in a deep, trembling breath to inhale your scent. You wrapped your arms around his neck, melting the longing that had gnawed at your heart for days into his warmth.

"I missed you dearly, husband..." you whispered, your voice quivering slightly with excitement and relief. "I counted every single day since you left, Gwayne. My eyes never left the moonlight, nor our window."

Gwayne pulled back slightly and took your face between his hands. As his thumb gently caressed your cheek, his gaze held the deepest, most protective adoration a devoted husband could feel for his bride. He leaned in and pressed a long, warm kiss to your forehead.

"My beautiful bride..." Gwayne said, his voice thick with desire and tenderness. "Every moment I drew breath in the Red Keep, I thought only of returning to you. To the city, to you, to our home... Your presence alone made these endless roads bearable for me."

Gwayne intertwined his fingers with yours, bringing them to his lips to kiss each of your knuckles one by one. "I promise you, my lady, I will never leave you alone for this long again."

As you smiled at his sweet words, the enchanting bond between you swept away the courtyard's chill. You gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, revived by one another's presence.

Just then, the door of the ornate carriage behind him opened. A serving woman carefully stepped out, holding a tiny infant wrapped in swaddling clothes. Gwayne shifted his gaze from you with a soft smile and placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you gently toward the carriage.

"I’ve brought you Oldtown’s newest guest," Gwayne said in a gentle tone.

Together, you approached the baby. As the servant drew back the cloth covering the swaddle, you saw Daeron inspecting his surroundings with curious blue eyes. The curls peeking out from the swaddle were not Targaryen silver but a bright, auburn, just like Gwayne’s. He waved his tiny hands in the air, smiling innocently.

The sight made your heart melt. You leaned down and touched the babe's cheek. As you extended your finger, Daeron grasped it tightly with his small hands.

"Gods..." you whispered, your eyes shining as you looked at Gwayne. "Gwayne, he looks so much like you. Look at his tiny nose, the color of his hair... It feels less like looking at a prince from the capital and more like looking at you as a babe."

Watching the genuine, motherly affection you showered on the infant, a proud and incredibly sweet smile appeared on Gwayne's face. He leaned over your shoulder to look down at the baby, then brought his hand to rest on your shoulder, gently squeezing it.

"I knew you would welcome him like this," Gwayne said, his voice filled with hope and love. He stroked the baby's hair softly. "Daeron will grow up here, surrounded by your warmth, with us. Far from cold court, as part of a real family..."

Gwayne leaned in closer, whispering as he met your eyes: "This shall be a practice for us, too. When our own children are born, Daeron will make a great older brother to them. He’ll protect them and teach them to run through these streets together."

At Gwayne's mention of "our own children," a sweet feeling touched your heart, and a warm flush rose to your cheeks. Moved by his words, you rested your head against his chest. As Daeron held fast to your finger, Gwayne wrapped his arm securely around your waist.

"This is his home," you said with firm love. You offered the little infant into his uncle's arms.

Gwayne drew you even closer, and together you stepped toward the entrance of the manse with the tiny life cradled between you.

With Gwayne's arm wrapped snugly around your waist, you both looked down at the infant in his arms. Daeron seemed to have built a little throne for himself within Gwayne's broad, safe hold. Just then, the baby reached his tiny hands into the air and caught a lock of hair tumbling over your shoulder. His small fingers wrapped tightly around the silky strand; pulling it gently toward himself, Daeron let out a cheerful, gurgling giggle.

Seeing the sweet scene, Gwayne let out a low, warm laugh. "It seems he’s already made his first conquest," he said, his eyes sparkling.

Smiling, you leaned in and placed your fingers gently over his tiny hands to untangle your hair without hurting him. "Not a very painful conquest, I must say," you whispered merrily, pressing a soft kiss to Daeron's cheek. Your heart swelled as the baby released your hair and tried to touch your face instead. The natural, motherly warmth on your face did not escape Gwayne's notice.

Seeing you embrace the child not with mere formal court courtesy, but with pure affection, Gwayne felt all his inner troubles melt away. Yet another thought lingered in his mind. Tightening his hold on your waist, he leaned closer, his voice turning slightly more serious, though still tender:

"Did my cousin Ormund cause you any trouble?" Gwayne asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Bringing a carriage full of palace belongings and a Targaryen prince into the middle of his city couldn't have kept his spirit calm."

You smiled and sighed gently, without taking your eyes off Daeron’s red curls. "Ormund was in his usual state," you replied with a sweet touch of irony. "He grumbled constantly, of course. You know how much he hates seeing Oldtown’s order disrupted and the court's troubles brought to his doorstep."

"Just court matters?" Gwayne asked with a smile, knowing his cousin's moody nature all too well.

"Of course not," you said, looking up into Gwayne's eyes. "He slipped in his usual talks. He couldn't pass up the chance to point out that despite moons of marriage, we are not with a child yet. He kept asking when we'd hold our own babe."

Gwayne offered a faint smile at those words. "I sometimes forget Ormund does not come from the House of Patience and Courtesy," he murmured, leaning down to whisper in your ear: "But let him not worry... When that day comes, he will be forced to hold his tongue and leave you in peace."

As his words painted a sweet rose blush on your cheeks, Gwayne turned his gaze back to Daeron in his arms.

"He was uneasy about a Targaryen arriving in the city," you continued, bringing the focus back to the child. "He believed the capital's curse was settling upon Oldtown. But..." You ran your hand over the bright auburn curls on Daeron’s tiny head. "...seeing this little one in his arms, looking nothing like them, will change things."

Gwayne nodded in agreement, looking at Daeron’s red hair. "People will expect a Targaryen prince, only to find a Hightower child standing before them. He carries no scent of the Dragonpit, nor those silver locks... Everyone, including Ormund, will soften once they see this boy growing up behind these walls as one of our own."

When Daeron grabbed Gwayne’s finger and yawned with sleepy eyes, Gwayne pulled you close and pressed a deep kiss to the side of your head.

"You, me, and this little man... Nothing else matters."

As the carriage pulled up in the courtyard, the baby’s belongings, chests, and the royal servants began descending one by one, carrying items through the grand doors of the manse. Just then, one of the attendants carefully lifted a heavy, wooden chest draped in velvet covers out of the carriage. As the edge of the cloth slipped slightly, the strange, scaly, matte surface beneath gleamed for a moment in the sunlight: it was the dragon egg sent from the court to be placed in Daeron's cradle.

Gwayne looked at the servant carrying the chest and let out a soft sigh. Tightening his arm around your waist, he leaned down to your ear: "Ah, yes... There’s this as well," he said, his tone lighthearted yet weary. "I only hope it doesn't hatch in Oldtown. We hardly need to raise a dragon in the middle of the manse."

You smiled softly at his reaction. With Gwayne holding the babe and you nestled at his side, you stepped into the entrance of the manse. The fatigue of the road and the gloom of the court were left behind as the heavy wooden doors closed behind you.

Together, you climbed the wide staircase and walked toward the nursery you had prepared for Daeron. Upon entering, Gwayne paused to look around. You had arranged the room over the past few days with immense care; soft sunlight filtering through the windows illuminated the light draperies and the wooden cradle resting in the corner. The room smelled of dried roses.

"You’ve prepared the room beautifully," Gwayne said, looking at you with deep admiration in his eyes.

"It has been my sole occupation for days," you said, walking toward the small table beside the cradle. You gestured to the embroidery hoop resting on the table and the soft baby blanket framed within it. "Look, I began stitching a pattern for him. I wanted little songbirds, falcons, and colorful wildflowers on it... Something cheerful to brighten his spirits. It isn't finished yet, but..."

Gwayne seemed enchanted by your thoughtfulness. He extended Daeron toward you. As you took the infant into your arms, Daeron rested his tiny head securely against your chest. You walked over and sat in the spacious, softly cushioned rocking chair beside the windows.

Gwayne leaned against the edge of the cradle, folding his arms across his chest. Without taking his eyes off you for a single moment, he watched you and the tiny life in your lap.

You began to rock the baby gently in your arms. As Daeron's sleepy eyes slowly fluttered shut, a low, peaceful lullaby drifted from your lips, filling the room. Your voice, floating into the quiet air, lulled the baby's breathing into a rhythmic calm.

Gwayne stood mesmerized. Watching you rock the babe, the strands of hair falling across your face, and your gentle grace as you sang the lullaby, he could not conceal the profound love surging within him. He stepped toward you soundlessly and knelt beside the chair. Placing his hand over yours, he brought his head near your knee and whispered:

"Here..." Gwayne said, his voice thick with emotion. "I could stay right here until the Stranger takes me."

Just as Gwayne placed his hand over yours, looking up at you, a heavy set of footsteps echoed at the doorway, instantly shattering the peaceful enchantment.

"So, you have finally graced Oldtown with your presence, Ser Gwayne."

Ormund Hightower stood at the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest, stepping heavily into the room. With a distant expression on his face, he looked first at his cousin, then at the babe in your arms.

Gwayne let out a quiet sigh and rose from his kneeling position. The soft smile on his face vanished, replaced by a formal demeanor; he seemed entirely unperturbed by Ormund's arrival. Rather than trading words with his cousin, he maintained his composure and met him with calm silence.

Ormund slowed his pace as he approached Gwayne. "Are you engaging in women's work now, carrying babes?" he said, his voice dripping with dry mockery. "Though... I see you have finally found a way to present your wife with a child, Ser Gwayne. Compensating for your own shortcomings by bringing one ready-made from the court is quite an accomplishment."

Ormund's tactless jab at your marriage and your lack of child hung heavily in the room for a brief moment. Gwayne did not lose his temper; knowing his cousin's ill-humored and blunt disposition, he merely squared his jaw and stood in mature, dignified silence.

Ormund then shifted his gaze from Gwayne to you and Daeron. He walked heavily toward the rocking chair. He gave you a brief, respectful, yet stern nod. Then he leaned forward slightly, bringing his imposing frame down to the babe's eye level.

Ormund inspected the child's face intently, as if assessing this "Targaryen burden" sent from King's Landing. He narrowed his eyes, expecting a child of dragonblood to disrupt the order of Oldtown. But as his gaze caught the bright, gleaming red curls spilling from the edge of the swaddle, his expression softened for a fleeting instant.

The baby possessed no Targaryen hair. Daeron looked back at Ormund with half-open, peaceful eyes, his red curls shimmering in the light streaming through the window.

Ormund's sharp, furrowed brows gradually relaxed. The tense line of his face gave way to a mixture of surprise and hidden relief. At least he bears no resemblance to those dragon-riding savages, he thought to himself. The infant's Hightower-like appearance somewhat tempered the Targaryen resentment in his chest.

Ormund extended a finger gently toward the child. When Daeron wrapped his tiny hand around his rough finger, a faint, proud smile played at the corners of Ormund's lips. He raised his head, looking first at you, then at Gwayne.

"Good," Ormund said, the harshness in his voice softening for the first time. "At least he does not look like those savages." Still, he had no intention of displaying affection at length or embracing the child as you and Gwayne did. Maintaining his distance, he continued to inspect the baby's face with detached curiosity.

Just then, little Daeron reached out his arms toward the large man standing before him. He wriggled playfully within his swaddle, lunging forward as if wanting to go straight to Ormund.

Seeing the infant make a move toward him, Ormund recoiled slightly in surprise. Such close contact with a baby was entirely foreign to his world.

Gwayne, catching his cousin's sudden startle and clumsy hesitation, could not contain a loud laugh. "What is the matter, Ormund?" Gwayne asked, a thoroughly mischievous smile on his lips. "Does a Lord who commands a whole army pull back when a tiny babe wants to be held?"

Ormund's pride was instantly wounded by Gwayne's remark and mocking laugh. He squared his chin and knitted his brows. "Nonsense!" he snapped, stepping forward to take Daeron from your arms with somewhat rough yet proud movements. Positioning the baby against his chest, he began to rock him awkwardly and rather stiffly. "There is no simpler task."

However, this moment of pride was short-lived.

As Ormund rocked the babe in his arms, Daeron suddenly screwed up his face, and a distinct sound echoed through the room. The little prince had thoroughly soiled his nappy, right onto the Oldtown Lord's smooth, expensive doublet. The moment the warmth and sharp odor seeped into Ormund's clothes, his face twisted into a sight of absolute horror.

Ormund's dignified posture collapsed in a fraction of a second. His face contorted in utter disgust, his eyes bulging as if they might pop out. He thrust his arms forward as if holding a burning coal, practically throwing the baby back into your arms.

"Take him! Take him now!" Ormund panicked, his voice straddling disgust and desperation.

While you bit your lip to suppress your laughter and quickly gathered Daeron into your lap, Ormund lost no time reaching for the small sachet filled with dried lavender and cloves tied to his leather belt. Unfastening the pouch, he pressed it directly to his nose and began inhaling the fragrance deeply.

With an expression of sheer revulsion, keeping the scent sachet glued to his nose, he turned around and marched hastily toward the door. Fleeing the room, his voice boomed muffled yet commandingly from behind the sachet:

"Clean this child! And see that Gwayne is cleaned as well!"

As Gwayne watched Ormund sweep down the corridor like a storm, he caught your eye, trying in vain to stop his laughter.

As Ormund's hurried footsteps faded down the hallway, Gwayne walked over to your side. A sweet, radiant joy shone on both your faces.

A Knight Always Returns | @thequietdomain

Born without a title or noble name, you never expected to become Gwayne Hightower’s wife—or to raise Prince Daeron as your own son. But when war threatens the family you built together, promises, bloodlines, and loyalties are put to the ultimate test

Swan song | @wintrynightz

marriage to Gwayne as a Stark lady | @/wintrynightz

After your marriage to Gwayne as a Stark lady, you’ve been living in old town, but you can’t help but to miss the north

married life | @/wintrynightz

headcanons of married life with a reader whose personality is similar to helaena’s

Gwayne courting reader | @/wintrynightz

headcanons of Gwayne courting a reader whose personality is similar to helaena’s

Bee-stings | @persephonesdreams21

Gwayne and his wife disagree on politics. They fuck about it instead. 

Back to You | @thebrownsugababe

For a year Gwayne has longed for your presence. For a year his pillow has been soaked with tears of longing for your majesty. At last he can breathe out the old, and inhale all that you are.

Greedy, Greedy Woman | @milkvetch114

pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.

In the Land of Eternal Warmth | @erzsebetrosztoczy

Take me by surprise | @chamomileteah

it's your time to get married and you  look for a suitable lord who asks for your hand

When Gentlemen Fall | @wonderlanderings

Gwayne Hightower has spent months restraining himself from the princess's advances. Tonight, you decide to test just how strong his honour really is.

accept the help, my love | @bladeoria

HOW SELFISH OF ME | @carmysdoll

Cold Stone Warm Skin | @velieditss

Despite being a prisoner and the war still raging, a small light breaks through the darkness. Gwayne has arrived at Tumbelton, ready to join Ormund’s forces. After months apart, you have the chance to see him again.

A Bittersweet Reunion | @wolves-and-dragons

Upon hearing your beloved, knightly husband is on his way to Tumbleton to reunite with the Greens regiment, you take it upon yourself to give Gwayne a surprise reunion of your own (much to the disdain of his lord cousin).

love language | @cosmictheo

when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros.

Afflictions | @silv3rswirls

Desperate to secure an heir, Gwayne turns to the one man arrogant enough to say yes.

Inescapable | @dumb-bitchass

you and gwayne were lovers once, in a time that feels so distant now. The war has since torn you apart, but the memories reamin gliterring reminders of what once was; and more bubble up as you come face to face once more with the man you used to love.

His Cousin’s Wife | @danysdaughter

being Lord Ormund Hightower’s wife has afforded you many luxuries. his handsome cousin is the only one you have yet to acquire.

a fair exchange | @lovebugism

gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband.

try a little tenderness | @/lovebugism

you nurse gwayne back to life again when the war leaves him for dead, and he finds himself in no hurry to be rescued from you.

Echoes of a Promise | @novaursa

When Prince Daemon Targaryen challenged Ser Gwayne Hightower during the tourney, that King Viserys I orginazed for birth of his heir, it was not just to humiliate and spite Otto. It was because of you.

Lady Hightower. | @entitled-fangirl

the reader is approached by Criston Cole. Gwayne doesn’t like the look in Cole’s eyes.

A good father. | @/entitled-fangirl

fatherhood is different than what Gwayne expected. Daeron worries that it will be the same as Otto and Gwayne’s relationship.

Sweet nephew. | @/entitled-fangirl

Gwayne’s wife is the epitome of everything Aemond was never given as a child- a sweet voice, a caring hand, and a comforting presence. He grows a love for her, and Gwayne’s pissed.

Taken hostage. | @/entitled-fangirl

brought along Ormund’s army to join her husband, the Princess, as well as Prince Daeron, are taken hostage by Daemon.

me and my husband | @raven-dor

in which gwayne hightower is overprotective of his pregnant wife, and she begins to worry about the outcome of the birth

i wanna be yours | @/raven-dor

in which gwayne hightower is entranced by his sister’s best friend

The Cost of Duty | @nyrasvoid

Gwayne Hightower, is summoned in Kingslanding during his wife’s first pregnancy. After giving birth to their son without him, she struggles to forgive Gwayne upon his return.

A Knight’s Prize | @/nyrasvoid

in a tourney to decide her future, Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest daughter must choose a husband. Ser Gwayne Hightower, a charming yet unexpected suitor, captures her attention.

All Too Well | @say-al0e

As a girl, you hoped you would someday marry Gwayne Hightower. That hope disappeared with Gwayne the day he was sent back to Oldtown. Now, as Rhaenyra finds a parade of suitors filling the Keep in search of her hand, one arrives just for you.

Before we fall | @moon-heart22

After the Hightowers usurped the throne, they arranged a marriage between you and Gwayne Hightower. You still raged with anger that they took your mothers birthright however you have no choice but to do as they say...

Hiraeth, part 2, part 3 | @quasyzygy

Your father, the King betroths you to Otto’s eldest son.

married life habits | @pinkdoeweirdo

gwayne hightower and courtship | @ghostlybfgf

Gwayne being the most devoted husband.. | @/ghostlybfgf

I REMEMBER, SWEET LOVE, ALL NIGHT LONG. | @/ghostlybfgf

amid the war you’ve yourself stranded, holding onto what of your marriage you have left. but once the crown princes, your own nephew dies, you are forced to make a decision.

Vestiges and Laments | @escapic-mezzanine

After the battle at Rook’s Rest all Gwayne wants is you. Hopefully longing just like he is and cherishing his safe return. And yet he is met with an absence that makes his breath hitch and grim remarks he does not appreciate. Despite being a lord and a noble knight he is also nothing but a man, and how long can a man go without the comforting presence of his wife? And especially a wife who is worth worshipping, every battle and every whispered word of blasphemy?

imagine | @/escapic-mezzanine

Gwayne Hightower with a wife who is very restrained in showing her feelings.

THE LINE BETWEEN LOVE & HATE | @iydiamartinx

Forced into a political marriage, you and Ser Gwayne Hightower can’t stand each other. What begins as a war of sharp tongues and spiteful jealousy slowly unravels into an all-consuming obsession, proving there’s a very fine line between hatred and desire.

Tocourtaprincess | @chuluoyi

a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms… when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?

bundle of joy | @/chuluoyi

pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing…

A FEVER’S HOLD | @celestialwyvern

you fall ill and your husband Gwayne insists on nursing you back to health

THE CRUELEST OF MERCIES | @/celestialwyvern

Your tender marriage with Gwayne fractures when your father refuses to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen.

scantily clad | @brightflamer

You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.

to be alone with you | @/brightflamer

Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought.

The holiday | @imnotcryingyouare1

In which Gwayne accidentally invites his sister’s family on your getaway for his nameday.

Family | @/imnotcryingyouare1

My wife | @/imnotcryingyouare1

Runaway | @/imnotcryingyouare1

To be Gwayne Hightower’s wife… | @hightownlady

I Have You | @sedonasummer

Gwayne comes back from war and is so enamoured of his son.

The Highest Praise | @lostrealityr

A well spent morning with - or rather underneath - your devoted husband.

Life, love, loyalty | @liesandspookyfairytales

You pay your traitor husband a visit at Harrenhall. 

The Princess in Green | @helloitshell

Princess Alyssa Targaryen never wanted the Iron Throne, only a quiet life with the man she loved. Married to Ser Gwayne Hightower before the Dance of the Dragons begins, she believes their love is strong enough to survive anything. She is wrong.  When King Viserys dies and the Greens seize the crown, Alyssa refuses to betray her sister, Rhaenyra, and is imprisoned within the Red Keep by the very family she married into. Worse still, her husband chooses to remain at his family’s side, believing he can protect her from within. To Alyssa, it feels like the deepest betrayal. As war consumes the realm, Gwayne slowly realizes that his loyalty has become a prison for the woman he loves. Faced with losing her forever, he must choose between thefamilythat raised him and thevowshe made to his wife.

The Blood Wyrm’s Princess | @/helloitshell

As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.

Imagine | @thewritetofreespeech

Gwayne may have lost the tourney, but he gained a better prize.

YOU ARE A VISION OF BEAUTY | @julez-5

Gwayne had thought he was staring to loose his mind in Harrenhal, but thank the Gods you had arrived providing him with some light in such a dark place.

In the palm of your hand… | @goldenhoneyedwine

Wrapped around your finger… | @/goldenhoneyedwine

sweetened tea. | @sergwaynez

morning breakfast with husband! gwayne and your son! daeron.

come back home. | @/sergwaynez

ever since your sister has called you to war, it's been so long since you've seen your husband! gwayne and oh how your heart longs to go home to your lover. 

dancing! even if one’s partner is barely tolerable. | @/sergwaynez

you're drunk and in the fuzzy warmth of the hall, gwayne hightower is all you can see. its just a shame that in all your attempts of courting him, he has been nothing but respectful. maybe, its the tension between your families or maybe, just tonight with the liquid courage pulsing through your veins, you'll finally get him to crack. 

something happens and i’m head over heels! | @/sergwaynez

ser gwayne cannot work out for the life of him why you're acting so strange. you're suddenly too busy for him these days, how you're now very close with his cousin ormund and why even criston cole has been found whispering at your side. alt. reader just wants to throw her husband a surprise name day celebration but gwayne is too nosy, its a good thing he's very pretty and can make up for it.

gwayne hightower learning his wife’s ways | @winterstellars

Avy jorrāelan | @sneakyloki

Gwayne doesn't like you, every time you meet, you insult him in High Valyrian. At least, that's what he thinks, in reality, you're confessing your feelings to him. A brief conversation with Jacaerys helps him understand a few words of Valyrian and shed light on the truth.

in my dreams | @user481

Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.

His daughter | @idreamedofyouuuu

Ser Gwayne is your husband and a girl dad

Beauty of the North | @ishouldsleepbuticant

The home of the citadel, and the faith of the seven is now buzzing with gossip and rumours as the hand of the king's oldest son- Ser Gwayne Hightowers' betrothal to the youngest sibling of Cregan Stark the warden of the north. 

OILS AND YOUNG LOVE | @lysiastar

after gwayne’s absence, spiralling into the hours of the morrow, he seeks his bethrothed in the library of hightower. with a thoughtful gift held tightly in his grip, it seems that young love continues to grow between the soon to be couple.

back to you | @jxerv

at Rock’s Rest you find more than battle

You, Me, and My Ego | @gwaynes-sweetling

You were a Targaryen princess who married a Hightower, the people will whisper, of course, and especially undermine your marriage; however, you were raised under prim and poise. But who knew that all it took was a few flirtatious moves on your husband to ignite such an egoistical wife?

I Only See Daylight | @brunchable

Mornings with you | @rolling-storm-writing

Bittersweet, part 2 | @myladysapphire

married to Gwayne Hightower in some deludied attempt to resolve tensions between your family, when his loyalty is made clear you flee to your mother, feeling only bittersweet as you think of your husband.

chains of love | @rottenbites

ser mark mullendore has been put to rest, leaving you defenseless and without a knight. your mother, queen alicent, remedies that quickly, finding you a new sworn protector who hits a little too close to home

Quite Soft & Too Nice, part 2 | @sirxlla

You're Rhaenyra's daughter, and you become a prisoner of Gwayne and Criston Cole. Criston's being a dick; Gwayne's much more gentle.

Anchored | @bellvirine

you prefer scaling the high stone walls of Oldtown over riding dragons. Despite constant, gentle warnings from your devoted protector, Ser Gwayne Hightower, a rescue of a wounded bird leads to a tragic fall.

Butterflies | @targ4ryens

you thought your husband was sleeping peacefully on your lap until he was the reason you were left so undone.

You were once a bright young engineer, fresh out of MIT with dreams as big as the sky. You had a passion for technology, a sharp mind, and a heart full of ambition. Then life happened, in ways you never expected. You met someone, fell in love, and things moved fast. Maybe too fast. A whirlwind romance turned into an unexpected pregnancy, and before you knew it, you were a mother to a beautiful baby girl named Lily.

But your partner? He wasn’t ready. He disappeared from your life, leaving you alone to figure things out. At first, it was overwhelming, balancing work, the responsibilities of motherhood, and the heartbreak of abandonment. But you pulled through. You took up freelance work, designing software and small tech solutions from home, juggling conference calls while nursing, coding through the night after bedtime. You got used to it, became stronger, more resilient. Now, your daughter is five, a bundle of energy and curiosity who’s inherited your love for science and technology.

You’ve come a long way since those early days of struggle, but there’s still a part of you that wonders if you’ll ever find someone who’ll love both you and Lily. Someone who won’t run at the first sign of difficulty.

And then one day, you meet Tony Stark.

🚀

You don’t expect your day to take a turn like this. It’s a warm Saturday afternoon, and you’re at a local science expo — a rare treat for you and Lily. She’s dragging you from one exhibit to another, her little hands pulling on yours with excited tugs. It’s moments like these that remind you why you push so hard. Seeing her wide-eyed and full of wonder makes every sleepless night worth it.

You’re at an exhibit featuring cutting-edge AI when you feel her stop abruptly.

“Mommy, look! That's Iron Man!” Lily’s voice is filled with awe as she points to the tall figure standing a few feet away, surrounded by a small crowd. You follow her finger, and your heart skips a beat.

Tony Stark.

There’s no mistaking him, dressed in a sharp blazer and sunglasses, exuding that signature arrogance and charm you’ve only ever seen on TV. He’s in the middle of a casual conversation with someone, but even from here, you can feel the aura of importance surrounding him.

“Yeah, that’s Iron Man,” you murmur, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. You hadn’t expected to run into someone like him.

But Lily, being the fearless little adventurer she is, takes off running toward him before you can stop her. You’re quick on her heels, heart pounding as you call her name.

“Lily, wait!”

But it’s too late. She’s already tugging on Tony Stark’s pant leg by the time you catch up, looking up at him with those wide, curious eyes.

“Hi, Iron Man! I like your robots,” she says brightly, as if she’s talking to any random adult. Tony glances down, pulling his sunglasses off to reveal a pair of surprisingly kind eyes as he kneels to her level.

“Hey there, kiddo. You’ve got good taste.” He flashes a grin, and for a moment, you see why people love him so much. There’s something disarming about his easy confidence.

You finally reach them, feeling flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry—she’s… really into tech. She didn’t mean to—”

But Tony waves a hand dismissively, standing up to his full height and giving you a once-over. His gaze lingers just a fraction too long, and you suddenly feel like you’re under a microscope.

“No harm done,” he says, his tone surprisingly light. “She’s got a future, clearly. Knows how to pick role models.”

You chuckle awkwardly, still trying to process that you’re standing in front of the Tony Stark. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, but in a weirdly magnetic way. There’s a spark in his eyes that speaks of brilliance, mischief, and something deeper you can’t quite put your finger on.

“She loves Iron Man,” you say, trying to regain some composure. “She’s been obsessed with building things since she could stack blocks. I can’t seem to keep her away from anything mechanical.”

Tony arches a brow, glancing down at Lily who’s now excitedly talking about the miniature rocket she tried to build last week.

“Is that so?” he says, crouching down again, giving Lily his full attention. “A mini rocket, huh? Did it work?”

Lily shakes her head, her pigtails swaying. “It almost did. But it went boom.”

Tony chuckles, ruffling her hair lightly. “Sometimes that’s how the best inventions start. Next time, try using a lower combustion rate. Less ‘boom,’ more ‘whoosh.’”

You’re surprised by how gentle he is with her, how effortlessly he connects with a child, that you don't have the heart to tell him that it was you who did the major part of the building process. For a moment, you just watch them, your chest tightening at the sight of Lily’s joy. It’s rare for her to interact with anyone like this, especially someone who doesn’t treat her like a kid.

He stands up again, turning to you with a smirk. “She’s smart. Gets it from her mom?”

You flush slightly at the compliment, feeling a bit tongue-tied under his gaze. “I guess you could say that. I was an engineer before…” You trail off, not sure why you’re suddenly oversharing. Something about Tony Stark makes it hard not to.

Before you can say more, he interrupts. “Let me guess — you’re still an engineer. Just doing the mom-engineer thing now. That’s no small feat.”

You blink, caught off guard by how perceptive he is. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I know a thing or two about multitasking. Running a company and saving the world — it’s basically the same as raising a kid, right?”

You laugh despite yourself, relaxing a little. He’s not what you expected. Less distant, more… human.

“Sure, except your robots actually listen to you,” you quip, and Tony grins.

“Most of the time,” he admits. “So, any chance I could take a look at that rocket project? I’ve got a thing for fixing ‘booms.’”

Your heart skips again at the casual offer, but before you can reply, Lily pipes up, bouncing on her toes.

“Can we, Mommy? Please?”

You glance between her eager face and Tony’s amused expression. This is surreal. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at both of you — like he’s actually interested, not just humoring a fan. Like he sees you.

Maybe this isn’t a bad idea after all.

As you walk beside Tony Stark, weaving through the crowd, you can't quite believe what's happening. This kind of thing doesn't happen to people like you. Yet here you are, with Lily practically skipping ahead, chattering excitedly about rockets and robots, while Tony listens with genuine interest.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at you, “what’s your theory on the combustion failure? Too much fuel or not enough stabilization?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical question. You’d been bracing yourself for more of his charm or sarcasm, but here he is, actually engaging with you on a deeper level. You’re impressed, though it makes sense—he is Tony Stark, after all.

“Stabilization, mostly,” you reply, falling into a rhythm of conversation. “The design was sound, but we didn’t account for the weight distribution. It shifted mid-launch and threw everything off.”

He nods thoughtfully, like he's analyzing every detail. “Classic mistake. I had a similar issue with one of my early suits—though, you know, a little less ‘mini rocket,’ a little more ‘metal suit crashing into a building.’ Same basic concept, though.”

You laugh at the mental image, feeling a bit more at ease. “Yeah, I imagine the stakes were a little higher for you.”

Tony shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, let’s just say property damage and I have a complicated relationship.”

Lily turns around, walking backward as she looks up at Tony with wide eyes. “Did you blow up a building?!”

He grins, glancing down at her. “A few, but mostly on purpose. Don’t try that at home, kid.”

Lily giggles, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She’s clearly in awe of him, and it’s hard to blame her. You feel a bit of that awe yourself, though you’re trying not to show it.

“So, where’s this rocket of yours?” Tony asks, glancing around like he's half-expecting it to pop out of nowhere.

You clear your throat, feeling a bit sheepish. “Oh, um… it’s back at our apartment. We didn’t exactly bring it to the expo. I wasn’t expecting to run into… well, you.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing more pronounced. “What, you don’t carry failed rocket prototypes everywhere you go? Amateur move.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Tony taps his chin, pretending to think hard. “Tell you what. Why don’t you two swing by my place later? I’ve got a full lab, and I’m sure we can find something that won’t blow up—at least not right away.”

Your heart skips at the offer. Is he serious? Inviting you to Stark Tower like it’s the most casual thing in the world? You glance down at Lily, who’s looking up at you with pleading eyes, clearly hoping you’ll say yes.

“Are you sure?” you ask, trying not to sound too shocked. “I mean, we wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Intrude? Nah. Besides, I’ve been meaning to show off my new toys to someone who actually appreciates them. Kids are way better at that than most adults.” He glances down at Lily, then adds with a wink, “Plus, I’ve got juice boxes.”

Lily practically jumps up and down. “Mommy, can we go? Please, please, please?”

You hesitate for a moment, weighing the surreal situation. But something about Tony’s easy demeanor, the way he’s connected with Lily, and even the way he’s made you feel comfortable makes it hard to say no. It’s not every day you get a chance like this, and you know Lily will talk about it for weeks if you turn it down.

“Alright,” you say, giving in with a smile. “I guess we’re going to Stark Tower.”

Tony grins, looking genuinely pleased with your answer. “Great. Let’s make it a field trip.”

🚀

An hour later, you find yourself walking through the sleek, high-tech halls of Stark Tower. The whole place feels like something out of a futuristic movie, and you can’t help but feel a little out of place. But Tony, ever the showman, makes sure neither you nor Lily feel that way for long.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says with a grand gesture, like he’s introducing you to some royal palace. “I was going for ‘modest,’ but you know, things escalated.”

Lily’s eyes are practically bugging out of her head as she looks around, taking in the shiny surfaces, the impressive tech displays, and the overall coolness of the place. “This is so cool,” she breathes.

You can’t help but agree. “Yeah, this is… incredible.”

Tony leads you both to his lab, where holograms flicker in the air, and sleek machines hum quietly in the background. It’s every bit as impressive as you’d imagined—maybe more so. He walks over to a workbench, tapping a few buttons on a console until a holographic blueprint of a rocket hovers in front of him.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, crouching down to Lily’s level. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Tell me about your rocket.”

Lily beams, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her project, complete with wild hand gestures. Tony listens intently, nodding at all the right moments, occasionally throwing in a comment or suggestion.

You stand back, watching the two of them interact. It’s surreal, seeing Tony Stark—the Tony Stark—so genuinely engaged with your daughter. He’s patient, encouraging, and—despite his usual sarcasm—there’s a warmth in the way he talks to her that catches you off guard.

As Lily finishes her explanation, Tony stands up and looks over at you. “Sounds like you’ve got a real prodigy on your hands.”

You smile, feeling a swell of pride. “She’s pretty special, yeah.”

Tony taps his chin thoughtfully, then flashes you a grin. “You know, I don’t usually offer internships to five-year-olds, but I could make an exception.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe in a few years.”

“Fair enough,” Tony replies, still grinning. “But seriously, if she ever wants a tour of the lab—or you do—just say the word.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the offer. “You’re full of surprises today.”

Tony shrugs, nonchalant. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy. Plus, I like hanging out with people who don’t try to sell me on their latest ‘groundbreaking’ invention every five minutes.”

The three of you spend the next hour tinkering with the rocket design. Tony gives Lily some gentle guidance, teaching her a few tricks of the trade while making sure to keep things light and fun. You can tell she’s having the time of her life, and honestly, so are you. You’ve never seen her this animated, this confident.

As the afternoon winds down, Tony walks you both back to the lobby, hands in his pockets, his usual easy smirk back in place.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. “I’ll have my people send over the specs we worked on. Maybe next time, we can tackle world domination.”

You chuckle. “I’ll let you know if we’re free for that.”

Tony winks at Lily, who’s practically buzzing with excitement. “And hey, kid—next time you’ve got a rocket that goes ‘boom,’ give me a call. We’ll fix it together.”

Lily grins, waving enthusiastically. “Okay! Bye, Iron Man!”

As you leave Stark Tower, you can’t help but glance back at Tony one last time. He gives you a casual wave before turning back toward his lab, and you can’t shake the feeling that today was more than just a chance encounter.

It feels like the beginning of something. Something new. Something… different.

And you can’t wait to see where it goes.

🚀

Over the next few weeks, your life takes on a surreal, almost dream-like quality as Tony Stark begins to weave his way into your world. What starts as a few casual meet-ups, mostly centered around Lily’s fascination with all things tech, turns into something much more.

The first time he invites you both back to Stark Tower, it’s under the pretense of helping Lily with her latest invention—a robot that she’s determined to build from scratch. You sit back, watching as Tony patiently explains complex concepts to your five-year-old daughter, all while making it fun for her. There’s a tenderness in the way he interacts with her that surprises you. Tony Stark, the world-renowned billionaire with a reputation for being difficult, is kind and patient with a child, in ways you never would have expected.

You’re impressed, of course. But more than that, you find yourself drawn to the man behind the Iron Man persona.

It starts with little things. The way Tony catches your eye when Lily says something particularly cute or brilliant, the small smirk he gives when he knows you’re trying to hold back a laugh. He makes a habit of throwing sarcastic comments your way, but you soon realize it’s his way of flirting—teasing you in that playful, witty way he’s known for.

"You know," he says one afternoon while you’re watching him help Lily with a mechanical arm for her robot, “I think I deserve some kind of award for this. ‘Best Teacher to a Mini-Engineer.’ Maybe a medal. Or a statue.”

You smirk, folding your arms across your chest. “Oh, absolutely. I’m sure the world’s been waiting for a bronze Tony Stark to grace Central Park.”

He grins, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “I knew you were smart.”

It’s in these small moments that you find yourself opening up to him. You’ve always been independent, not allowing yourself to lean on anyone for help, but Tony’s different. He’s been through his own struggles, carried his own burdens, and while you’re still cautious, you find comfort in the fact that he gets it. He doesn’t judge you for being a single mom or for the sacrifices you’ve had to make. If anything, he admires it.

"Raising a kid and working as an engineer?" he says one night over dinner—yes, dinner. He’d invited you and Lily over for what he called "a Stark special," which turned out to be takeout pizza and some ridiculous dessert made by his AI assistant. "That’s a superhero gig right there."

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m pretty sure saving the world in a metal suit still beats making school lunches and fixing leaky faucets.”

“Hey,” Tony says, his tone light but serious, “you do both. No suit needed.”

That night, when you leave, you find yourself thinking about him long after Lily has fallen asleep. There's something about Tony that lingers. Maybe it's his charm, or maybe it's the way he looks at you like you’re more than just a mom balancing a million things—like he sees the person you were before all the responsibilities took over.

As time passes, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm. You, Tony, and Lily have your little routine now, with frequent visits to Stark Tower becoming almost a weekend tradition. What surprises you most is how seamlessly Tony has integrated into your life—and not just with Lily. He asks about your work, your passions, the things you’ve had to put on hold since becoming a single mom. He pushes you to take up some of your old engineering projects, even offering his lab space if you ever want to tinker.

“You could use the space when I’m not around,” he says one evening, nonchalant as ever. “There’s always room for another genius around here.”

You laugh it off, though your heart skips a beat. “I’m pretty sure one genius is enough.”

Tony arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “You’re right. With you here, we might be over capacity.”

As the weeks turn into months, you realize you’ve grown used to having Tony around. He’s no longer just the famous billionaire who showed up at a science expo one day. He’s become a friend, someone you can talk to, someone you can rely on.

But there’s more to it than just friendship. You feel it in the way your heart flutters when he leans a little too close during one of his sarcastic quips, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he smiles at you—really smiles, with that soft, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. You find yourself looking forward to the moments when it's just the two of you, standing on the balcony of Stark Tower late at night, talking about everything and nothing while Lily sleeps soundly in the guest room.

One evening, after one of those long, late-night talks, something shifts. You’re standing on the balcony, the city skyline stretched out before you, the cool breeze brushing your skin. Tony’s beside you, quiet for once, just watching the city lights. There’s a rare stillness about him, and you feel the weight of it, like he’s on the verge of saying something important.

“You know,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter than usual, “I didn’t expect this.”

You glance at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he’s not the confident, sarcastic Tony Stark. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable. “This. Us. You and Lily.” He swallows, as if the words are difficult for him. “I’ve spent so much time being Iron Man, or the guy who fixes problems, that I forgot what it’s like to just… be with someone. To care about people who aren’t expecting me to save the world.”

Your heart skips. His honesty catches you off guard, but you can tell it’s not something he shares often. And suddenly, you realize that you feel the same way.

“You’ve been… different for us, too,” you admit, your voice soft. “I wasn’t looking for anyone, and definitely not someone like you, but…” You trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence. How do you explain that Tony Stark has become more than just a fixture in your life? That you’ve started to fall for him, for all his quirks and complexities, for the way he’s seamlessly become part of your world?

Before you can find the right words, Tony steps closer. His eyes hold yours, that familiar spark of mischief still there, but tempered with something deeper. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “you and I are a pretty good team.”

You smile, feeling the weight of what’s unspoken between you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We are.”

And then, without another word, Tony leans in. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when your lips meet, there’s a spark, an electric current that runs through you both, confirming what you’ve known for a while now.

This is real. This is something worth holding on to.

🚀

The decision to make your relationship with Tony Stark official doesn’t happen in a single moment—it’s a gradual shift, one that feels inevitable after months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and nights spent talking on his balcony. But when it does happen, it’s perfect in its simplicity.

It starts one morning in his penthouse, a few months after that first kiss. You’ve been spending more time there, with Lily (who Tony affectionately refers to as "the little genius") practically making his lab her second home. The three of you have fallen into a comfortable rhythm, a little makeshift family that somehow feels like it’s always been meant to be.

On this particular morning, you wake up tangled in Tony’s sheets, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, his arm draped lazily over your waist. You turn your head slightly, smiling to yourself as you hear the soft hum of his breathing. For a man who seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks surprisingly peaceful when he sleeps.

As you shift to move, Tony tightens his arm around you, pulling you back against him with a sleepy grumble. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You chuckle, your voice hushed in the early morning quiet. “Trying to escape before your little apprentice wakes up.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Let her tinker. She’s practically running the lab anyway.” His lips graze your shoulder as he speaks, and you feel a familiar spark of heat ripple through you at his touch.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, though there’s no real bite in your words. You’ve gotten used to Tony’s brand of affection—playful, but with an edge of intensity that never fails to make your heart race.

“Mmm, terrible, but irresistible.” His voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a hint of mischief in it, the same mischief that always makes your pulse quicken. He shifts slightly, his hand trailing from your waist down to your thigh, fingers brushing lightly against your skin in a way that’s both teasing and possessive.

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, but there’s a familiar hunger there that sends a thrill of anticipation through you. “You’re definitely full of yourself,” you say, though your voice is softer now, breathier.

Tony’s smirk grows, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to pull you closer. “And you love it.”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours, and any thought of protest melts away in the heat of the kiss. His hand grips your thigh, pulling your leg over his waist as he deepens the kiss, the familiar intensity building between you. It’s slow at first, a lazy sort of desire, but it doesn’t take long before you’re both lost in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Later, as the sun filters through the curtains and you’re both tangled together in the sheets, a comfortable silence fills the room. Tony’s fingers are tracing absent patterns on your arm, and you can’t help but smile at how natural it feels, how easy.

“Have you thought about… telling people?” you ask softly, your head resting on his chest.

Tony raises an eyebrow, though he doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Telling people, as in the media?”

You nod, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. Being with Tony Stark comes with a certain level of exposure, and while you’ve been okay with the low profile you’ve kept so far, part of you wonders what it would mean to go public.

Tony is quiet for a moment, then he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “Hey, I don’t care what they say out there,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “If you want to keep things private for now, we can do that. But if you’re asking if I’m ready to go public…”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Your heart flutters at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. “I don’t care about the media,” you admit. “I just… I want to make sure we’re ready. That Lily’s ready.”

Tony’s expression softens at the mention of your daughter. “Lily’s already got me wrapped around her finger. I’d be more worried about how I’m going to survive that.”

You laugh, but the sincerity in his words brings a lump to your throat. Tony’s relationship with Lily has grown in ways you never expected. He’s been patient, playful, and completely devoted to her. And seeing them together has only deepened your feelings for him.

“Okay,” you say finally, smiling at him. “Let’s do it. Let’s go public.”

When the news breaks, the media goes into a frenzy. The headlines scream about “Tony Stark’s New Flame,” and “Iron Man’s Mystery Woman.” Paparazzi photos of you and Tony walking hand in hand through Central Park with Lily are splashed across every tabloid and news outlet.

To your surprise, the response is largely positive. While some outlets speculate about Tony’s past relationships and his infamous bachelor reputation, most seem genuinely intrigued by the idea of Tony Stark settling down, especially with someone who isn’t from the celebrity world.

The tabloids nickname you “The Genius and the Heart” and seem fascinated by how “normal” your life is compared to Tony’s glamorous lifestyle. There are articles praising you for balancing being a single mom with your engineering career, while others focus on Tony’s softer side, now that he’s seen as a father figure to your daughter.

You try to ignore most of the noise, but Tony, of course, has fun with it. One morning, you catch him scrolling through a gossip site, shaking his head in amusement.

“They think I’m domestic now,” he says, pretending to be offended. “I mean, can you imagine me, Tony Stark, settling down with a family?”

You roll your eyes, sitting beside him on the couch. “You do realize you’re proving them right by reading that, right?”

He grins, tossing his phone aside before pulling you into his lap. “Let them think what they want. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The moment you realize how much your relationship with Tony has changed comes one evening when you’re back at the penthouse after a long day. Tony’s in the kitchen with Lily, helping her with a science project that’s somehow turned into an impromptu baking session. The sound of Lily’s giggles fills the space, and you’re watching them from the doorway, a warm smile on your face.

Tony’s crouched down, talking to Lily as they decorate cupcakes—his version of “science.” You’re about to step in and join them when you hear it. Lily looks up at Tony, eyes wide with excitement, and says, “Can I put the sprinkles on, Daddy?”

Your breath catches. It’s the first time she’s ever called him that, and for a moment, you freeze, unsure how Tony will react.

But Tony doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles, ruffling her hair and handing her the sprinkles. “Go for it, kiddo. Just don’t get too carried away.”

Your heart swells, a mix of joy and disbelief washing over you. Lily’s words hang in the air, and when Tony glances up at you, there’s a softness in his expression that takes your breath away. He’s not just playing a part—he’s become a part of your life in ways you never imagined.

Later, when Lily’s asleep, you and Tony find yourselves curled up on the couch, the weight of the day settling into a comfortable silence. You rest your head on his chest, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm.

“She called you ‘Daddy,’” you murmur softly, still processing the moment.

Tony’s hand tightens around yours, his voice quiet but filled with warmth. “Yeah, she did.”

You glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you see is a man who has found his place—who has chosen to be here, with you and Lily.

“Are you okay with that?” you ask, your voice a little unsteady.

Tony looks down at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’ve never been more okay with anything,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m all in. With both of you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but they’re tears of happiness, of relief. You reach up, cupping his face as you pull him into a kiss—slow, tender, and filled with all the emotions you’ve been holding onto for so long.

When you finally pull away, Tony brushes a thumb across your cheek, his smile soft but full of promise. “So, what do you say? Think you can handle me as part of the family?”

You laugh, your heart feeling light. “I think we’ve been handling you just fine.”

And as you settle back into his arms, you know that this—this—is exactly where you’re meant to be. Together. A family.

Forever.

Being Tony’s assistant was one hell of a job. You thought it was a simple assistant position where you would file papers, get coffee, create meetings and schedules. Escaping death and running from terrorists or aliens was never in the job’s description; you couldn’t leave if you wanted to, you were far too involved to go now. So, you were stuck with Tony Stark for the rest of your life. You weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Another thing that wasn’t in the job description was cleaning up after Tony’s mess after he threw a spontaneous party and slept with a random girl there. You were exhausted. Tired of being his cleaner. Maybe you’d take your chances and leave this job. God bless whoever would come after you if you did succeed with leaving.

You were now standing in front of Tony’s mansion after Happy had informed you of another party that Tony threw. From what Happy told you, Tony decided to host a birthday party for himself three days in advance. He told Happy that he wanted to throw an early birthday party, and on the day of his birthday, he would host another one. You promptly ended the call after Happy informed you of Tony’s shenanigans. You didn’t want to deal with this if you hadn’t had your morning coffee yet.

You took in a deep breath before knocking on the door. A few moments of silence passed before the intercom made a staticky noise.

“State your name, please.” The familiar voice of Jarvis spoke through the intercom, and a loud sigh left your mouth as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“It’s me, Jarvis.” You answered tiredly, “Happy called me and told me what happened last night.”

“Ah, Ms. L/N,” Jarvis responded, his tone lighter. “Please come in.” The doors unlocked with a click, and you pushed through, met with the sight of balloons laid everywhere, red solo cups discarded across the floor and counters, and a large ‘Happy Birthday’ sign hanging from the balcony of the second floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You muttered under your breath as you continued to scan the area, “I don’t get paid enough for this.” You sighed before turning toward the stairs. “Jarvis, make a call to the usual cleaners and have them come in 15. Oh, and add an extra $300 for the inconvenience.”

“Yes, Ms. L/N. Will do.” Jarvis answered.

“He’s in his room?” You asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You took in a deep breath before you stopped in front of Tony’s room. You gave a knock before entering his room, and surprisingly, it was only him in the bed.

You walked closer to the bed and took in the sight of Tony’s sleeping figure, soft snores left his lips as his cheeks were smushed against the pillows. You grabbed a pillow from under him, causing his head to fall against the mattress, and threw it roughly on his head.

Tony jolted up with a surprised shout, and his right hand immediately thrusted out as a part of his Iron Man suit came flying to him and secured around his wrist and palm.

Tony’s suited hand made a whirring noise and shone brightly, ready to fire at anything and anyone. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms over your chest, unfazed by his technology and gadgets now. Tony let out a relieved sigh, finally noticing that it was only you and not some assassin who had broken into his home to kidnap him.

“An early birthday party, Tony?” You asked in a bewildered tone, “Seriously?”

“What?” Tony smirked with a shrug, “There’s nothing wrong with celebrating early.”

“You—” You sputtered, “You’re ridiculous. Get dressed. The cleaners will be here soon and we need to leave. You have some paperwork to sign and you will come or so help me god.” You narrowed your eyes at him with a stern finger pointing at him.

Tony’s smirk grew wider, his tongue poked against the side of his cheek, “Or what?”

You glare at him and threw another pillow at his face, “Get dressed. I’ll be in the car.” With that, you turned on your heels leaving behind a laughing Tony Stark.

God, was he infuriating.

Tony didn’t take long to get ready. By the time he finished, the cleaners had arrived and were ready to clean up his mess. The car ride to the Avengers Compound was quiet. Tony could tell that you were pissed at him. He found it cute, he liked getting on your nerves.

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t stay mad at me all day.” Tony smirked as he followed you into the tower.

“Watch me.” You answered immediately without looking at him. You reached the elevators and stepped in with him following inside. Tony chose to stand behind you and a chuckle left his lips at your snappy response.

“You should loosen up. Have fun.” Tony suggested, “You’re always so tense.”

“And whose fault is that?” You laughed humorlessly. You hear shuffling behind you, and suddenly, you feel a pair of lips brushing against your ears. You tense up, not daring to move a muscle.

“I’m sorry.” Tony’s warm breath fanned against your cheek, goosebumps rose on your arms, “Promise I’ll make up for it.” Just then, the elevator dinged causing you to slightly jump in place. A low shuddered gasp left your mouth as you turned to face Tony. A teasing look was evident on his face, but there was something else in his eyes that you couldn’t decipher. Something. . . dark.

You watched as he walked out of the elevator. He turned to look at you and raised an eyebrow, “You coming or what?” You let out a quiet squeak and quickly brushed past him, sprinting to where your office was located. You hear him chuckling and gulped, is this real?

Once you both made it to your office, you made Tony sit down and immediately made him sign the paperwork that you needed his signature for. You had him sign while you wrote emails to people who ranged from journalists, businessmen, investors, and more.

“Honey, you’ve been at that for hours. Take a break.” You glanced away from your laptop to see Tony putting down his pen and walking toward you.

You furrowed your eyebrows together and gave him a look, “Did you finish?” You asked him instead, choosing not to answer his question.

“I finished five minutes ago.” Tony raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against your desk, “Now take a break, I’m not asking.”

“Tony.” You began with a sigh.

“Nuh-uh.” Tony clicked his tongue. He moved to close your laptop, and your mouth gaped at his actions. “Break.”

“Fine.” You grumbled, leaning back against your chair.

Tony smiled with satisfaction, “Jarvis, place an order for a turkey sandwich with a side of potato wedges and a vanilla milkshake please.”

You look at him in surprise, “You know my order?”

“Please.” Tony scoffed, “You’ve been with me for what—five years now? Of course, I know your order. I know you. Just like how you know me.”

“Really?” You asked with a laugh. “Enlighten me, Mr. Stark. What do you know about me?”

Tony smirked, his foot reached over to slightly turn your chair so you would be facing him, “You like order. Hate disorganized things. You like to be clean, hate being messy. It shows in your outfits, too. You’re always wearing a white button-up and a long skirt. You leave your hair down, though, because you’re too lazy to style it. You like simple things, sometimes if you’re feeling bold, you go beyond your usual style.” You froze. It seems that Tony Stark does know you better than you thought, “Oh, and you’re a complete brat, but I like that about you.”

“Why?” You asked breathlessly.

Tony’s smirk grew wider, he tilt his head to the side as he held your gaze, “Cause I would have so much fun fucking the brattiness out of you.”

Your eyes grew wide, and a quiet gasp left your lips at his statement. What the actual fuck.

“Why are you so surprised?” Tony inquired teasingly. He lifted himself off your desk and walked toward you. You gripped on the armrests of your chair tightly, “You don’t think I noticed the way you would look at me? You’re not really discreet.” You continued to stare at him in shock, completely at loss of words, “You always look at me like you want to devour me whole, but don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual.”

“Tony. . .” You muttered breathlessly.

Tony’s eyes dropped to your lips, and his pupils seemed to darken and dilate. “God, you have such pretty lips. Can I kiss you? Would you let me, pretty girl?”

You gasped. Oh my god. This can’t be real.

“Honey?” You glance up to see Tony looking at you in concern, “You still with me?”

You nodded meekly, “Mhm. I—You can kiss me.”

Tony smiled, and he brushed his thumb against your bottom lip, “Yeah?”

“Please.” You pleaded. Tony grinned and pulled you up from the chair and into him. A satisfied moan left him as his lips made contact with yours. He softly licked your bottom lip, and you parted your lips, allowing him entrance. Tony reached behind to grip the back of your head, pulling you closer to him, and causing you to gasp against his mouth. You felt him smirk, and he pulled back, a string of spit was visible, and he reached up to wipe your bottom lip.

“Pretty girl,” Tony mumbled. His eyes trailed over your face before he pulled you into another kiss, “C’mere.” You moaned against his lips as his tongue immediately shoved in your mouth. He flipped you over, flinging everything on your desk off and onto the floor. You gasped and arched your back as Tony’s kisses began to trail down your neck, one hand held down your hips while the other gripped your neck softly. You parted your legs for him, and he immediately began to grind against you, which caused a groan to leave his lips, “God, you’re addicting.”

“Tony. More.” You whined, scrunching up the fabric of his shirt. Tony chuckled between his kisses; he pecked up your jawline to your cheeks.

“More what?” Tony whispered, “Use your words, honey.”

“Want more of you.” You muttered, grinding against his thigh that was wedged between your legs. “Want to feel you.”

“Where?” Tony teased. His fingers trailed dangerously close to your center. You felt like you were on fire, and his touch wasn’t helping at all. “You gotta tell me where, sweetheart.”

“Here.” You moaned as you moved his fingers directly on your clothed panties.

A hum emitted from Tony, he left a peck on the corner of your mouth, “Good girl.” You felt the warmth of his body leave, and you perched yourself up by your elbows to see that he was kneeling down, face to face with your heat. A whimper leaves your lips at the sight, and you wanted to combust in that moment. Tony’s eyes darkened, and he gave you a raised eyebrow before he began to place kisses on your inner thighs, “What do you want? My fingers or tongue.” You only whined in response, “You gotta tell me what to do here, honey. I’m just following what you want.”

“Your tongue.” You gasped. You felt your eyes tearing up from desperation and want, “Tony, please.”

Tony chuckled, “Aren’t you a needy little brat?” He leaned closer to place a soft kiss on your clothed heat, and your hips stuttered forward, but Tony was quick to hold you in place. He slowly pulled off your panties and groaned, “Fuck, look at you. So pretty and perfect for me.” Without hesitation, he dove in, licking up your center like a man possessed.

You moaned loudly and gripped on his hair tightly, your back arched off the desk, “Tony!” He moaned against you, the vibrations causing your eyes to roll back. He sucked on your clit harshly making you grind against his face with a whine, the feeling of his nose brushing against you made you tighten your hold on him. “More, please. More.” He followed your request and added two fingers into your heat, curling them up to reach that spot inside of you, and he knew he reached it when a loud moan left your lips, causing him to smirk against you. He expertly pumped them in and out simultaneously with his tongue, bringing you closer to the edge. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Tony felt you clench around his fingers and pulled back, licking his lips, “Come for me, sweetheart.” You arched your back, eyes rolling back as you thrusted into his fingers. He leaned back down to flatten his tongue against your folds before sucking on your clit, the simulation of that made you come undone.

Tony pulled back and grinned at the breathless sight of you, chest heaving up and down with pants and eyes hazy. You watched as Tony licked his fingers clean, moaning at the taste of you, and you never wanted to jump onto someone so fast before in your life.

“Did I make it up to you?” Tony asked with an amused grin. He leaned down to place a kiss on your lips.

You nodded in response, still out of it, “Tony—”

“Mr. Stark, your order has arrived.” Jarvis’ voice announced, and you jumped in surprise.

Maybe it was the boredom. Or the fact that there was little to do in your new home other than stare out at the grounds and try to get your husband to give you an heir.

Your husband was kind. Too kind, some may say. But the real problem is you believed he preferred the company of men. And that didn’t bother you, but your lonely nights were starting to become rather tiresome.

Your infatuation with Ormund only grew when you saw his unpredictable rage come out. He hid it so well, it made you only wander more about what he’s like behind closed doors. Is he unexpectedly gentle? Or is he as rough as he seems?

His obsession with smell was not unbeknownst to you. Or to anyone with eyes who could see him constantly reaching for the pomander he did not leave his room without.

But then you realized… maybe this wasn’t common information and you were just staring at him.

It was wrong, inappropriate even. You were married to Gwayne after all. Ormund showed vile behavior, but that didn’t stop your eyes from drifting to him every time he entered the room. And the thing is, they were usually met with him already looking at you.

At night, when you lay on your feathered mattress, in a room separate from your husband, you dream of his eyes. You slip your hand in between your thighs and go to a place of pleasure Gwayne has never brought you to, only to finish with Ormund’s name on your tongue.

In the morning you would go to the sept and pray for forgiveness.

The sun has just set when you decided to excuse yourself from the dining hall. You bid everyone goodnight and start your journey weaving down the halls to find peace in your bath.

Your mind was on the book you would read and even the treats you would sneak down to the kitchen to find if sleep couldn’t find you tonight.

As you turned a rather dark corner, something firmly clamped around your wrist, a large hand came to your waist, turning you so that you were now facing the other way, back pressed against the wall. It all happened in one swift movement.

You gasped and suddenly Ormund’s finger was against your lips, willing you to be quiet.

Your eyes widened, his entire body was pressed against you, his one hand firmly on your hip, the other against the wall, caging you in.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. The first thing that overwhelmed you was the heat he was managing to radiate through his leathers. Then the smell. It was dizzying, but in the most attractive way. You could feel your cheeks burning as you processed how close he was to you.

He drank you in, shamelessly moving his eyes from your lips to your breasts and back up again.

He leaned into the side of your head, nearly nuzzling into your long hair. He took one dramatic breath in before sighing in content, “what oils?”

Your brows furrowed, although he could not see you, “my lord, what—”

He huffed again, “what oils do you use, my lady?”

Your fingers were twitching at your sides overcome with the desire to card your fingers through his hair, to pull him impossibly closer, “I do not use any, my lord.”

He pulled back slowly, so his face was only inches away from yours, “what do you mean by this?”

“My lord, oils bother my skin, I simply use soap in the bath and that is all,” you stated simply, you’re not even sure why you were justifying him with an answer. Maybe because in some sick way, this was one of your fantasies playing out in real life.

He searched your face, confused, “that is why I have never come across such a thing.”

You opened your mouth, but slowly closed, not sure how to respond.

“By the gods, I find it harder every day not to ravish you right here in these halls,” he said quietly, his lips slowly twitched into a smirk, “I see you looking at me. My innocent cousin's wife, a lady. And yet… she is not satisfied, she wishes… for a real man.”

He leaned back down so that his lips were brushing against your ear, “meet me in my chambers tonight, after your bath.”

His breath tickled, and a chill ran down your spine, “my lord, but what of Gway—”

He let out a breathy chuckle, “you will not lie to me now, will you?” He pulled back and looked at you, tilting his head, the smirk on his face made you want to slap him, or kiss him, or maybe both, “I know your bed is cold at night. Do you wish to lie?”

You shook your head quickly, holding his gaze with such intensity you felt like the air around you couldn’t hold the weight of it.

He pushed himself off you gracefully before turning and walking down the hall. Your eyes followed him until he was swallowed by the darkness.

You looked around frantically, seeing if any maids or septons could have possibly heard or seen the scene.

You hoped to be in the clear, taking a deep breath to try and calm your trembling hands.

You leaned your head back against the wall, still trying to ground yourself. You smoothed your gown down with shaky hands before clasping them together in front of you. You glanced around one last time before continuing your journey to your room. The hall stretched long and dark, moonlight shining through the occasional window and dancing with the candle light that lit your way.

You were deep in thought when you were startled by a man turning the corner.

“My wife, my apologies, I did not mean to frighten you,” Gwayne said, reaching out to take your hand in his. He placed a soft kiss over your knuckles, ever the gentlemen.

You took your hand back as smoothly as you could in this moment, “it’s alright, I’m retiring for the evening.”

He gave you a look of suspicion, “are you sure you’re all right?”

You nodded too quickly, “just feeling tired is all, no need to worry.”

He took a deep breath in, stepping closer to you, “what is that smell?” His nose scrunched as he tried to think of why it was so familiar.

You nervously laughed, “new soaps.”

His brow furrowed, but he shook his head, deciding not to press further. He gave you a tight lipped smile, pressing a kiss to your cheek before moving past you.

Your eyes followed him as he moved to his own chambers. You exhaled, not realizing you were holding your breath.

Gods willing, no one else will bother you before you get to your chambers to collect your thoughts.

Once you pushed the doors open, you dismissed all your maids, opting to bathe and dress by yourself this evening. Luckily, that wasn’t uncommon of you, so it raised little concern.

As you were going through the motions of your night time routine, you couldn’t help but be hyper aware of everything you did. Was this always how it was done? It all felt like too much, too awkward, not enough.

When you stepped out of the bath, water trickled around you as you slipped on your silk nightgown, tying a robe around yourself for extra cover.

You sat at your vanity for a moment, brushing your long hair out. Your eyes shifted to the wedding ring that sat in front of you. You took it between your fingers. You slowly pulled the draw open before placing the ring gently inside and closing it. You won’t need it where you’re going tonight.

You slipped into your soft slippers and slowly cracked your door open, glancing both ways down the hall before quietly scurrying to Ormund’s side of the tower. You moved swiftly, like a child sneaking to the kitchen for a treat.

You couldn’t help the excitement that bloomed in your chest as you got closer. Your heart rate increasing as you knocked slowly on his door.

“Enter,” he said simply from the other side.

You pushed the door open with one final deep breath to calm yourself. When you stepped in, he was still in the tub.

He smiled when he saw you, an expression you had truly never seen on the man’s face.

He didn’t say anything, simply placed his hands on the edge of the tub and pushed his body up out of the water. Water trickled down his completely naked body, and you were stunned by the sheer size of his cock. It was larger than the one you have taken from your husband, and that’s all you had to compare it to.

You tried not to let your eyes widen too much as his broad body stepped out and strutted towards you.

He stopped about a foot away from you, moving his eyes over your body.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to come,” you wondered how he was so confident this naked in front of you.

“Well, I had to bathe, follow your… instructions,” you responded quietly.

He looked down at your body shamelessly, focusing on your nipples peaking against your night gown, then he glanced back up at your eyes.

“Your turn,” he said simply.

You swallowed thickly, suddenly nervous and aware of what you were about to do. The problem was, you hadn’t felt any guilt about this ordeal, did that make you a bad person? You chose not to dwell on it, the wetness you were feeling between your thighs distracted you enough from the bad thoughts.

You untied the robe slowly as you stood in front of him. His eyes were on yours like they were tethered to you permanently. The silk slipped off your shoulders, pooling around you. Next, you slowly slipped the straps of your night gown down, before allowing it to follow your robe to the floor.

You stepped out of the pool of silk, closer to where Ormund stood, completely bare and waiting for you.

“Do you wish for me to touch you, Lady Hightower?” He asked in a low voice.

You couldn’t even find the strength to speak. Your nipples harder from the cold air hitting them, all the hair on your body sticking up. You simply nodded.

He took another step closer.

“I want you to say it, that you want me to touch you, not your husband,” he said cockily.

“I want you to touch me, please touch me Ormund,” you hated how pathetic you sounded, but you honestly didn’t care.

He pushed you back onto the bed, and you crawled up so your head was against his plush pillows. He followed, lining his face up with yours before crushing you with a kiss.

Heat went straight to your core, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth. His naked body against yours, the warmth of the room, the soft silk of his sheets, it was all so overwhelming.

He pulled back from the kiss and bowed his head down so he was eye level with your chest.

“I’ve heard you,” he admitted in a breathy whisper. His hand slipped down your body, until he was pushing your thighs open, “at night.”

“What—what do you mean?” You asked.

He placed a kiss on your breast before looking up at you through his lashes, his finger began to trace up and down your wet cunt slowly. You moaned at his touch.

“At night, on my walks through the halls, I hear you say my name,” he licked your nipple as he slowly pushed a finger through your folds, “or should I say moan my name.”

Your hands gripped the sheets, you would be embarrassed if your body wasn’t surging with ecstasy.

“Is it me you think of when you touch yourself?” The question was a whisper, and before you could answer, he moved his finger faster.

“Gods,” you moaned out.

He added another finger, making your entire body seize with pleasure, “I asked you a question darling.”

You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut, “yes, I think of you. Gods yes!”

His teeth lightly tugged at your nipple as he savored the feeling of his fingers sliding in and out of you.

“I think of you at night, when my fist isn’t quite cutting it,” he admitted, his breath tickling your breasts as he continued biting and sucking, surely leaving marks.

You had never felt such bliss. He adjusted his body so that his lips could press against yours again, without moving his fingers from inside you.

He slipped his tongue in your mouth, letting it dance with yours. Your hands moved to his shoulders, digging in as he picked up his pace.

He pulled away from the kiss, closing his eyes and inhaling your scent, “I swear to all the gods I have never been so intoxicated by anything in my life. I loathe my cousin for not being the man you’d deserve.”

You whine at his words, gripping onto his shoulders tighter.

“He does not please you like this,” he nuzzled against your neck, breathing you in more, your mouth opened as he continued working his fingers, every movement seizing through your body harder and harder, “he cannot give you what you need.”

You shook your head, “Ormund, oh my—”

Before you could finish your sentence, he pulled both his fingers out of you, leaving you wet and empty. You clenched around nothing as he brought his fingers up. His fingers were shining and dripping with you as he inhaled the scent, nearly making his eyes roll into the back of his head as he let out something equivalent to a growl. Then he brought his two fingers to your lips.

“Open,” his voice was low, and his pupils were blown.

You’re not sure what compelled you to do so, but you parted your lips, and he wasted no time putting his index and middle fingers on your tongue. You moaned around his fingers and he watched in awe.

“Good girl, I knew you’d be a good girl,” he said as he pulled them out of your mouth.

You’re not sure what this feeling in your lower abdomen was, you felt so sensitive, every touch, every breath felt like being electrocuted.

He readjusted himself, so that his hard cock was now pressed against your slick center. He breathed you in again as he looked down at you, “from this day forward, you are mine. Even though it will be in secret, you are mine, do you understand?”

His eyes were dark and glossed over, his breathing heavy, matching yours.

“I understand, my lord,” you said quietly, through heavy breaths.

He rocked against you, sending shockwaves through your entire body and making you clench around nothing again.

“What is it you understand?” He asked again.

“I am yours,” you said simply.

He groaned, reaching between you and lining himself up.

You brought your arms back to his shoulders, your nails surely leaving marks as you breathed heavily against him.

You wrapped your legs around his body and he wasted no time before gently pushing himself through your wet folds.

You both moaned, looking deeply into each other's eyes. Your mouth fell open as he teased your entrance with his tip. You nodded, holding his gaze, giving him permission to move on. In one move he pushed into you, both of you biting your lips trying to contain your sounds.

“Ormund” you whispered, your eyes fluttering shut as he pulled back and then pushed all the way back into you, bottoming you out as you stretched perfectly around him. You didn’t know it could feel so good, that you could feel so connected to someone.

“Look at me, I want to see you,” he said breathily. You opened your eyes and were met with his piercing ones.

He continued thrusting, slowly picking up his pace. But nothing about it was rushed.

Your bodies molded together in the best way possible, in a way that only happens when you are completely wrapped up in one another.

His arms were on both sides of your head, caging you against the pillow. Your nails continued digging into his back.The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire in the corner, your heavy breathing, and his skin on yours.

You could feel yourself clenching around him, the sensualness of the moment pushing you towards the edge. You were so overwhelmed with each thrust pushing you closer and closer.

He didn’t let up once, maintaining a steady rhythm against you as your body's connected each time. He didn’t break eye contact with you once, both of your mouths hanging open in pure pleasure. As you continued clenching around him, you let out a quiet whimper, he leaned down and gave you a sloppy kiss, it was all tongue and desire and need and unlike anything you had ever felt before.

He continued his movements, in and out, driving you fucking insane.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he said against your lips. You clenched around him again, feeling yourself on the brink of falling apart, “especially if you keep doing that.”

You moaned his name again and could feel his movements stutter at the sound. The coil that had been tightening in your stomach since you walked in this room was growing tighter and tighter. “Ormund, so good, gods,” you moaned, whimpered, trying to keep it together.

“Cum,” was all he could get out, “cum on my cock,” and you did.

The coil inside you snapped and you must’ve drawn blood from how harshly your nails were digging into his back. Watching you come undone below him, and feeling it around him made him follow suit, leaning down to kiss you to muffle any sounds he wanted to make. You kissed back, hungrily and sloppily as he thrusted into you hard, spilling his seed inside of you. He slowed down and eventually collapsed on top of you, pulling his cock out.

You shivered at the sudden emptiness. You both panted, your entire body still and on fire.

He rolled off of you, laying beside you. Your legs were still spread, and his cum was dripping out of you onto his silk sheets. You suddenly had a wave of guilt wash over you, one which you tried to push down for the sake of the pleasure you just felt.

He laid on his side, facing you now as you were still on your back. His hand came up and rested on your stomach. He leaned down, inhaling you once more, “just as I imagined, your scent is even better now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously again, “I do not know what you are referring to.”

He chuckled, “something about you compels me.”

Your stomach flipped at his words.

He held your gaze again, still close enough to breathe you in. The look in his eyes was something you were completely unfamiliar with from any man, but let alone him.

“I meant it when I said you are mine,” he spoke barely above a whisper,

“As did I,” you responded calmly.

As you laid there beside him, you couldn’t help but dismiss the guilt altogether. Because for the first time in your life you felt wanted. Whether it was some sick and twisted game, or genuine desire, you will only come to find out. But all you knew now was your heart was deeply entangled in this mess.

You find Gwayne and Daeron first. Both of them are bruised, bloodied, and covered in ash, but whole all the same. The younger boy helps his uncle slump against the broken remains of the wall behind him, while the auburn-haired man squints through the blood trickling into his left eye from a deep cut in his brow.

“Ormund,” you say in lieu of a greeting when you approach the two of them. His name comes out in rasps from the smoke hanging thick in the air. “Where is Ormund?”

Daeron looks over his shoulder at you, round cheeks dirty with soot, and shakes his head in wordless response.

Gwayne lifts his head to look at you. His porcelain skin is coated in a thin layer of gore; his auburn hair is stringy with sweat; his pale eyes are bloodshot and watery. A humorless laugh sputters rough from his dry mouth. “Ask your gods,” he spits. “You were so certain of them before, weren’t you?”

You do not flinch at his ire. You only nod.

“Yes, my lord,” you tell him in an even, gentle voice despite the massacre all around you. “I still am.”

You continue on through the remains of the day, until at last you reach the collapsed ruins of the eastern wall. A small glint of silver, half-buried in the rubble, catches the light bleeding through the smoky sky — Ormund’s pomander, you realize, cracked down the middle but still attached to its chain.

You rush towards it without thinking, dropping to your knees beside the fallen timber and stone before clawing at the wreckage with bare hands. “Help me,” you call in a ragged voice to the men limping slowly behind you. Gwayne winces through his own injuries as he and Daeron help you drag the broken beams aside until the man beneath it is revealed.

Ormund lies amid the rubble — one leg bent at too awkward an angle, dark red blood covering half of his face and turning to paste from the ash. The dirt beneath him turns a darker brown color from the pool of crimson underneath him, from a wound you cannot yet see. 

But his chest still rises and falls with weak, shallow breaths under the scratched armor he wears. So you crouch at his side and take his dirty face in your palms and tap gently at his cheek in an attempt to wake him from his unconscious state. “Ormund,” you call to him, voice splintering. “Ormund, wake up, c’mon—”

His eyes are slow to open. 

His lashes flutter across his cheeks before he blinks slowly awake. He squints at the blinding light overhead as his pale gaze comes slowly into focus — more confused than truly aching, too far deep in shock for the pain to hit him truly. When his eyes finally settle on you, concern twists his stained face.

“You’re hurt…” he rasps through a dry throat when he sees the blood splattered across your face. Because even on the verge of death, he is still more worried about you. 

You catch his blood-stained fingers twitching feebly at his side, wanting so desperately to reach but being far too weak to do so. You take his hand in yours instead, and reassure him with a smile. “It’s not my blood.”

That seems to soothe him, if only for a moment. Until his gaze drops down the length of his body, at least, and he sees the damage down to him. He cannot feel the pain from the wounds in his sides exactly, but he can feel the warm blood slowly weeping from them, and the way it wets the ground beneath him. The scent clings to his nose and the very back of his throat — the inherent stench of death.

A low, guttural groan sounds in the back of his throat as he tips his heavy head back against the ground, chiseled jaw clenching tight. “Am I...” he attempts to ask, then swallows hard through the invisible hand choking him. “Am I going to die?”

His weary eyes flit back to yours. Even as the life slips slowly from the soft blue of them, you can see the hope glinting faintly in his gaze — waiting for you to tell him no; waiting for you to work one of your miracles, just like you always have. 

You only give him a weak smile in return. “Yes, my love,” you coo with a slow nod. “You are going to die.”

You feel Gwayne and Daeron go very still behind you.

Ormund’s breath catches beneath his heavy chestplate, as his features crumple with a boyish sort of grief — the grief of a man who’s followed your every word like spoken scripture, only to be abandoned by you in the very last of his moments.

“But you— You said—” he stammers out, choking on his own blood as his eyes dart wildly between yours. “You said that we would… You promised me this war—”

“I promised you victory,” you tell him, smoothing a thumb over the blood and ash on his cheek; as gentle as The Mother, as firm as The Crone. “And I still do.”

His breath trembles through his weak body. Blood rises heavy up and throat and sits thick on his tongue, splattering warm across his chin when he coughs. You cradle his face in your hands as he shudders slowly into death, leaning close enough into him that your foreheads nearly touch — close enough that you may be the very last thing in the world he sees before the darkness takes him.

“Sleep now, my love,” you whisper gently to him. “I’ll see you when you wake.”

You press your mouth to his, tasting the copper and smoke stained on his lips while Ormund goes limp in your hands. His blood stains your mouth when you part from his suddenly still form, turning over your shoulder to face the men standing behind you — their dirty features twisted with similar looks of horror.

The softness you’d had moments ago slips now into a sterner look. 

“Help me with him,” you command.

And no one dares refuse.

You drag Ormund back to the sept, laying his limp body onto a cold, concrete altar in the depths of its crypt. The stale air there is thick with ghosts and time gone by. The wet, dark cobbles around you glow with the weak candlelight Gwayne fixes onto the walls. Shadows dance in the corners, swallowing the edges of the ancient chamber. Every sound — every drip of water, every scrape of shoe on stone — echoes back twice over.

Ormund’s body is slack and already cooling by the time you get to work on him. Your fingers move with a practiced grace as you unbuckle his ruined armor — piece by shattered piece. His smallclothes follow; you tug the stiff and bloodied fabric from his skin, made a much tougher feat from his heavy and unmoving weight. And when he lies bare before you on the stone bier, you take a cloth and a basin of water Daeron had fetched from the cistern and wash him clean.

The ash and blood fade beneath your hand to reveal the pale, broken canvas of his golden skin underneath it. His chest is bruised a sickly green-purple. He sports a number of gashes score deep along his ribcage from where a sword had cut so mercilessly through him. And his leg, bent wrong at the knee, snaps back into place with one brutal snapping sound beneath your steady hands.

Only when he is clean — washed truly from dirt and sin alike, and left glittering beneath the torchlight — do you take a small knife to a lock of his dark, matted curls. You toss the tendril into the brazier burning low in the corner, and let the orange flame hiss beneath it. Then you draw the same blade across your palm, letting the blood well and drip into the fire beside the offering.

Daeron and Gwayne watch silently from the corner of the dark crypt as you return to Ormund’s body and begin to chant. “We ask the gods to shine their light, and lead a soul out of darkness,” you say in High Valyrian, the foreign language sounding low and thick in your throat. “We beg the gods to share their fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life."

Gwayne shakes his head as he watches with a jaw clenched tight. “This is madness,” He mutters to Daeron. “Chanting over a corpse like some Essosi hedge-witch—”

The boy snaps his head in the older man’s direction, still too deep in his boyhood for his glare to be as intimidating as he means. “You haven’t seen her do the things I’ve seen,” Daeron scolds, still gentle in his way even in his defense of you. “Do not mock her. Not now.”

You pay no mind to the bickering as you focus completely on the pale-blue body before you. Your palms rest flat over Ormund’s marred skin as you inhale a deep breath through your nose, grounding yourself upon him as though you were trying to draw something from the very marrow of his bones. And then you wait.

The chamber falls silent, except for the low crackle of the torchlight. The minutes that pass seem to last an eternity as you wait for Ormund to warm again beneath your palms. He does not. 

No answer comes from the darkness. There is only a suffocating silence, mocking you with everything it refuses to give back. And for the first time, you feel your faith begin to splinter with doubt.

Your eyes burn with unshed tears when the grief you hadn’t let yourself feel before finally hits you. You turn to face the men behind you; the older one smiling cynically, the younger one heavy with a dwindling grief. “I— I’m sorry,” is all you can manage out before you turn sharply on your heel and head back towards the stairwell you entered from. 

Your skirts drag heavy and blood-soaked behind you as you plan to return to the wreckage, and give yourself to the dust.

“Well…” Gwayne hums from behind you in a biting monotone that sears straight through your chest. “Even the great prophetess has her limits, it seems—”

A sharp gasp cuts through the quiet chamber like Valyrian steel.

You freeze mid-step. Your head snaps hard behind you, where you find Ormund’s nude body trembling on the cold, concrete altar. His eyes fly open, wide and wild in the torchlight. His broad chest heaves with violent, rasping breaths as his lungs drag desperately for air. 

“Ormund!” His name tears suddenly through your throat as you rush back to him, nearly tripping over your skirts as you go. Your hands fly to his face, his chest, his scarred ribs — anywhere you can reach to prove to yourself that he’s real, that he’s alive — while Daeron scrambles for the velvet emerald cape discarded by the armor to throw hastily over his uncle’s bare body.

Gwayne remains frozen by the stairwell with his mouth parted in shock, the color long drained from his pale face.

Ormund's eyes dart around the dark chamber in half-frantic confusion before finally settling on you. He rises off the cold stone, naked chest still heaving with shallow breaths. “Wha—" His voice comes out hoarse until he swallows thick through his throat. “What’s happened to me?"

You let out a broken, disbelieving laugh and let the warm tears spill down your ashen cheeks as you cradle his warming face between both hands.

“I brought you back.”

Ormund is still weak from the death ebbing slowly from his body when you carry him to the least ruined chamber in the eastern wing; the living quarters where the clergy used to sleep. It had survived the worst of the flame, it would seem, though the smoky scent of dragonfire remains. Ormund leans the bulk of his weight against you, with his arm thrown heavy around your shoulder, as you lay him down on the narrow bed pressed against the wall. 

No one speaks a word of what had happened in the crypt. Not now, at least. There will be plenty enough time for that in the morning, for the questions and for the reckoning of what comes after. But tonight, there is only quiet. And stillness. And the promise of another day after this one.

But his body, Ormund finds, is not quite sure how to be alive again. 

He shivers in the cotton sheets while sweat beads along his brow. He’s cold and burning all at once, like his blood cannot decide whether it belongs in a grave or in the world above it. It rushes like freezing ice or a white-hot flame up and down his being. The very marrow of him is still humming with whatever it was you’d poured from yourself back into him. His pulse hammers hard in his neck while the adrenaline surges through him — with nowhere to truly settle, now that the danger has long passed and there is nothing left for him to fight.

But it finds somewhere to go even still; in his stiffening cock that aches and throbs between his thighs despite himself — leaving him whining and rutting against the blankets twisted around his hips. 

He catches your hand when you reach down to check his forehead for fever. He peers up at you with glassy, blue eyes as he smears his mouth to your fingers in a not-quite kiss. “Please,” he rasps against your knuckles. “I need— I need something, my love. Please…”

You shake your head, torn between the ache in your chest and the ache written plainly across his face. “You’re hurt, Ormund. I don’t want to make it worse—”

“You won’t,” he swears and urges you closer with what little strength has returned to his healing body. “You’re the one who brought me back… You couldn’t hurt me if you tried…”

And you could not refuse him — in the same way you were designed by the gods to bring him back to life, you were not fashioned to deny him of anything.

So you settle over his lap with your bare chest pressed flush against his, with your beating hearts as close as you can muster, and give his adrenaline somewhere else to go. 

Your clit rubs against the coarse thatch of brunette hair at the base of his stomach as you glide gently over his scruffy thighs, careful to avoid the poultice clinging to the cuts on his ribcage. Ormund’s cock sits nestled within your velvety walls, jerking faintly within your honeyed depth while his newfound life continues to buzz through his veins. He’s made profoundly sensitive accordingly — so much so that he feels a coil tensing in his stomach already; so much so that the obvious pain in his limbs from the battle feels negligible in comparison. 

He wouldn’t care if you split every wound of his open again, as long as he got to cum inside of you now.

His wide hands dig into your hips, far rougher than he realizes with his slowly building strength, as he tries to rock your hips harder against his — never mind the stinging in his ribcage, or the throbbing in his knee. “Please,” he pants hopelessly against your mouth, his broad nose knocking against the side of yours. “I need it so bad, my love, please—”

Your fingers thread through his wild curls as you shake your head against his. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you pant, lips smudging against his parted mouth.

“Hurt me,” Ormund begs, eyes wide and pleading. “The gods gave me back to you once already… I do not fear what you’ll do with me now…”

His words knock loose something tight in your being. You begin to grind over his lap with a bit more purpose than before, with the intention of milking an orgasm from his body drop by merciless drop. 

“Yes…” Ormund slurs within a sigh when your cunt clenches tight around him. His calloused palms smooth along the canvas of your sweat-slick back — one between your shoulder blades and the other to the small of your spine — to keep you pressed wholly against his battered body. Though the pain only seems to add to his pleasure, which blooms in the pit of his tightening stomach now. He smears wet kisses along the skin of your neck as he buries his pitiful whines there. 

“Don’t stop…” he pleads. “Don’t stop, and I’ll give you all of it, I promise…” 

“Now,” you command in a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear — because you cannot stand to hurt him any more than you surely must have already. “Cum now. Cum inside me. Give me all of it—”

Ormund shudders beneath you, not unlike the way he had when he died in your arms. 

Except now, he grumbles a groan of pleasure like thunder in his chest and digs his fingers hard into your soft skin. He holds his breath and tenses for a flicker of a moment; and you feel the very depths of your stomach blooming with warmth on his next trembling exhale, as his sensitive cock twitches within your pulsing cunt. 

You pet him through every wave of his orgasm, until he settles finally just against you with his face hidden completely in your neck. His panted breaths fan warm along your skin — the very proof of his life — while you find it suddenly very difficult to stomach that you had nearly seen the very last of his breaths not so long ago.

“Are you hurt?” you ask him, and sigh hard through your nose when you feel him leaking slowly out of you.

Ormund feels a dull ache in his ribs most of all, and a panging in his knee as it sets awkwardly into the correct position, but he shakes his head against your shoulder until the words to respond catch up to him. “No,” he huffs. “I’m— I’m alright.”

He feels your hand tighten in his hair not a moment later. You urge him back from your neck and force his bleary eyes to meet your suddenly hardened ones, still heavy with pleasure but stern all the same.

“If you die on me again, Ormund Hightower, I will kill you,” you warn him in an unwavering deadpan that makes it difficult to tell how much you surely jest.

A weak, breathless laugh rattles out of him then, more felt against your own chest pressed against his than truly heard. “Then let it be by your own hand,” he pleads in a low voice. “And no other’s.”

Just that.

You’ll do.

You shoved the basket into the nearest pair of hands and pushed through the crowd. Someone cursed. A child yelped. You barely heard them.

“What is this?” you demanded of the woman beside you, a mother whose eyes were already red. “What are they doing?”

“Recruiting,” she whispered. “One man from every house. For the king’s war.”

Your blood went cold. You reached the front of the press just as the knight began to turn his horse.

“Ser!”

He glanced down. The look he gave you was not unkind, but it held no patience either.

“Ser, no,” you said, breathless. “Surely you are not taking my brother. He is crippled—can you not see?”

The knight’s gaze moved from your face to Lucan, still standing there on his crutches, and back again.

“Have you any other man in your household?”

You opened your mouth urging yourself to lie.

“There is only—” You stopped. “Ser, he cannot march. He cannot fight. The fever left him lame. Please—”

“It is an order,” the knight said. His voice was flat, the voice of a man who had already repeated the same words a hundred times that morning. “One man from each household. The decree makes no exception for the halt or the maimed. Your brother will answer the summons.”

Lucan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

You stepped closer to the horse, heedless of the way the animal shifted. “But he cannot—”

“Enough.” The knight raised one gloved hand, firm enough to cut you off. “The matter is decided. All of you—” his voice rose so the whole square might hear, “—you will present yourselves at the muster field at first light to Ser Gwayne Hightower. Pack lightly. You will be trained on the road to King’s Landing. Those who fail to appear will be taken as deserters.”

He gathered the reins. For a moment his eyes returned to you, standing there with your hands clenched and your breath coming short.

“See that your brother is ready, girl,” he said, quieter now. “The realm has need of every man it can find.”

Then he turned the horse and moved on, already calling the next name. You stood frozen in the thinning rain, the square still murmuring around you, mothers weeping, fathers staring at the ground, boys too young trying to look brave.

Lucan limped toward you. The crutches clicked softly against the stone.

“It is all right,” he said, though his face had gone pale. “I will manage.”

You looked at Lucan. To the brother you grew up with, who still woke with pain in the nights, who could not run if the city ever burned—and something fierce and terrified and absolute rose in your chest.

That night you sat on the narrow wooden bench outside the house, your niece tucked against your side. Her head rested on your shoulder, warm and small. Inside, voices rose and fell behind the shuttered window—Lucan’s was strained, his wife’s sharper with fear. You kept both hands gently over the child’s ears so the worst of it would not reach her.

She shifted after a time and looked up at you, lilac eyes solemn in the dim light. “I wish I was a boy,” she whispered. “Then I could go instead of Papa.”

You looked down at the top of her head, at the way her small fingers worried the edge of your sleeve, and the idea arrived fully formed, cold and clear as river water.

I will go.

You did not speak it aloud. You only pressed a kiss to the crown of her icy silver hair and held her a little tighter until the arguing inside finally softened into weary silence.

—

Later, when the house had fallen quiet and the child had been put to bed, you found your brother in the narrow room that served as both kitchen and hall. A single candle burned on the table. Lucan was packing what little he could carry. A spare tunic. The good knife. A strip of dried meat wrapped in cloth.

You hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside. Your eyes went to the place of honour above the hearth where the Valyrian bow, Heartpiercer, rested.

Made from dragon bone, it was black with age and iron content, the golden inlay along the limbs still faintly luminous even in the poor light. A Valyrian weapon, brought out of Sothoryos by the ancestors who had refused to speak of what they left behind. It had always been kept more as relic than tool, yet you had been the one who took it down most often, the one whose hands knew the draw weight best.

“Are you taking Heartpiercer?” you asked quietly.

Lucan followed your gaze then he shook his head.

“No.” His voice was rough. “You keep it. You were always better with it than I ever managed to be.”

“What about the valyrian sword?”

He drew in a deep breath, “Promise me something.”

You sighed heavily, “What?”

“Promise me you will find a proper husband,” he said. “And live a life. Or at least… try to make one that is prosperous. Do not spend your years waiting on this house and what little we have managed to keep. I would not have you waste yourself here.”

The candle guttered. Somewhere beyond the thin walls a dog barked and fell silent.

You looked at your brother…at the careful way he stood to spare his bad leg, at the lines already settling around his mouth—and felt your decision settle deeper and irreversible.

“I promise.” you lied, fingers crossed behind you.

—

You waited until your brother stopped pretending to sleep.

It took longer than you expected.

You lay rigid upon your pallet with your eyes open to the darkness, listening until his restless turning ceased and his breathing finally deepened. Only then did you slip from beneath the blanket and cross the room barefoot, avoiding the third floorboard because it had squeaked since you were children.

Lucan’s clothes waited upon the chair where he had left them for morning.

You took them.

The bindings came first, wound tightly around your chest until the softness disappeared beneath linen and every deep breath became impossible. His tunic swallowed you when you dragged it on, too broad through the shoulders and too long everywhere else, and you nearly cursed when one hand vanished inside the sleeve. You seized his knife and cut what you could by the dying fire, rolled what remained, then covered the worst of your work beneath leather and cloak.

It was crude but it would have to be enough.

You reached for Heartpiercer where it rested against the wall and caught sight of yourself in the water bucket. Your silver-white hair spilled nearly to your waist.

You stopped.

For all the bindings and stolen clothes, a woman still stared back at you.

No soldier would believe this. Some knight at the muster field would take one look beneath your hood and demand to know whose daughter had wandered into the ranks.

Your hand closed around Lucan’s dagger.

This was the first thing you could not undo and now you hesitated.

Your mother had brushed that hair when you were small. Your grandmother had taught you to braid it. Lucan had once pulled it hard enough to make you cry and earned a bloody nose for his trouble. It had been combed for feasts, tangled by summer winds, soaked through by rain and tears; it had followed you through every year of your life.

You gathered it at the nape of your neck but you just held it there, where the blade touched silver.

You could still stop.

You could crawl back beneath the blankets and wake tomorrow to find Lucan gone to war in your place. He would march because his king had called him and because men would name him craven if he refused. He would march upon a foot that had never healed, surrounded by men who could run when battle broke while he could not.

His daughter might spend the rest of her life waiting for a father who would never come home.

You began to cut.

The sound was uglier than you expected, the dagger sawing through the thick handful while your fist tightened around it. You clenched your teeth and worked the blade harder until the final strands gave way and the weight vanished from your head.

For a moment you simply stared at what remained in your hand.

Then you threw it into the fire along with your identity. Silver curled black almost at once. There would be no daughter of House Belaerys marching from this house at dawn.

Only a son.

You shoved your feet into your boots, buckled Lucan’s sword belt around your waist and looked once more into the water.

His clothes.

His hair.

Almost his face.

Only the eyes betrayed you, wide and uncertain where your brother’s had always been calm. You squared your shoulders as he did and lifted your chin.

“My name is Lucan Belaerys.” That was far too high and you grimaced. 

“My name is Lucan Belaerys.” Now you sounded like a septon with a throat sickness.

You tried again.

“Lucan Belaerys.” Close enough.

You found a scrap of parchment near the hearth and knelt beside the table. The words came harder than cutting your hair had.

Lucan,

A hundred words crowded behind his name, but dawn was coming and courage was a fickle thing, so you wrote only those you needed him to understand.

I shall be fine. You must stay with your family and spare your daughter from becoming fatherless.

Your hand trembled before you added:

Forgive me.

You weighted the note beneath the river stone beside his bed, slung Heartpiercer across your back and crossed the room.

At the doorway, you looked back.

Lucan slept beyond the hearth with one arm thrown across the place where his little daughter often crawled beside him after nightmares. In sleep he looked younger, almost like the boy who had once chased you barefoot through Oldtown.

You wanted to cross the room and wake him. You wanted your brother to look at you one last time and know who stood before him.

Instead you opened the door and cold mist touched your newly bare neck.

Oldtown still slept beneath the last darkness before dawn, though distant torchlight already burned around the muster field where hundreds of men gathered beneath the green banners of House Hightower. For the first few streets you walked too quickly. You forced yourself to slow. Men did not scurry toward war as though frightened someone might call them home.

You squared your shoulders and kept walking.

“You there!”

Your heart lurched.

A mounted Hightower man emerged through the mist and reined in before you. “Name?”

Everything narrowed to that single word. The lie waiting upon your tongue.

You raised your eyes. “Lucan Belaerys.”

The knight scarcely looked at you. “Infantry muster is east of the tower. Move.”

He rode on and you remained where you were for one stunned moment. He believed you.

Your hand tightened around the strap of Heartpiercer as something perilously close to laughter rose in your throat, born equally of terror and disbelief. You swallowed it. Then you turned toward the Hightower banners. The woman you had been was burning to ash in a hearth behind you.

Lucan Belaerys went to war.

× × × × 

Gwayne rode the line in silence. The men stood in uneven lines—some straight-backed and eager, others already looking as though they regretted answering the summons. Most simply waited, shifting from foot to foot in the cold mud.

“Seven help us,” Gwayne muttered, shaking his head. “I see farmers, fishmongers, and boys. We have a great deal of work ahead if we are to make soldiers out of this lot, let alone knights.”

He reined in near the centre of the field while the drillmasters began calling men forward one by one.

You stood among them with your hood drawn low. It had been a calculated choice. The second morning of the march was cold enough that no one had questioned it, and the coarse brown wool cast your face into merciful shadow—hiding the silver hair you had hacked short and enough of your features that no curious eye might linger too long.

You kept your gaze fixed on the trampled grass in front of your boots. The bindings around your chest seemed to tighten with every breath. Then the drillmaster stopped in front of you.

“You, Lucan right? What can you do?”

You kept your eyes down a moment longer, then lifted your head just enough to be respectful. “Archery, ser.”

“Show us, then.” The drillmaster grunted and pointed toward the targets. Another man tossed you a single arrow. You caught it without thinking.

You unslung the bow and stepped up to the mark. The target was a simple straw man fifty paces distant. That should be easy. You had put arrows through rabbits in denser cover at greater distance. Your father had made certain of that.

Nerves, however, were a different creature entirely.

You raised your bow. The field suddenly seemed far too quiet while hundreds of unfamiliar eyes pressed against your back, and somewhere beyond them sat Ser Gwayne upon his horse, watching.

The arrow flew cleanly—and struck the very edge of the straw target before glancing away into the mud.

Laughter broke across the ranks behind you.

“Well struck!” someone called. “Give the blind archer another arrow and put the target in front of him next time.”

That earned the loudest laughter yet. Heat climbed beneath your collar immediately. You knew that sound. It was the particular cruelty of those delighted that someone else had made a fool of himself first.

The drillmaster sighed and jerked his head toward the next recruit. “Next.”

You stared at the arrow lying in the mud. Then you turned, causing the laughter to dwindle when you faced the ranks.

“Who said that?”

No one answered at first. Then a broad young man several rows back lifted his hand with an easy grin, apparently proud enough of his jest to claim it.

“I did.”

You pointed at him. “You?”

His grin widened. “Aye, Blind Archer. Me.”

You nodded once, then walked toward your fallen arrow.

“Boy,” the drillmaster called. “Get back in line!”

You pulled the arrow from the mud, wiped it clean against your breeches, and turned back toward the ranks. The young man was still smiling—until you nocked the arrow and pointed it directly near his crotch.

The men around him scattered with remarkable speed. “What in seven hells—”

You drew Heartpiercer.

“Lucan!” the drillmaster barked.

You released. The arrow crossed the field with a sharp, vicious hiss, then the man’s belt snapped cleanly at the buckle. His breeches dropped around his ankles.

The several hundred men erupted from a deafening laughter. Even the drillmaster turned his face away, though not quickly enough to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The unfortunate soldier seized his breeches with both hands, his face turning such a violent shade of red that even beneath your hood you could see it from across the field.

“You little bastard!”

You lowered your weapon. “Not blind, then.”

“Enough.” Gwayne’s voice cut across the field, causing the laughter to collapsed into coughs and poorly concealed snickers.

Gwayne sat very still upon his horse. His eyes moved first to the humiliated recruit struggling with the remains of his belt, then to the arrow buried in the earth behind him, and finally to you.

Suddenly you found considerably less satisfaction in what you had done.

“Young man.”

“Ser.”

“Come.”

You obeyed. Each step toward his horse seemed longer than the last. Behind you, men continued choking on their laughter. You stopped several paces from him and waited.

Gwayne regarded you from the saddle, expression unreadable. “You appear pleased with yourself.”

“I am pleased my eyesight has recovered, Ser.”

“You find this amusing?”

“No, ser.”

Someone behind you made the catastrophic mistake of laughing again. Gwayne’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, the faint amusement had vanished beneath the expression of a commander who deeply regretted having command of anyone.

“Pull back your hood.”

Your stomach dropped. “Ser?”

“You heard me.”

Slowly, you reached up and pushed the hood from your head. The morning air caught the roughly shorn silver strands, stirring them across your forehead. You kept your face carefully composed while Gwayne’s gaze travelled over your hair and then settled upon your eyes.

Lilac met blue.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly. You could not tell what he saw—a boy too soft in the features for armour, a silver-haired nuisance who had humiliated another recruit within days into the march, or something else entirely. Whatever conclusion he reached, he kept it to himself.

“If your pride is so easily wounded, Lucan, war will prove an exhausting occupation.”

Heat crept beneath your collar and you bit the inside of your cheek.

“If I ever see you loose an arrow at another man for the sake of a jest again, you will spend a fortnight cleaning every privy our army leaves behind.”

Your stomach turned. “Yes, ser.”

Gwayne leaned slightly toward you from the saddle. His voice dropped just enough that only you would hear the next words.

“And the next time some fool laughs at you, you will resist the temptation to strip him from fifty paces. However deserving he may be.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the unfortunate recruit.

You looked up sharply.

There it was—the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth, gone almost before you could be certain it had existed. Before you could decide whether you had imagined it, Gwayne straightened and turned his horse away.

“Back in line, boy.”

You pulled your hood over your silver hair once more. “Yes, Ser.”

× × × ×

Training began before sunrise and showed mercy to no one.

Every dawn found you dragged from whatever few hours of sleep you had managed, shoved into boots still damp from the day before and sent stumbling into the yard beneath a sky scarcely beginning to pale. Some mornings a sword was thrust into your hands before you had swallowed breakfast. Others it was a bow, a spear, or the reins of some ill-tempered horse that seemed personally offended by your existence.

The bow was the only thing that felt familiar. Heartpiercer knew your hands even when nothing else did.

Once the laughter over your first disastrous shot had faded into memory, there were few among the recruits who could match you at a standing mark. Fifty paces became seventy, seventy became a hundred, and when the drillmasters began setting smaller targets farther down the field, you struck those as well. Soon they stopped wasting their breath teaching you how to draw and began teaching you how to kill.

“Again.”

You loosed.

“Again.”

Another arrow.

“Faster, boy! A man charging at you will not politely wait while you admire your first shot!”

You learned to draw from the quiver without looking. You learned to loose while moving, kneeling, turning, exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain. You learned to put an arrow through the slit of a helm and beneath the raised arm of a painted wooden knight. Your fingers blistered, split and hardened until the string no longer frightened the skin.

With a sword, however, the gods had evidently decided you required humbling.

You were terrible.

Not hopeless, as the drillmaster grudgingly informed you after the first week, which somehow felt worse.

You understood where the blade ought to go. Your body simply seemed determined to arrive there a moment too late. Men heavier than you drove you backward with brute strength, your wrists buckled beneath blows you knew were coming, and every instinct urged you to retreat when the drillmasters demanded that you advance.

“Again!”

Wood cracked against wood. Your practice sword flew from your hand.

“Again!”

You retrieved it quickly.

“Again, boy!”

By the end of the first day your palms had opened beneath the leather. By the third, blood had dried around the hilt. The drillmasters did not care.

Every trace of softness was beaten from your grip one blister at a time, until your hands grew rough and your shoulders ached even in sleep. Bruises spread beneath your clothes in ugly blooms of purple and yellow, carefully hidden beneath Lucan’s tunics where no one would ever see them.

The young man whose breeches you had sent tumbling into the mud had certainly not forgotten you. His name was Jason, you eventually learned, and he waited nearly a fortnight for his revenge.

When the drillmaster paired you together for sparring, his smile told you precisely what was coming.

“Blind archer,” he murmured.

“Loose breeches,” you returned.

His smile vanished. You managed to block the first blow. The second nearly knocked the sword from your hands. The third was not meant for your blade at all.

His wooden sword caught you square across the mouth.

Pain burst through your face and sent you staggering sideways. You tasted blood before you understood what had happened, warm and metallic across your tongue, and when you touched your mouth your fingers came away red.

Jason grinned. “There. Now we are even.”

You wanted to strike him with Heartpiercer. You might have tried had the drillmaster not seen the whole thing.

Jason spent the remainder of that afternoon running the perimeter of the training field in full armour while carrying a sack of stones across his shoulders. Whenever he slowed, the drillmaster added another.

You watched his third circuit while pressing a rag against your swollen lip. When his glare found yours across the yard, you smiled.

It hurt terribly but you smiled anyway.

The horses were worse.

You had ridden before, of course. Nearly everyone raised around Oldtown had sat a horse at least once, but there was a considerable difference between sitting prettily upon a mare travelling a well-kept road and controlling a warhorse with your thighs while both hands were occupied with a bow.

The first time they made you try it, you nearly died. You released the reins, reached for Heartpiercer and immediately began sliding sideways from the saddle.

“Boy!”

“I have it!”

You did not have it. The horse veered and your arrow disappeared somewhere into the grass. The drillmaster swore so creatively that three men nearby began laughing. By the end of the lesson you had fallen twice, lost counless arrows, frightened one horse and developed a hatred for saddles that bordered upon religious conviction.

The next morning they put you back upon the horse.

And the morning after that.

And the morning after that.

Your skill with a bow had condemned you to horseback archery because the officers had decided that a talent such as yours was worth refining, whether you wished it refined or not.

So you learned.

You learned to guide a horse with your knees while your hands worked the bow. You learned to move with the animal rather than against it, to loose between strides instead of fighting for stillness that would never come. At first your arrows scattered shamefully across the field. Then they began striking straw. Then wood. Then, slowly, the painted circles upon the targets.

Swordsmanship came slower.

You learned that strength could be answered with speed if you were clever enough. That a larger man could not strike what he could not catch. That there was no honour in meeting every blow head-on merely because men twice your weight preferred it that way.

You became quick and quick was enough.

But there were other lessons no drillmaster taught you.

You learned to wake before everyone else when you needed to wash and to disappear after sunset when the bindings had to be removed and wound anew. You learned which streams lay far enough from camp that no one would stumble upon you by accident.

You learned to piss where no one could see you. That lesson proved surprisingly important.

You learned not to flinch when men stripped naked beside you, not to stare when they scratched their crotches without shame, and not to react when conversations around the fire descended into subjects your grandmother would have crossed herself merely to hear.

You learned that men were disgusting.

You also learned that they could be kind.

A heel of bread appeared beside you after one particularly brutal morning without anyone admitting to leaving it there. Someone showed you how to wrap your palms so the sword would not reopen the same wounds. Another recruit taught you the quickest way to buckle your armour when your fingers were numb from cold.

None of them knew you and being Lucan became easier with every passing day. At first you hesitated whenever someone shouted the name across the yard.

“Lucan!”

You forgot to respond a moment too long.

“Belaerys!”

Then you remembered. Eventually you stopped remembering, your head simply turned. You answered before your own name had time to rise within you.

Your voice became another weapon to master. You kept it low and economical, discovering that the fewer words you spoke, the fewer opportunities there were to betray yourself. Soon the others decided you were merely a quiet young man and stopped trying so hard to draw conversation from you.

You let them believe it.

There were nights when none of it felt clever. Nights when you crawled away from the tents beneath some excuse and sat alone where no one could hear you, your aching hands pressed over your face while tears slipped silently between your fingers.

You were tired.

Gods, you were tired.

Your ribs hurt from the bindings. Your lip had split twice. Your thighs burned from riding. There were mornings when you could scarcely close your fingers around a sword because yesterday’s training had swollen them stiff.

You had been foolish. That thought came often in the dark.

You were not made for this.

You were not a knight.

You were not Lucan.

You were a frightened young woman wearing her brother’s clothes, pretending she belonged among men who had spent their whole lives preparing for war.

Sometimes you wanted nothing more than to go home, then you would remember why you could not.

You pictured your brother trying to keep pace upon that twisted foot while men marched around him.

You pictured him falling.

You pictured his daughter waiting beside the window.

You remembered the little house, the dying fire, the note beneath the river stone and the sleeping man you had loved enough to betray.

The tears always stopped eventually.

You would wipe your face upon your sleeve, bind your chest again and return before anyone noticed you had gone. At dawn someone would thrust a weapon into your hands and Lucan would lift the sword.

× × × ×

King’s Landing appeared first as a smudge upon the horizon.

By midday the towers could be seen above the distant hills, and before the sun began its descent the Red Keep itself rose against the pale sky, red stone catching the light.

You had imagined this moment during every miserable mile south, usually when your thighs were rubbed raw from the saddle or your shoulders burned from carrying armour that seemed determined to drag you into the earth. King’s Landing had become less a place than a promise, something always waiting beyond the next hill.

Now it was there.

And you were still alive.

The column halted several leagues from the city upon a broad stretch of open ground where Hightower banners snapped above hundreds of weary men. Orders passed from captain to captain. Fires were lit, horses watered, armour inspected. The army would enter the city on the morrow.

That evening, the names were called.

Not all of them.

Only those judged worthy.

You were restringing Heartpiercer when someone called your brother’s name.

“Lucan.”

Your hands stopped. The name had become yours so thoroughly that you turned before thought could remind you it belonged to someone else.

A Hightower man stood several paces away. “Ser Gwayne wants you.”

Your stomach turned but you followed him.

A small gathering had formed beyond the central fires where several knights waited beneath the green-and-white banners of Oldtown. Some of the recruits stood among them, newly washed and awkwardly solemn, while others knelt upon the earth awaiting their turn.

Gwayne stood before them. He wore his full armory, his auburn hair pushed back from his face, though the wind had already freed several strands. A longsword rested easily in his hand. He looked…rather handsome in the soft light.

You had seen him throughout the weeks of training.

Sometimes on horseback along the edge of the field, sometimes correcting a man's stance himself when the drillmasters failed to make the lesson understood. Once he had watched you loose arrows from horseback until your fingers bled through the wrappings, offering neither praise nor criticism until the end, when he had simply told the drillmaster to increase the distance on the morrow.

You had disliked him for that.

Now his eyes found you across the gathering, “Lucan.”

You stopped before him. “Ser.”

“I heard you have skill with a bow that many knights would envy, and enough sense to know when skill alone will not save you. More importantly, the men who trained beside you trust you.”

You felt your chest clench at the high praise and more specifically at the word, trust. When you had deceived every one of them.

“On your knee.” Gwayne commanded.

For one foolish second, you only stared at him. What does he mean to get on your knees?

Gwayne lifted a brow. “Must I ask twice?”

“No, Ser.” You lowered yourself quickly onto one knee. For some absurd reason, that frightened you more than the command to shoot ever had.

Gwayne stepped before you. From this position he seemed impossibly tall.

He rose his long sword.

A foolish instinct warned you to move, but then the flat of the blade settled gently upon your right shoulder.

“Lucan of Oldtown.” Hearing the name spoken so formally sent strange shiver through you and suddenly you became aware of everything at once.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” The blade crossed above your bowed head and came to rest upon your left shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”

Your throat tightened when you realized what he was doing. The blade returned to the other.

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.” You kept your head bowed as you remembered your niece and almost lost composure, but swallowed it. “In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women.”

The gods possessed a cruel sense of humour and your mouth nearly twitched. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he had caught the treacherous movement and was wondering what part of your vows you had found amusing.

You lowered your gaze before he could decide to ask.

“In the name of the Smith, I charge you to serve faithfully. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom before glory.”

The sword lifted away and Gwayne regarded you for a while. When he spoke again his voice changed, the ceremony leaving it. What remained belonged only to the man standing before you.

“You came to us with a bow and considerably more pride than sense.”

A few men nearby laughed. Heat crept up your neck, again.

Gwayne’s mouth threatened a smile. “You could scarcely keep your seat when first they put a bow in your hands upon horseback, and I believe you spent your first fortnight losing more sword fights than you won.”

More laughter followed. You stared at the ground and briefly reconsidered every favourable thought you had ever entertained about Ser Gwayne.

“But you rose every time they put you down.”

Your eyes lifted and Gwayne was looking directly at you now.

“I have watched men stronger than you discover reasons to disappear before dawn. I have watched better swordsmen decide that aching bones were sufficient cause to abandon their oaths before they had even sworn them.”

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands. To the scars across your palms.

“You remained.”

Your chest clenched again. 

“You learned what was required of you, and where strength failed you, you found another way. I would sooner have ten men who refuse to remain upon the ground than a hundred who have never been knocked from their feet.”

You had no clever answer for that. You were grateful you were kneeling, because suddenly you were uncertain whether your legs would have held you.

Gwayne extended his sword once more, resting the flat lightly against your shoulder. “Therefore, before gods and men, I name you knight.”

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“Lies.” You smirked. “Thought I would not insult you and pretend that I do not appreciate the sentiment.” 

“I am glad that my promise suits you.” Gwayne’s hand shot out, pulling you close to him. Your stomach flipped, wrapping your leg around his waist. “How fares the babe?” 

“She is eager, as always.” You grabbed at his wrist, guiding his hand to your stomach. “She wants her father.” 

“Soon, my love.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling when your eyes fluttered shut. “Soon.” 

“My lady.” 

You hummed, your hand shooting out to Gwayne’s side as you attempted to bury your face into the pillow. So he was gone. You frowned, another terribly life-like dream. Your maid, Lila, completely unaware of your melancholic state, laughed before attempting to wake you once more. “I hate to disturb you, but it is urgent. From Lord Hightower.” 

You shot up, heart beating faster than it should. “Gwayne has written?” 

“No, my lady.” Lila frowned. “It is from the Lord Hightower.” 

You huffed, letting yourself fall back into the comfort of your warm bed. “Read it to me then.” 

“He requests your presence in Tumbleton. He says he wants to-” She scoffed, and you pretended not to hear. “He wants to present a united front for the future king, Daeron.” 

You shot up once more. “Daeron? King?” 

“That is what he says, my lady.” 

“Is there anything else?” 

“He- he asks that you arrive as quickly as possible.” 

“I do not see how that will be possible, seeing as the roads are thick with thieves and Hightower enemies.” Your hand gravitated toward your swollen stomach. “I will not put my child in harm’s way for Ormund Hightower’s sake.” 

“He says that Daeron will come fetch you by Dragonback.” 

“Seven hells.” Your heart sank. “How will I bring my things-” 

“I will ensure everything is taken care of, my lady.” Lila rushes to rid you of your worries. “You must rest, and prepare yourself.” 

“Well said, Lila.” You stood, rounding your bed to don Gwayne’s robe. It still smelled ever so slightly of him, bringing you comfort in his absence. “I will break my fast in the gardens today.” 

“An excellent choice, my lady.”

 Daeron had grown since you last saw him.

Since Ormund took him away from the one home he had ever known to risk his life for the sake of glory. When you had last seen him, he had been three and ten, nearly four and ten. 

His voice was deeper, his eyes were sadder.

You wanted to kill Ormund. 

Ever the gentleman, Daeron helped you on and off of the Tessarion, his hand providing proof of you and Gwayne’s guidance, to always be kind, to always stay true to his heart.

You kissed his cheek, smiling brightly when his face turned bright red. “Have I embarrassed you, nephew?” 

“Compared to Uncle Ormund’s actions, it is nothing.” He quipped, linking your arm through his as he escorted you into the Tumbleton estate. “I have missed you.” 

“And I you, sweet boy.” You pulled him closer. “How have you fared since your departure?” 

“Well enough.” His smile was tight, secretive. “Others have it far worse than I. Others in this very city-” 

“I am well aware of other’s troubles, Daeron. We shall remedy that soon enough.” You stopped just before the door you assumed would lead you to Ormund, whispering. “I asked how you fared?” 

“I am fine.” He nodded, straightening his posture as if that would comfort you. It did not. “All is well.” 

“If you insist.” You huffed. “Shall we face the beast?” 

“Aunt!” Daeron’s eyes widened, collecting himself before he motioned to the guards to open the door.

“Cousin!” Ormund stood behind a great oak desk. “How good of you to join us.” 

“My lord.” You curtsied quickly. “How could I refuse such a kind invitation from the Lord of Oldtown?”

“Still…” Ormund had caught your obvious disdain for him the moment you entered the room. You were glad of it, if he had not, he would have been far stupider than you thought him to already be. “Is the babe-” You almost laughed at his attempt to show care. 

“Fine. Thank you.”

“I am sure after such an arduous journey, that you would like to rest.” 

“That would be most appreciated, my lord.” You squinted, wary of his sudden kindness. Ormund was not known for his consideration of others. 

“I have had the maids fix the finest room they could find. Daeron shall escort you.” He sat at the table, plopping a grape into his mouth casually. “And I shall see you in the morrow.” 

You curtsied once more before bidding him goodbye. “Good evening.” 

“Good evening.” 

Had Ormund broken? 

Yes, he had. 

This very morning, he, in the same breath, denied Lord and Lady Footling their bedchambers, threatened to end their lives, and swore that his men would be on their best behavior, all whilst bare as the day he was born.

Now, he asks that you come along to deal with a diplomacy issue. 

Lady Footling is as fierce as she is proud, stepping forward to confront the intruder of her home once more. “You said your men were honorable. This one-” She pointed to the Hightower knight standing to her right, his face bloodied and beaten. “Has sinned.”

“I was billeted at the smithy, my lord. But the smith didn’t like it. Mayhaps he resents the imposition or mayhaps he is loyal to Rhaenyra. But he struck me.”

“My lord.” The smith stepped forward. “Now, if it please you, we bear you no ill will. But this man went to ravish my sister and then broke my wife’s arm when she tried to stop him. She is a weaver. We need what little she earns.”

“Is this true?” Ormund looked at the Hightower knight with a look of neutrality. You do not trust him for a moment.

“No, my lord.” The knight replies.

Cries break out as a result. The women look utterly fearful, on the verge of tears when Ormund raises his hand. “I will have calm. What is your name?” 

“Garrick, my lord, of Whitegrove.” 

“Garrick of Whitegrove. You have violated guest right. You have debauched yourself upon a woman and injured another. Your punishment will fit your crime. You will be gelded, and you will have your own arm broken. You may remain in my service, but trespass again, and you will hang.”

The knight’s face was white. “My lord. I have a wife.” 

“You should have thought of that then,” You stepped forward. “Before you attempted to defile a woman’s virtue. The House of Hightower will not allow this dishonorable act to go unpunished.”

Ormund said nothing, simply signaling the knights to take him away. “See them home. Have a maester tend to their wounds.” He waited until their ears were out of reach to address Daeron. “We must keep a firm grip, tensions are high. Lawlessness and disorder claw at our gates.”

“Yes, sire.” 

“And your aunt is right.” He smiled firmly. “House Hightower will not allow its honor to be questioned.” 

“She is quite beautiful.” You whisper, caressing Tessarion’s snout sweetly. “Sweet too.” 

“Is she much different from the dragons you have known in the past?” Daeron pressed his forehead against her scales. “I have none to compare her to, it would seem.” 

“In stature, no. She is very similar to your-” You gulped, wondering how you might rephrase your answer. “To your sister’s dragon.” 

“Dreamfyre?” Daeron’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I have heard she is of a similar color. Kind too.” 

“Yes.” You pursed your lips. Thank the gods you did not mention Syrax. “Has she been out since you escorted me here?” 

“No.” He frowned. “She longs to fly. We hardly ever have the chance as of late.”

“She will feel the wind beneath her wings once more, I am sure of it.” 

Tessarion purred from the loss of his touch. He smiled, leaning his forehead against her once more.  “Patience, my girl. It won’t be long.”  

A high screech left the dragon’s mouth, startling you. “I have warned you against indulging in affection for that beast.” 

Tessarion grew restless, bellowing at the Hightower lord. You fought the smirk that was forming on your lips: even the dragon could sense how dismal his presence was. “Lykiri.” 

“Have you come down here to try and dull his longing to ride?” Ormund addressed you.

“Quite the opposite.” You smiled tightly. “He is a Targaryen, he should want to bond with his dragon.” You stepped forward, pulling your robes closer. “Or would you deny him his birthright?” 

Ormund chose not to respond, simply ignoring your act of defiance. “You are a good boy. You speak kindly, and you say your prayers. I have raised you in the light of the Seven, and the Father smiles upon you. But there is a taint in your blood. The Targaryens are a savage race, poor in intellect, but rich in cunning. With dark spells, they created abominations to subdue what was rightly ours. We are the superior men. But against that, we could not stand.” Tessarion growled as Ormund placed, or at least tried to, his hand on Daeron's shoulder. “The gods have put you to divine purpose, my boy.” 

“What purpose, sire?” 

“The brutes raise a woman to the Iron Throne. A desecration!” You held your tongue, deciding not to remind the man that Alicent had sat the throne for years in Viserys stead. “It was a blessing that you came to ward in Oldtown. Your brothers are lost, but you remain a Hightower, raised in the shadow of the Citadel, in the light of the Starry Sept. Now, you must be king.” 

Amongst other unfortunate virtues, your cousin (by marriage) was overbearing and intense. He could not lose, and he could not admit any wrongdoing. When his mind was set on a path, there was no changing it. You had witnessed many a passionate speech from the man, and this was shaping up to be one that you wanted to leave. 

And you would have, if not for Daeron’s sake. 

“You would not wish, surely, for me to turn cloak against my brothers.”

You stepped forward, grabbing Daeron’s hand and giving it a comforting squeeze as Ormund walked up the stairs and motioned towards the door.

Your eyes widened as Ormund’s right hand man dragged in the smith from earlier, whose wife had been assaulted. A hand subconsciously fell to your stomach, fear coursing through your veins. “I thought you let him go.” 

“A righteous king must demonstrate he upholds many virtues. Honor, wisdom, justice.” 

“He only acted when our man attacked a woman.” 

“He laid hands on a Hightower.” 

“You speak of justice yet you punish this man for something you yourself condemned.” You stepped forward, putting yourself between Daeron and the madman. “You are committing a grave mistake.” 

“Quiet, woman. That soldier is an extension of you, of the crown. Justice must be done.”

“Is not mercy a kingly virtue?” Your heart swelled with pride at Daeron’s argument. 

“That sounds like something your father would say.”

You pushed Daeron back, glaring as Ormund took a step closer, and drew his sword. “He is a boy, Ormund.” 

“He is the king.” 

“He is not the king!” You yelled. “He is sweet, and he is kind, but he is not a king. You cannot force him to carry out your ventures. It is not right.” 

“What is not right is you speaking out of turn-” 

“I beg your pardon?” You clenched your hands into tight fists. “He will not do it.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron whispered. “It is alright, truly.” 

“I will do it in his stead-” Your eyes welled up. “He’s just a boy. My boy.” 

“Aunt-” Daeron stepped around you, grabbing the sword from his uncle’s hands. “It must be done.” 

“Daeron, please-” 

He stood tall, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he stared at the smith. “Do not look. It will only upset you more.”

Your sleep was plagued with visions of Gwayne, both real memories and falsified. Your longing for your husband had gotten to the point where you considered sleeping forever so you could at least see him there.

You lay on your lounge chair, staring out the window of your chambers. If you could not sleep, perhaps you could daydream. Tumbleton was loud, louder than Oldtown ever was, even on its busiest day. You could not leave the estate, courtesy of Ormund’s lockdown. Not leaving the estate ruined your plans to explore the city, hand out food to those less fortunate, and roam the woods. 

All things you could do freely in Oldtown. All things you could be doing with Gwayne if his cousin had simply bent the knee and left this mess alone.

Instead, you were stuck here, like a prisoner in a dank cell.

A cell that had its own maid and delicious food, courtesy of the Footly’s chef, Mrs. Allen.

You were much more well off than most, you reminded yourself.

That didn’t stop you, however, from storming out of your room, your skirts swishing side to side, as you prepared to confront your cousin. Ormund sat behind his obnoxiously large desk, staring at a paper like it had personally offended him. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Daydreaming would have to wait for another day. “I’ve been awake for hours, thank you.” You scoffed. “If you must know, I have been avoiding your presence.” 

“What have I done to upset you this time?” He sat back in his chair, smug as ever. 

“Other than refusing to let me return home and be at peace?” 

“Yes.” 

“You treat that boy-” You pointed to Daeron, who was dead silent, most likely in fear of being punished by his tyrant of an uncle. “Like a prize to be won. Not like the child that he is-” 

“He is six and ten.” 

“I believe you yourself were nine and ten when your father finally let you enter a tourney. Interesting, how you are permitted to shy away from the complexities of court, yet Daeron is forced to entertain your kingly notions.” 

He glared. “Get to the point.” 

“You must see reason and relinquish this city. Go back to Oldtown in good faith, and try to reach an agreement with the Queen.” 

“The Queen?” Ormund smirked. “Are you implying that Aegon, and by association, his younger brothers, are not the true line?” 

“I am implying that she is currently the Queen. Aegon and Aemond have fled.” You crossed your arms. “Do not twist my words. Surely, you see that-” 

“Uncle Gwayne!” Daeron's face lit up. “You've returned!”

Your breath catches as you whip around. Perhaps, you reason with yourself, this is all part of another of your terrifyingly realistic dreams. You pray that the auburn-haired knight in front of you is not a trick of the light. He looks worn to the bone, but you do not care. Your eyes well with tears, and Gwayne's face falls into an ever deeper pit of despair. “Are you alright, my love?”

Stalking forward, you grab his face in your hands, squeezing his cheeks lightly. “Are you real?” 

“My girl.” His hands grab at your hips, pulling you close. “I have missed you so-”

You pull your hands from his face, shoving at his chest between each word. “You left me!” 

“What is the meaning of this?” A deep frown forms on his weary face.

“You left me with him!” Tears threaten to fall from your eyes. “Do you have any idea the things-” 

Ormund cannot help but glare. “Watch your tongue, woman-” 

“Shut your mouth, Ormund.” You hiss.

Gwayne grabs your wrists, halting your attack and perhaps, in the process, saving everyone from the wrath of his cousin. “I have craved your touch for two moons now. Surely, you can wait to reprimand me until after I have bathed.” 

“You-” The tears released in steady streams. “I worried you were dead.” 

He pulled you close, kissing your lips gently. “Do not cry, my love, please.” 

“I cannot help it.” You huffed. “You did this to me.” 

“Did what exactly?” He laughs. You stepped back, motioning to your stomach. He raised an eyebrow, visibly confused. “I-” 

You turned to the side, letting the shape of your gown give him an indication as to what you could be implying. “Gwayne-” 

“Are you-” He grinned, stepping forward. “Are you with child?” 

“As much as I hate to interrupt this touching reunion-” Ormund cleared his throat. “You must tell me why you are here. I believed you to be in the woods with Criston Cole.”

Gwayne’s smile faltered, and you frowned, caressing his cheek gently. “Are you alright, my love?”

 “Ser Criston stayed to fight the Tully army with our remaining men.” 

“And so, he fights on, and yet you have returned. Because…” 

“Because fighting on is madness.” When you really look at your husband, you see sadness, a broken man whose values had been proven extinct long ago.

“Do you think me mad, Your Grace?” Ormund looks at Daeron expectantly. 

“No, sire.” 

“You mean to fight on?” Gwayne scoffs. “With what? There’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us, and five more not thirty leagues away.” 

“Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, squeamish.”

“If your host leaves these walls, they burn.” Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “Aemond has fled, and Rhaenyra holds my sister hostage. The River army draws closer by the day. You have put these countless peoples lives in jeopardy, my wife and unborn child’s lives in jeopardy. What possible course is there to remedy this?” 

“Your uncle lacks imagination as well as courage.” Gwayne squeezes your hand, noticing when your eyes ignite with a dangerous look. Daeron smiles at the quip, and you can’t help it when your heart breaks just a little. “I would take one Hightower sword over three Tully mudmen. When the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our terms, our grounds. We have the clear advantage. The great houses cannot help but come to our side.” 

“Have any yet come?” A laugh leaves your lips, and you slap a hand over your mouth, looking away. 

“The patient hunter gets the kill. Something our most craven must learn.” 

“I have marched a long road, fought and killed, and suffered my comrades to be killed about me.” 

“Yes, you have endured much.” Ormund leans against his desk, a sly smirk etched on his lips. “I’m sure you found solace in your brothers at arms.” 

“I am fatigued.” Gwayne does not give way to his cousin’s taunts. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen a feather bed, and months since I’ve held my wife. By your leave.” 

“You might escort your Aunt and Uncle to their quarters, Your Grace. Make sure he bathes.” He laughs, calling out after you. “Oh, and mind yourself. Keep your back to the wall.” 

You see red as you reach out, gripping Daeron’s wrist. “We’re leaving. Do not listen to that craven man.”

Gwayne waits until they’ve turned the corner to speak. “He calls you Your Grace?” 

“I’m sorry, I had to get through it.” 

“And this is your way? Fawning?” 

You whisper, wary of being watched. “Daeron knows how to deal with the man. Ormund has reached a new height of madness, one you and I have never seen.”

“He has styled you the bloody king,” Gwayne grumbles.

“Well, you left me alone with him. You know what he is. I do what I can.” 

“You have done as well as anyone can, my boy.” You kiss the back of his hand. “But you know as well as I that your Uncle had no choice but to leave.” 

“It certainly didn’t grieve him to ride away.” Daeron ripped his hand from your hold, standing in the middle of the hall. 

Gwayne scoffed. “Mind yourself, Daeron.” 

“Gwayne-” 

“I hate who I am with him, and you- you don’t understand. He wants me to be the king. It is his greatest ambition.” 

“Then tell him you won’t do it.” 

“Who will protect me then?”

“You could cast him down.” Gwayne smiled. “If you were king.” 

“A merciful and noble king. You would be even better than your father.” You reassured. “I know it.” 

“I will never be king, Aunt.” 

“I must-” Gwayne groaned. “I must bathe. Bath and lie down.” 

“You will stay?” The boy sounded hopeful for the first time in months.

“And do what? Bear witness as Ormund marches our house to its doom? I’m second in line. I shall return to Oldtown and prepare to pick up the pieces.” 

“Don’t leave me again.” Daeron cried. “Please.” 

“You would be more than welcome to come with us, my sweet.” You look at Gwayne, whose face is blank. 

“He’s Ormund’s treasure now. He’ll be safer here.” 

You scoffed. “Surely, you do not mean that. Daeron, do not listen to-” But Daeron had left, and all the joy you’d felt when you’d seen your husband turned to anger. “Why would you say that to him?” 

“Darling-” 

“I cannot begin to describe the anger I feel towards you at this very moment.” You hissed, stalking around him. 

“You must understand-” 

You whipped around, your eyes fiery as you spoke. “I understand nothing. And seeing as you refuse to talk to me about the hardships you have faced-” 

“I have not had the chance.” He stepped forward. “If you recall, I’ve only just arrived.” 

“And what an impact you have made.” You scoffed. “Destroying what was left of that boy’s happiness.” 

“You cannot meant to imply-” 

“And yet I have.” You shoved past him. “Do not speak to me for the rest of the evening.” 

Gwayne’s eyes had not left you since your disagreement, bearing into your soul. You hated him for it: he had found the loophole in your request. 

You never said he couldn’t look at you. 

It didn’t help you in the slightest that, as angry as you were with him at the moment, your heart screamed for him, your skin craved his touch. Still, you glared. “Could you look elsewhere?” 

“I seem to recall a time when you begged for me to look upon you.” 

You stared at the ceiling. “Do you think me vain?” 

“Not at all.” The water splashed as he sat up in the bath. “I find you to be a perfectly well-balanced lady.” 

You squinted, wary of his kindness. “Do not try to blind me with your false niceties.” 

“You know as well as I that the things I tell you are not false.” He pauses for a moment, trying to catch your eyes. When you refuse to look at him, he continues. “Do you know how miserable it truly is to be fighting, to be away from one's home?"

You shake your head, and he nods. "I thought as such."

"That does not serve as an excuse to- to act a villain."

"Is that what you think of me?" When you do not respond, he looks away, eyes dark. "What a sad revelation."

"Gwayne-"

"Do you know what I thought of when I was away?” You shrug, your heart pumping wildly. “I thought of you. Only you-” 

“I cannot-” Your voice gave out, and so you stood, leaving his side to give yourself some respite. 

“I thought of-” His voice broke. “You in the morning,  when I’d wake before you and watch as you laid there, not a care in the world. The peace you had, the soft smile your lips carried. You turned your back to him, staring out the window as silent tears fell down your cheeks. “I would remind myself of that image, of your image, every time we went into battle. I love you so intensely that it hurts my soul.” In the middle of all the emotion, he had left the bath, appearing behind you with the stealth of an assassin. 

You leaned your back against his chest, eyes shut as his hands wrapped gently around your waist. “You are my whole world, my whole life. Do not think for a moment that I too did not want you by my side every waking moment you were gone. When I learned I was with child, I sobbed for days. All I did was wail for you from our bed, wishing that you would survive this bloody war.” You turn in his hold. “Never doubt my love for you. Never.” His forehead fell to lie against yours, his eyes falling to your lips with every breath. “I am upset with you because I know the man you are. And the man you are would never address that darling boy the way you have today.” 

“I am sorry-” 

“It is not I that you must apologize to.” Your hands shamelessly drifted up his bare chest, heat rising to your cheeks. “Please talk to him. Before it is too late. Before we-” You gulped. “Before we inevitably-” 

“I swear on the old gods and the new that nothing will happen to you or the babe. You will be safe from whatever we face here.” His chest heaved as his hands drifted up and down the side of you. “I made a vow to protect, and I would rather die than see you breathe your last breath.” 

“You are terribly dutiful.” You stretched your neck, delicately kissing the corner of his mouth. “But you do admit that you were callous with Daeron.” 

“I will apologize to him on the morrow; this I swear to you.” He nudged his nose against your jaw, tilting your head to make way for his affection. Slowly, his lips leave feathery kisses down your jaw and neck, stealing your breath away. 

“Gwayne-” You gasp. “I- you-” 

“What?” He teased, knowing your mind was struggling to form coherent thoughts. He knew this because he reacted the same way whenever you touched him. “I cannot begin to decipher what you are thinking if you cannot tell me-” 

“You are cruel.” Your voice sounded utterly wrecked. “So terribly cruel.”

“I hoped my wife would never utter those words.” He laughed. “But under these circumstances, I will allow it.”

The sun shone through the curtains, and you hummed. Your hands rose to your eyes, rubbing the sleep away. They slowly opened, an immediate sense of dread settling over you, the worst racing through your mind.

Had Gwayne truly returned, or had you dreamt it in order to deal with the pain that came with being apart? Your head whipped to the other side of the bed, a soft laugh leaving your lips.

Gwayne looked utterly exhausted. His mouth was open ever so slightly, his hair a mess from tossing and turning. You slide his tunic up, planting sweet kisses on the bruises that were still blooming on his perfect skin, still in disbelief that he was really, truly with you.

His hand wrapped around your waist, his eyes still closed as he pressed a kiss to your temple, grumbling a quiet good morning.

Thank the gods this is not a dream.

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As the towering shadow of the Hightower stretched across the streets of Oldtown, the salty breeze rising from the harbor carried the scent of the sea through the avenues. The city’s distinct air was a world away from the gloomy, treacherous atmosphere of King's Landing. Inside the manse, you sat by the window, your eyes fixed on the grand courtyard where the gates opened. During Gwayne’s long, perilous journey to the Red Keep, your heart had known no peace. You were still a newly-wed bride; the deep, vibrant excitement of being newlyweds and the aching longing for your husband had weighed heavily on your chest for days. You and Gwayne had grown up together, attending tournaments, festivals, and trade pacts side by side. The gods had shown mercy in your fate: what appeared to be an arranged match was actually a genuine marriage of love.

You looked breathtakingly beautiful in your gown of deep green cloth, embroidered with intricate silver thread; yet far more than your beauty, it was the impatient longing and loving light in your eyes that illuminated the room.

Your waiting finally ended with the sound of hooves echoing against the stone streets and the heavy rumble of carriage wheels. The manse’s massive wooden doors groaned open.

The moment you heard those hoofbeats, your heart began to race. Without a second thought, you left your room and hurried down the broad marble staircase of the manse, rushing toward the courtyard. As your skirts glided across the marble steps, your eyes were locked solely on the man dismounting his horse.

Gwayne released the reins from his black stallion and stepped deftly down to the ground, spotting you the very second his feet touched the earth. His face—weary after days buried under road dust, royal burdens, and heavy armor—lit up in an instant at your sight. The exhaustion in his eyes dispersed like morning mist, replaced by absolute relief. As you ran toward him, he opened his arms wide, utterly indifferent to the cold hardness of his armor or the presence of the surrounding servants.

When you threw your arms around each other, time seemed to stand still. Holding you tightly, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, drawing in a deep, trembling breath to inhale your scent. You wrapped your arms around his neck, melting the longing that had gnawed at your heart for days into his warmth.

"I missed you dearly, husband..." you whispered, your voice quivering slightly with excitement and relief. "I counted every single day since you left, Gwayne. My eyes never left the moonlight, nor our window."

Gwayne pulled back slightly and took your face between his hands. As his thumb gently caressed your cheek, his gaze held the deepest, most protective adoration a devoted husband could feel for his bride. He leaned in and pressed a long, warm kiss to your forehead.

"My beautiful bride..." Gwayne said, his voice thick with desire and tenderness. "Every moment I drew breath in the Red Keep, I thought only of returning to you. To the city, to you, to our home... Your presence alone made these endless roads bearable for me."

Gwayne intertwined his fingers with yours, bringing them to his lips to kiss each of your knuckles one by one. "I promise you, my lady, I will never leave you alone for this long again."

As you smiled at his sweet words, the enchanting bond between you swept away the courtyard's chill. You gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, revived by one another's presence.

Just then, the door of the ornate carriage behind him opened. A serving woman carefully stepped out, holding a tiny infant wrapped in swaddling clothes. Gwayne shifted his gaze from you with a soft smile and placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you gently toward the carriage.

"I’ve brought you Oldtown’s newest guest," Gwayne said in a gentle tone.

Together, you approached the baby. As the servant drew back the cloth covering the swaddle, you saw Daeron inspecting his surroundings with curious blue eyes. The curls peeking out from the swaddle were not Targaryen silver but a bright, auburn, just like Gwayne’s. He waved his tiny hands in the air, smiling innocently.

The sight made your heart melt. You leaned down and touched the babe's cheek. As you extended your finger, Daeron grasped it tightly with his small hands.

"Gods..." you whispered, your eyes shining as you looked at Gwayne. "Gwayne, he looks so much like you. Look at his tiny nose, the color of his hair... It feels less like looking at a prince from the capital and more like looking at you as a babe."

Watching the genuine, motherly affection you showered on the infant, a proud and incredibly sweet smile appeared on Gwayne's face. He leaned over your shoulder to look down at the baby, then brought his hand to rest on your shoulder, gently squeezing it.

"I knew you would welcome him like this," Gwayne said, his voice filled with hope and love. He stroked the baby's hair softly. "Daeron will grow up here, surrounded by your warmth, with us. Far from cold court, as part of a real family..."

Gwayne leaned in closer, whispering as he met your eyes: "This shall be a practice for us, too. When our own children are born, Daeron will make a great older brother to them. He’ll protect them and teach them to run through these streets together."

At Gwayne's mention of "our own children," a sweet feeling touched your heart, and a warm flush rose to your cheeks. Moved by his words, you rested your head against his chest. As Daeron held fast to your finger, Gwayne wrapped his arm securely around your waist.

"This is his home," you said with firm love. You offered the little infant into his uncle's arms.

Gwayne drew you even closer, and together you stepped toward the entrance of the manse with the tiny life cradled between you.

With Gwayne's arm wrapped snugly around your waist, you both looked down at the infant in his arms. Daeron seemed to have built a little throne for himself within Gwayne's broad, safe hold. Just then, the baby reached his tiny hands into the air and caught a lock of hair tumbling over your shoulder. His small fingers wrapped tightly around the silky strand; pulling it gently toward himself, Daeron let out a cheerful, gurgling giggle.

Seeing the sweet scene, Gwayne let out a low, warm laugh. "It seems he’s already made his first conquest," he said, his eyes sparkling.

Smiling, you leaned in and placed your fingers gently over his tiny hands to untangle your hair without hurting him. "Not a very painful conquest, I must say," you whispered merrily, pressing a soft kiss to Daeron's cheek. Your heart swelled as the baby released your hair and tried to touch your face instead. The natural, motherly warmth on your face did not escape Gwayne's notice.

Seeing you embrace the child not with mere formal court courtesy, but with pure affection, Gwayne felt all his inner troubles melt away. Yet another thought lingered in his mind. Tightening his hold on your waist, he leaned closer, his voice turning slightly more serious, though still tender:

"Did my cousin Ormund cause you any trouble?" Gwayne asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Bringing a carriage full of palace belongings and a Targaryen prince into the middle of his city couldn't have kept his spirit calm."

You smiled and sighed gently, without taking your eyes off Daeron’s red curls. "Ormund was in his usual state," you replied with a sweet touch of irony. "He grumbled constantly, of course. You know how much he hates seeing Oldtown’s order disrupted and the court's troubles brought to his doorstep."

"Just court matters?" Gwayne asked with a smile, knowing his cousin's moody nature all too well.

"Of course not," you said, looking up into Gwayne's eyes. "He slipped in his usual talks. He couldn't pass up the chance to point out that despite moons of marriage, we are not with a child yet. He kept asking when we'd hold our own babe."

Gwayne offered a faint smile at those words. "I sometimes forget Ormund does not come from the House of Patience and Courtesy," he murmured, leaning down to whisper in your ear: "But let him not worry... When that day comes, he will be forced to hold his tongue and leave you in peace."

As his words painted a sweet rose blush on your cheeks, Gwayne turned his gaze back to Daeron in his arms.

"He was uneasy about a Targaryen arriving in the city," you continued, bringing the focus back to the child. "He believed the capital's curse was settling upon Oldtown. But..." You ran your hand over the bright auburn curls on Daeron’s tiny head. "...seeing this little one in his arms, looking nothing like them, will change things."

Gwayne nodded in agreement, looking at Daeron’s red hair. "People will expect a Targaryen prince, only to find a Hightower child standing before them. He carries no scent of the Dragonpit, nor those silver locks... Everyone, including Ormund, will soften once they see this boy growing up behind these walls as one of our own."

When Daeron grabbed Gwayne’s finger and yawned with sleepy eyes, Gwayne pulled you close and pressed a deep kiss to the side of your head.

"You, me, and this little man... Nothing else matters."

As the carriage pulled up in the courtyard, the baby’s belongings, chests, and the royal servants began descending one by one, carrying items through the grand doors of the manse. Just then, one of the attendants carefully lifted a heavy, wooden chest draped in velvet covers out of the carriage. As the edge of the cloth slipped slightly, the strange, scaly, matte surface beneath gleamed for a moment in the sunlight: it was the dragon egg sent from the court to be placed in Daeron's cradle.

Gwayne looked at the servant carrying the chest and let out a soft sigh. Tightening his arm around your waist, he leaned down to your ear: "Ah, yes... There’s this as well," he said, his tone lighthearted yet weary. "I only hope it doesn't hatch in Oldtown. We hardly need to raise a dragon in the middle of the manse."

You smiled softly at his reaction. With Gwayne holding the babe and you nestled at his side, you stepped into the entrance of the manse. The fatigue of the road and the gloom of the court were left behind as the heavy wooden doors closed behind you.

Together, you climbed the wide staircase and walked toward the nursery you had prepared for Daeron. Upon entering, Gwayne paused to look around. You had arranged the room over the past few days with immense care; soft sunlight filtering through the windows illuminated the light draperies and the wooden cradle resting in the corner. The room smelled of dried roses.

"You’ve prepared the room beautifully," Gwayne said, looking at you with deep admiration in his eyes.

"It has been my sole occupation for days," you said, walking toward the small table beside the cradle. You gestured to the embroidery hoop resting on the table and the soft baby blanket framed within it. "Look, I began stitching a pattern for him. I wanted little songbirds, falcons, and colorful wildflowers on it... Something cheerful to brighten his spirits. It isn't finished yet, but..."

Gwayne seemed enchanted by your thoughtfulness. He extended Daeron toward you. As you took the infant into your arms, Daeron rested his tiny head securely against your chest. You walked over and sat in the spacious, softly cushioned rocking chair beside the windows.

Gwayne leaned against the edge of the cradle, folding his arms across his chest. Without taking his eyes off you for a single moment, he watched you and the tiny life in your lap.

You began to rock the baby gently in your arms. As Daeron's sleepy eyes slowly fluttered shut, a low, peaceful lullaby drifted from your lips, filling the room. Your voice, floating into the quiet air, lulled the baby's breathing into a rhythmic calm.

Gwayne stood mesmerized. Watching you rock the babe, the strands of hair falling across your face, and your gentle grace as you sang the lullaby, he could not conceal the profound love surging within him. He stepped toward you soundlessly and knelt beside the chair. Placing his hand over yours, he brought his head near your knee and whispered:

"Here..." Gwayne said, his voice thick with emotion. "I could stay right here until the Stranger takes me."

Just as Gwayne placed his hand over yours, looking up at you, a heavy set of footsteps echoed at the doorway, instantly shattering the peaceful enchantment.

"So, you have finally graced Oldtown with your presence, Ser Gwayne."

Ormund Hightower stood at the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest, stepping heavily into the room. With a distant expression on his face, he looked first at his cousin, then at the babe in your arms.

Gwayne let out a quiet sigh and rose from his kneeling position. The soft smile on his face vanished, replaced by a formal demeanor; he seemed entirely unperturbed by Ormund's arrival. Rather than trading words with his cousin, he maintained his composure and met him with calm silence.

Ormund slowed his pace as he approached Gwayne. "Are you engaging in women's work now, carrying babes?" he said, his voice dripping with dry mockery. "Though... I see you have finally found a way to present your wife with a child, Ser Gwayne. Compensating for your own shortcomings by bringing one ready-made from the court is quite an accomplishment."

Ormund's tactless jab at your marriage and your lack of child hung heavily in the room for a brief moment. Gwayne did not lose his temper; knowing his cousin's ill-humored and blunt disposition, he merely squared his jaw and stood in mature, dignified silence.

Ormund then shifted his gaze from Gwayne to you and Daeron. He walked heavily toward the rocking chair. He gave you a brief, respectful, yet stern nod. Then he leaned forward slightly, bringing his imposing frame down to the babe's eye level.

Ormund inspected the child's face intently, as if assessing this "Targaryen burden" sent from King's Landing. He narrowed his eyes, expecting a child of dragonblood to disrupt the order of Oldtown. But as his gaze caught the bright, gleaming red curls spilling from the edge of the swaddle, his expression softened for a fleeting instant.

The baby possessed no Targaryen hair. Daeron looked back at Ormund with half-open, peaceful eyes, his red curls shimmering in the light streaming through the window.

Ormund's sharp, furrowed brows gradually relaxed. The tense line of his face gave way to a mixture of surprise and hidden relief. At least he bears no resemblance to those dragon-riding savages, he thought to himself. The infant's Hightower-like appearance somewhat tempered the Targaryen resentment in his chest.

Ormund extended a finger gently toward the child. When Daeron wrapped his tiny hand around his rough finger, a faint, proud smile played at the corners of Ormund's lips. He raised his head, looking first at you, then at Gwayne.

"Good," Ormund said, the harshness in his voice softening for the first time. "At least he does not look like those savages." Still, he had no intention of displaying affection at length or embracing the child as you and Gwayne did. Maintaining his distance, he continued to inspect the baby's face with detached curiosity.

Just then, little Daeron reached out his arms toward the large man standing before him. He wriggled playfully within his swaddle, lunging forward as if wanting to go straight to Ormund.

Seeing the infant make a move toward him, Ormund recoiled slightly in surprise. Such close contact with a baby was entirely foreign to his world.

Gwayne, catching his cousin's sudden startle and clumsy hesitation, could not contain a loud laugh. "What is the matter, Ormund?" Gwayne asked, a thoroughly mischievous smile on his lips. "Does a Lord who commands a whole army pull back when a tiny babe wants to be held?"

Ormund's pride was instantly wounded by Gwayne's remark and mocking laugh. He squared his chin and knitted his brows. "Nonsense!" he snapped, stepping forward to take Daeron from your arms with somewhat rough yet proud movements. Positioning the baby against his chest, he began to rock him awkwardly and rather stiffly. "There is no simpler task."

However, this moment of pride was short-lived.

As Ormund rocked the babe in his arms, Daeron suddenly screwed up his face, and a distinct sound echoed through the room. The little prince had thoroughly soiled his nappy, right onto the Oldtown Lord's smooth, expensive doublet. The moment the warmth and sharp odor seeped into Ormund's clothes, his face twisted into a sight of absolute horror.

Ormund's dignified posture collapsed in a fraction of a second. His face contorted in utter disgust, his eyes bulging as if they might pop out. He thrust his arms forward as if holding a burning coal, practically throwing the baby back into your arms.

"Take him! Take him now!" Ormund panicked, his voice straddling disgust and desperation.

While you bit your lip to suppress your laughter and quickly gathered Daeron into your lap, Ormund lost no time reaching for the small sachet filled with dried lavender and cloves tied to his leather belt. Unfastening the pouch, he pressed it directly to his nose and began inhaling the fragrance deeply.

With an expression of sheer revulsion, keeping the scent sachet glued to his nose, he turned around and marched hastily toward the door. Fleeing the room, his voice boomed muffled yet commandingly from behind the sachet:

"Clean this child! And see that Gwayne is cleaned as well!"

As Gwayne watched Ormund sweep down the corridor like a storm, he caught your eye, trying in vain to stop his laughter.

As Ormund's hurried footsteps faded down the hallway, Gwayne walked over to your side. A sweet, radiant joy shone on both your faces.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

this was a city ruled by a queen who had taken the throne only to find that a crown did not come with endless gold, the treasury a gaping wound that refused to heal.

rhaenyra had looked at her council with a desperation that mirrored the people in the streets, her eyes pleading for a solution that didn't involve more taxes on people who had nothing left to give.

the war had swallowed everything.

shipments were delayed. the riches hid their wealth. the treasury that had once seemed impossible to empty now felt frighteningly small. every day brought another report, another number, another desperate request from the people who had nowhere else to turn to.

rhaenyra had listened to every one of them. she was desperate too, her eyes shadowed by the weight of a city that was eating itself alive. but then a thought crossed her mind.

there was a man called ser dyron horden. he had once served rhaenyra's father, viserys the peaceful and knew where the hidden caches of the crown were tucked away in the provinces. and you had been the only one who knew how to track a man who didn't want to be found.

the problem was that the man had fled to tumbleton, and tumbleton was currently under the suffocating grip of the hightower army.

"send a raven to lord ormund." rhaenyra ordered, her voice thin from lack of sleep. "tell him we do not seek the town, but the man. tell him that ser horden is of no use to him as a prisoner, but of immense use to the crown. offer him a trade of terms for the man's release."

"what sort of trade, your grace?" you asked. "we have nothing. not even a handful of grain to offer as a gesture. and what is stopping him from using ser horden as a leverage point to demand our surrender?"

"let him try," rhaenyra replied, a flicker of the old fire returning to her eyes. "we still have the advantage of the dragons. his refusal will be met with fire, but his cooperation will be met with mercy when the war is over."

"your grace... why not simply send someone to smuggle him out of tumbleton?" you had suggested, but the queen's resolve was as hard as the iron throne itself. rhaenyra wanted a formal negotiation, a paper trail of legitimacy. she wanted the world to see that she could command the cooperation of the hightowers without burning their fields to ash.

so, you were the one chosen.

a raven was set out with a letter sealed with a red wax stamp. the journey was a blur of muddy roads and the lingering scent of smoke. by the time you arrived at a salt-stained inn tucked between the marshes and the city walls which was the agreed designated neutral ground, your whole body was vibrating with nerves.

your queen was counting on you. the starving people of king's landing were counting on you to succeed. you took a lungful of deep breath before pushing the door open.

you had expected lord ormund, a cunning man of predictable pomposity. you had expected a battle of wits against a man who viewed you as a mere servant of the crown.

you did not expect gwayne hightower.

he was downing his second cup of ale when you walked through the door. gwayne didn’t stand nor looked at you. he simply leaned back in the creaking wooden chair. he looked exhausted, the kind of weariness that came from spending too many weeks listening to ser criston cole's endless, circling rhetoric. his armor was dusty, his cloak was frayed at the edges, his auburn hair was slightly mussed and his eyes rimmed with a deep fatigue. and yet he still carried himself with the arrogance that came with the hightower name.

"you aren't ormund," you stated, your voice cutting through the silence of the common room.

"disappointed?" he repeated, the word barely a whisper as he downed the rest of his ale.

"where is he?" you demanded. "the letter was addressed to lord ormund. i was promised a meeting with lord hightower, not his cousin."

"busy." he answered simply, his voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken in hours. he didn't move to greet you. gwayne looked like a man who had reached the absolute limit of his patience with the living, and you were merely the latest inconvenience in a long line of them.

"busy? what could he possibly be too busy for?" you snapped, crossing your arms.

gwayne sighed, a heavy, rattling sound that seemed to vibrate in his chest. he was still not looking at you but instead focusing on the way a single drop of condensation slid down the side of his flagon.

"busy counting the ways he can irritate me into an early grave," he murmured. "ormund decided that since this is a matter of diplomacy and nuance, a man of his particular temperament was too precious to risk on a muddy road."

"and he sent you in his stead?" you scoffed, stepping closer to the table. "he sent a man who looks like he’s about to fall over from a nap to negotiate the release of a royal asset? the audacity of your house is truly boundless."

gwayne's eyes snapped up, flickering with irritation. he stood slowly, the chair screeching against the floorboards like a dying animal. he wasn't tall, but he occupied the space with a heavy, oppressive presence.

"my audacity is matched only by my patience, which is currently thinner than the soup they serve at this gods-forsaken hovel," he countered, stepping into your space. "you come here with the smell of flea bottom still clinging to your skin and think you can lecture me on the propriety of my house?"

you didn't flinch. you had been born in the dirt, a nobleman’s sneer was nothing compared to the roar of an empty stomach. you stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his, your voice dropping to a lethal, quiet hiss. "the smell of flea bottom is the smell of the people who actually keep this kingdom running while you lot play at war in your gilded gardens. if you have any shred of honor, you'll stop insulting my origin and start discussing the terms for ser horden."

gwayne’s lip curled, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. an irritation mixed with curiousity. the fire in your stance intrigued him, somehow.

you slammed the scroll of rhaenyra’s terms onto the scarred wooden table, the parchment snapping like a whip. "lord horden's release in exchange for a guaranteed ceasefire of the trade routes leading into tumbleton for one moon's turn. it is a generous offer, considering your cousin's current lack of supplies."

gwayne didn't even blink. he didn't even reach for the scroll; he simply stared at it as if it were a particularly boring species of insect. "generous. how quaint... but no."

"no?" you spat, the word vibrating with disbelief. "why in the gods' name is it 'no'? your supplies are dwindling, your men, despite occupying the homes of the people of tumbleton, are eating horsemeat and sawdust. a ceasefire on the trade routes would allow you to actually move goods without risking a dragon's breath every ten leagues."

gwayne finally reached for the scroll, not to read it, but to flick it with a dismissive finger, sending it sliding across the table. he stepped around the table to close the distance between you. he smelled of old leather, stale ale, and a sharp, masculine musk that felt intrusive in the small room.

"you assume ormund cares for the stomachs of his men as much as he cares for his own vanity," he explained, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "he doesn't want trade routes, my good lady. he wants a concession. he wants rhaenyra on her knees kissing his feet. and as for me, i find the idea of a 'generous offer' from a flea-bottom rat to be an insult to my intelligence."

"that is to assume you had any in the first place, hightower." you smirked, the words tasting like venom.

but gwayne appeared to be a man who was not easily deterred by venom. he let out a sharp, jagged laugh that didn't reach his eyes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.

"a rat with a tongue like a razor," he mused. "perhaps that's why the queen sent you. she knew a highborn lady would be too terrified of the mud to actually make a demand."

then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "my people are enduring, my lady. your people are starving. do not mistake my exhaustion for weakness, or your desperation for leverage. and your 'generous' offer is a thinly veiled attempt to slip a spy into our lines under the guise of the master of coin. ormund isn't blind, and neither am i. the man stays."

"absolutely not," you spat, the word hitting him like a slap. "the man is a civilian. he—"

"you said he was a master of coin, so he is a tool of the state," gwayne interrupted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the narrow space between you. "civilian is a word for people who don't know where the gold is hidden. he is a map, and ormund doesn't give away his maps."

"the people in king's landing are starving, hightower. there will be no crown to bear, no throne to sit upon, no kingdom to rule if the city burns from the inside out," you snarled, your voice shaking with a fury that felt like it could crack the floorboards. you didn't care about the political chess anymore, you cared about the hollow-eyed children you'd left behind. "you sit here in your dusty armor playing games while people eat rats to survive. give me the man, or so help me, i will walk back to the queen and tell her that the hightowers are too cowardly to negotiate with a woman."

gwayne’s eyes darkened, a flash of irritation finally piercing through the veil of his exhaustion.

"cowardly?" he murmured, the word tasting like a threat. "you come here with a handful of promises and the stench of desperation and have the nerve to call us cowards because we know the value of the asset you're begging for."

"the value of the asset?" you hissed, the words vibrating between your lips. "you speak of a man as if he were a piece of livestock! you hightowers are pathetic."

gwayne’s jaw tightened, a small muscle leaping in his cheek. for the first time, the boredom had vanished, replaced by a sharp, jagged energy. "the master of coin stays in tumbleton," he declared. "and you will return to your "queen" and tell her that her 'generosity' is as empty as her treasury."

before you could reply, a thunderous crack split the sky, shaking the inn’s rotting foundations. the rain followed instantly, not as a drizzle, but as a violent deluge that turned the road into a river of sludge within seconds. the elderly couple who ran the establishment hurried forward, their faces pinched with worry as they shuttered the windows against the wind.

"it'll be a night of it," the old woman murmured, her voice a dry rasp. she looked between you and gwayne, her eyes lingering on the way your body was still practically vibrating with rage.

"so be it. this negotiation is over." gwayne said, though he didn't move an inch away from you. you stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact, but the heat where your chests had touched lingered like a brand.

"your horses won't survive the storm, ser, or the treacherous roads back wherever you two came from." the old man grunted, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better decades.

"that won't be a problem for me," you snapped, though the sight of the rain hammering against the shutters, turning the world outside into a grey, drowning blur, suggested otherwise.

"a lady is not fit to travel these roads in a deluge," the old woman said. "and the horses are already spooked. you'll stay."

you glanced at gwayne, who looked as though he’d rather be burned by dragonfire than spend another minute in your presence. the thunder rolled again. the road back to the was already a river of sludge. to attempt it now would be a suicide.

"the good woman is right," he muttered, though his tone remained clipped. "the road is a river. you'll be swept into a ditch before you reach the first milestone."

you glared at him, your fingers curling into fists. "i would rather drown in a ditch than spend another moment breathing the same air as you."

"as if i'm particularly keen on the prospect of your company." gwayne retorted, his voice flat, though his eyes drifted downward to the curve of your hip.

"the room is ready," the old woman announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "only one left. the roof leaked in the west wing, and the east is full of merchants who beat the storm."

"only one? absolutely not." you shot down. you looked at the old woman, then at gwayne who looked as if he had just been told he had to spend the night in a cellar with a swarm of bees.

"it is one bed, or it is the mud," the old woman replied simply, her voice devoid of any inclination to negotiate.

"she'll take the bed. i'll sleep in your barn." gwayne muttered, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt as another crack of thunder shook the inn's foundation. 

you were quite surprised that he even had the heart to let you take the room all for yourself.

"the barn is flooded," the old man called out. "the roof gave way an hour ago. everything in there is swimming in muck."

you looked at gwayne, who looked back at you with a level of misery that almost made you feel pity. he looked like a dog that had been kicked too many times, yet he still possessed that stubborn, ingrained pride that refused to let him admit defeat.

"is there any other inn within here?" you asked, your voice hopeful and desperate.

"the next one is a three-hour ride through a swamp," the old woman replied. "unless you've found a way to walk on water, you're staying here."

"i am not—" you began, but the word died in your throat as a sudden, violent gust of wind slammed against the shutters, rattling the heavy oak frames with a sound like a siege engine.

gwayne let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a snarl. "fine," he snapped, his voice tight. "we share."

"no! i will not share a bed with a man—a hightower at that—who mocks a woman's origin while her people starve!" you snapped, though the thunderous reply from the heavens makes the floorboards beneath your boots shudder.

"believe me, my lady... the prospect of spending the night tangled in the linens with a woman who possesses the temperament of a cornered cat is hardly something i desire. but i prefer my sleep to be dry." he muttered before turning his heels to the narrow stairs.

the room was small, smelling of old lavender and damp stone, with a single candle flickering on a bedside table. the bed itself was a narrow, sagging thing of straw and linen, just wide enough for for two adults.

the silence between you as you stepped inside was deafening, heavy with the remnants of your shouting match. you didn't look at him, and he didn't look at you, both of you preoccupied with the sheer, absurd indignity of the situation.

"take the floor." you told him, your voice clipped. it wasn't a request; it was a command.

gwayne didn’t even look at you as he let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter. "and what makes you think i would ever consent to sleep on a floor of rotting pine while you lounge in the linens?" he asked, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

you knew the "i'll sleep in the barn" was merely an act in front of the elderly couple. typical hightower.

he didn't move toward the floor. instead, he began to unbuckle the straps of his armor, the metal clinking slow. "you are a guest in this space by the grace of my tolerance, and i have spent the last three days listening to ormund's voice. i will not spend the night with a tick in my spine."

you watched him strip, all the way to his under tunic, and the sight of his shoulders and the lean muscle of his chest under the thin garment made the air in the small room feel suddenly thin. the anger was still there, a hot coal in your gut, but it had morphed into something else that made your skin itch beneath your travel-worn clothes.

before he could catch you staring, you turned first, stripping off your outer layers with what was left of your energy and the journey here and the debate match with gwayne. you didn't care for modesty, not when you were shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and something else that you redused to acknowledge. you climbed into the bed, claiming the far edge, leaving a sliver of space between you that felt like a canyon. the linens were coarse and smelled of old dust, but they were warm at the very least.

"stay on your side and do not attempt to touch me," you warned, your voice a low vibration in the dark. "if you so much as breathe on me, i will find a way to ensure you never sleep comfortably again."

gwayne let out a tired scoff, sharp enough to cut through the room as he climbed in beside you. the bed groaned under his weight, the mattress dipping violently and pulling you toward the center. you instinctively braced yourself against the edge, but the narrowness of the bed made a boundary impossible. every time he shifted, you felt the heat of him radiating through the linen and seemed to fill the entire room.

the silence was not peaceful. every breath you took felt too loud, every shift of the straw mattress sounded like a landslide. you lay rigid, staring at the dark ceiling, while the rain continued to lash the shutters in a relentless rhythm. beside you, gwayne was a mountain of radiating heat, his presence an intrusive weight that made the small bed feel like a coffin.

something happened and it started with a stray movement. a shift of his leg that brushed against yours. you jerked away.

"stop twitching," he muttered with his eyes closed, his voice a low gravelly vibration that seemed to hum against your skin.

"stop moving then. what are you, a fish out of water?" you snapped back, your voice a sharp whisper in the dark. you turned to face him, and in the dim, amber glow of the dying candle, you saw the way he huffed in irritation.

a couple minutes passed where the only sound was the rain and the harsh, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. you couldn't sleep. you couldn't even move. the air felt thick, like honey, pinning you to the mattress. the thunder rolled again, a low, guttural groan that seemed to echo the tension in the room.

when you glanced, gwayne was seemingly already asleep. you sighed, mind running wild over the failed negotiation the look of disappointment on rhaenyra's face. but as you shifted to find a more comfortable position, your leg brushed against his thigh. it was a momentary contact, only a sliver of heat, but it acted like a spark in a dry forest. you felt him stiffen, his breath hitching in a way that wasn't accidental.

"still twitching, are we?" his voice was a low, dangerous rumble right beside your ear.

he hadn't been asleep. he had been lying there, acutely aware of every inch of you pressing against him, this whole time.

feeling brave, you didn't pull away this time. instead, you turned your head, your nose brushing against the rough stubble of his jaw.

"perhaps i'm just trying to find a sliver of space that isn't occupied by your ego." you retorted.

something in him snapped the moment those words left your lips. gwayne moved swiftly, rolling over so he hovered above you, his hands trapping either sides of your head. the movement was so abrupt it knocked the breath from your lungs, pinning you beneath the weight of his body. his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, searching your face for a sign of retreat that you were too stubborn to give.

"you are far too bold for a woman in such a precarious position," he said, though it sounded restraint.

"and your patience is far too thin for a man of your standing," you shot back. you didn't flinch as his chest pressed against yours, the thin fabric of his tunic doing nothing to hide the hard plane of his muscles.

"you talk... so much," he murmured, his voice a rough, jagged edge. "always talking, always demanding. i wonder if that tongue of yours is just as sharp when it's not being used for insults."

your throat went dry at his last words. you weren't stupid, nor lack the knowledge of what he was insinuating, being a low born girl who had seen the underbelly of the city where desire was bought and sold in every alley. and yet, having it directed at you by a man who looked at you with such irritation mixed with lust made your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird.

you didn't give him the satisfaction of a stutter any further. instead, you reached up, your fingers curling into the collar of his tunic and pulling him down until your lips were a mere breath apart. "why don't you find out, hightower? or are you too exhausted to handle a girl from the gutters?"

gwayne didn’t kiss you so much as he collided with you, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger that felt less like romance and more like a punishment. you groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding from his collar to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single molecule of air left between your bodies. he tasted of bitter ale and salt, and most importantly he tasted like the enemy he was, which only made the sudden surge of heat in your belly more violent.

gwayne groaned into your mouth as you fisted into his linen. he pinned your wrist beside your head and swallowed a small gasp of yours, his tongue sweeping against yours with an aggression that mirrored the storm outside and as you arched your back, pushing your hips into his, you felt the heavy, hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh through the layers of cloth.

he broke the kiss to trail a line of searing heat down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your collarbone. his hand left your wrist, sliding down to rip open the front of your bodice. buttons flew, clicking against the floorboards like rain on stone. gwayne didn't wait. he dipped his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast with a hunger. you let out a sharp, ragged moan, your head hitting the pillow as he sucked the peak of your nipple, his teeth grazing the flesh in a way that made your toes curl and your vision blur.

"fuck, you are as loud as you are arrogant," gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a low, distorted growl. he didn't stop, his mouth returning to your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple with an intensity that left you breathless.

he pushed your dress to your hips impatiently, his eyes scanning your body with in hunger. there was no softness in the way he looked at you. it was the gaze of a man claiming territory, and you met it with a defiant glare that only seemed to spur him on. his hand travelled to your cunt, his fingers grazing the damp heat of your folds.

"fuck, you're already dripping," gwayne muttered, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. he rubbed your clit with somehow a precise pressure that made you cry out. "all that fire, all that screaming in the common room, and you're just a fucking mess for me, aren't you?"

"shut up and touch me," you gasped, your fingers digging into the lean muscle of his shoulders.

"have you been with a man before?"

you let out a sharp, jagged laugh, the sound half-smothered by a moan as his thumb continued to circle your clit. "i grew up in the gutters, hightower, as you so often mentioned. we don't have the luxury of sheltered innocence that you lot cultivate in oldtown."

he smirked, a dark, predatory expression that made your heart gallop. "good. because i have no intention of being gentle with a woman who thinks she can outwit me."

he didn't waste another second. gwayne slid two fingers deep inside you, the sudden invasion making you gasp and arch your back off the mattress. he was thick and calloused, his movements rhythmic and demanding, driving into you with a relentless pace.

"look at you," he groaned, his thumb pinning your clit down and grinding against it with an intensity that pushed you toward the edge. "begging for it. a little rat from the slums, having her cunt stretched open by a hightower. do you like it? do you like how it feels to have me inside you?"

you couldn't even form a sentence, not only because you were biting down your lip from giving him the satisfaction of hearing you beg, but because the sheer friction of his fingers was turning your insides to liquid.

"nothing to say now, is it?" gwayne mocked, his voice a jagged rasp. he shifted his weight, his thumb pressing harder into your clit, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. "tell me you want it. tell me you want this highborn prick to ruin you."

his words should disgust you. they should feel like an insult to everything you had fought for, a reminder of the gap between a girl who scavenged for scraps and a man born to a spire of gold. not to mention the war. rhaenyra did not send you here to fuck the enemy, she sent you to secure a man who could save a city. but as gwayne’s fingers worked you, the only thing you felt was this aching need to be filled.

"i want it," you gasped, the admission feeling like a surrender. "fuck, gwayne, just... put it in."

the way his name fell from your lips, broken and pleading, already made him addicted. "say my name again."

"gwayne," you whimpered, your voice sounding foreign and fragile in the small, dimly lit room. "please, gwayne."

he let out a sharp exhale, his chest heaving against yours. he didn't waste another moment of hesitation, he yanked his trousers down in one fluid, freeing himself. his cock was thick and pulsing, a heavy weight that seemed to mirror the intensity of the room. he grabbed your thighs, hoisting your hips higher off the sagging mattress to create a steeper angle, and positioned himself against your entrance.

he entered you slowly, much to your surprised, his eyes locked on yours as he sank into your heat. you let out a sharp, strangled cry, your head snapping back against the linens as he filled you completely. it was a heavy, stretching sensation that drowned out the sound of the storm, replacing the chaos of the rain with a singular, thrumming focus on where your bodies joined. he paused for a heartbeat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

"you're so tight," he groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "fuck, you're trying to squeeze the life out of me."

he let you adjust to him for a second, his gaze searing into yours. then he began to move slowly, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. it wasn't the frantic pace you had expected. he wanted you to feel every single ridge of him, every millimeter of the friction as he stretched you open. you let out a whimper, your hips instinctively trying to chase him, to close the gap, but he held you firm, his grip on your thighs like iron bands.

"gwayne..." you whimpered, the sound breaking as you tried to pull him deeper. your legs were locked around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back, trying to force a momentum that he was stubbornly denying. he continued that agonizingly slow pace, his hips grinding into yours with a heavy, deliberate pressure that made your nerves scream. every time he retreated, you felt the sudden, cold void of the air, only for him to plunge back in with a slow, rhythmic thud that resonated in the very marrow of your bones.

he was watching you, his eyes dark and focused, savoring the way your face crumpled with desperation. "not so loud now, are you? where is all that fire, little rat? where is the woman who called me a coward?"

he shifted his angle, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your vision spark white. you let out a strangled cry, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, begging for a speed that would end this torture.

"gwayne, please," you sobbed, the word barely a whisper against the roar of the rain. you were shaking, your body a taut string vibrating at a frequency that threatened to snap. his pace was a cruelty of its own. he was savoring the friction, the way your walls clamped around him in a desperate, pulsing rhythm. he stayed in that slow, agonizing orbit, his hips rotating with a heavy precision that kept you perched on the very edge of a climax you couldn't reach.

you arched your spine, your chest heaving, as he pulled back until he was barely grazing your entrance before sinking back in with a slow, thudding weight. the sensation was too much and yet not enough. you were starving for the release, your clit screaming under the pressure of his pelvis grinding against you. you didn't care about pride anymore. you didn't care about the political divide. you just needed the friction to turn into a fire.

"faster," you gasped, your voice cracking. "fuck, gwayne, go faster. please."

"beg again," gwayne commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your collarbone.

"please," you whimpered, your voice breaking into a sob of pure frustration. "please, please."

when he finally decided to grant your request, it wasn't with a sudden rush. he began to hammer into you with a rhythmic, punishing force that stole the very air from your lungs. gwayne’s composure broke with the pace, his breath coming in jagged, guttural snarls as he drove himself deep into your heat, his hips colliding with yours.

"that's it," he groaned, his voice raw and stripped of all nobility. "take it all. take every fucking inch of it."

you were drowning in the sensation, your eyes rolled back as you clung to him, your nails leaving red crescents in his shoulders. the friction had become a blinding white light, a heat that started in your core and radiated outward until every nerve in your body was screaming.

“is this what you came for?” he growled. “rhaenyra’s little rat spreading her legs for a hightower cock?”

"you arrogant prick." you managed to gasp the words out, but they were stripped of any real venom. you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him so deep that there was no space left for air or pride.

gwayne let out a sound that was half laugh and half groan. "so loud in the common room, so fierce with your demands... and here you are, shaking under me, taking every inch of my cock like you're starving for it."

the words should have sting, should have felt like an insult to your dignity, but in the heat of the moment, they only served to fuel the fire.

"you’re so fucking wet. do you have any idea how much i’ve wanted to shut you up since the moment you opened your mouth? to see you break like this?" he groaned, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrated against the shell of your ear.

he didn't wait for an answer, his pace becoming a frantic, bruising rhythm that left you breathless. "tell me, does it feel good to be ruined by the man you hate? does it feel better when i'm deep inside you, stretching you out?"

you couldn't find the words to argue, only a series of broken, high-pitched sounds that spurred him on. you gripped his biceps, feeling the lean muscle twitch under your palms as he hammered into you. "yes," you sobbed, the word lost in a gasp. "yes, fuck, gwayne."

you were nearing the edges of the world, your breath coming in shallow hitches as gwayne’s pace became frantic. he didn’t let up, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising force that threatened to push you right off the sagging mattress. he shifted his weight, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pinning you firmly against the sheets while the other hand found the small of your back, arching you up to meet every deep thrust.

you felt the internal pressure build, a coil of tension tightening in your gut until it was almost unbearable. gwayne sensed it. he felt the way your walls began to spasm around him in. he let out a guttural sound, his pace becoming sloppy, his teeth grazing the skin of your shoulder as he drove himself into you.

"come for me," he commanded, his voice a raw, distorted growl. "come for me, you stubborn little thing."

the command was the final spark. you shattered, your entire body arching violently as a wave of pleasure crashed through you, pulling you under. you screamed his name into the crook of his neck, your internal muscles clamping around him in desperate, rhythmic contractions that felt like they were trying to pull him into your very soul. the world dissolved into a blur of amber candlelight and the suffocating heat of his skin, leaving you gasping and blind as the orgasm ripped through your frame in jagged, electric pulses.

gwayne didn't stop. he let out a low, animalistic sound, his movements becoming uncoordinated as he chased his own release. he hammered into you with a final, bruising intensity, his chest heaving against yours, his eyes locked on your flushed face with a hunger that seemed bottomless. with one last, deep plunge that felt like it hit the very base of your spine, he stiffened. a guttural groan ripped from his throat, his head falling into the hollow of your shoulder as he spilled himself inside you.

the silence that followed was heavier than the storm with the ragged gasps of the two of you being the only sounds that filled the room. gwayne remained slumped against you for a long minute, his weight an oppressive yet grounding presence. the heat of him was still radiating, his sweat acting like a glue that bound your skin together. slowly, the adrenaline began to dissipate, leaving behind a hollow, dizzying exhaustion and the sudden, sharp return of reality.

he withdrew from you with a slow, wet slide that made you shiver, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and exposed. gwayne didn't immediately move away. he rolled to the side, his chest still heaving, his eyes staring at the ceiling with a look of profound disorientation. the arrogance was gone, replaced by a stillness. he looked less like a lord of a great house and more like a man who had been blindsided by a blow he hadn't seen coming.

you laid there for a long time, the damp sheets clinging to your skin like a second, colder layer of clothing. the rain continued to lash against the shutters, a rhythmic drumming that felt far too loud in the sudden vacuum of the room. your muscles were trembling, a lingering aftershock of the climax that had nearly stripped the breath from your lungs. you could feel the sticky heat of his seed beginning to cool inside you, a visceral reminder of the transgression you had just committed.

"gwayne—"

"do not," he interrupted, his voice still a jagged rasp, though the cruelty had vanished. he didn't look at you. he remained staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, as if he were trying to reconstruct the walls of his pride around him.

"just... sleep. we shall discuss this in the morning." he added, his tone returning to a resemblance of nobility, though the cracks were still visible. he didn't move to leave the bed, and neither did you. instead, you shifted, your skin sticking to the linens, and felt the sudden, sharp prickle of shame and triumph.

you had not secured the master of coin, but you had dismantled the composure of gwayne hightower.

you knew that the discussion won't happen because when morning came, both of you were eager to be the first to leave. the dawn didn't break with a golden glow, but with a stale grey light that filtered through the grime of the inn's windows. 

gwayne was fastening his belt, his movements sharp and jerky. he didn't look at you, and you didn't look at him, though you could feel the weight of his gaze whenever he thought you weren't watching. the shared bed, which had felt like a battlefield of lust only hours ago, now felt like a crime scene. the sheets were twisted and damp. you dressed quickly, your fingers trembling as you fought with the buttons of your bodice, feeling the lingering ache in your thighs and the sticky evidence of his conquest still clinging to your skin.

he approached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the heavy iron latch. for a heartbeat, you thought he might turn back, might say something that acknowledged the way his voice had sounded when he begged you to call his name. but gwayne hightower was a man built of stone and tradition, and the stone was already sliding back into place.

"i accept rhaenyra's terms."

your hands that were busy fixing your bodice froze. you looked up at him, the grey dawn light casting a sharp silhouette of his frame against the door. 

"what?" you breathed, your voice still raspy from the screaming of the night.

"under one condition." he breathed. "lord horden is to be escorted by a hightower soldier while in king's landing and is to be returned back to tumbleton the moment the funds are secured," gwayne said, his voice regaining its polished edge, though he still wouldn't meet your eyes. "i would not have him simply handed over to a woman who thinks a few trade routes are a fair exchange for a man's loyalty. but... i find myself suddenly inclined to be merciful."

you stared at him, your mind racing. this was a victory. a massive one. rhaenyra would be pleased, and the people of the capital would finally see bread and gold.

but still, the victory felt jagged. you looked at gwayne and saw the slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the door handle. the distance between you was only a few feet, yet it felt like a chasm.

"mercy," you repeated, your voice regaining its sharp edge, though it lacked the venom of the previous evening. "or perhaps you simply couldn't bear the thought of me leaving this inn without knowing you'd finally given in."

"just accept it, will you?" he said in an exhaustion that sounded almost like a plea. he finally turned his head, his gaze flickering across your face, lingering for a fraction of a second on your swollen lips before he looked away. "i cannot stand the thought of another hour in your company. the air in this room has become... intolerable."

you wanted to snap back and remind him that he spent the night with you just fine but decided against it.

"is this a plan to have the hightower escort spying on rhaenyra and report back to ormund?" you asked, stepping forward, your voice regaining its professional weight.

"no, it is not. i can assure you." he answered confidently.

"how can i trust you?"

"because the escort will be myself."

oh.

you blinked, your brain momentarily failing to process the implications. gwayne hightower, a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours treating you with a mixture of disdain and hunger, was offering to personally escort the master of coin into the heart of the enemy’s capital.

he will be in king's landing. where lord horden goes, he will follow. which includes the red keep, and most likely, the very rooms where you spent your days strategizing for rhaenyra.

you and gwayne hightower will be in same room again.

is he implying what you think he is implying? the thought flickered through your mind, a spark of curiosity. the escort of a high-value prisoner was certainly not a task for a man of his rank. yet, gwayne stood there, his posture rigid, his eyes finally meeting yours with a look that was no longer mocking, but something far more complicated. it was a gaze that held the memory of the mattress, the sound of your voice breaking, and the way your nails had carved paths into his skin.

"you are remarkably quiet," gwayne noted, his voice regaining that irritating timbre from last night. "has the gutter-girl finally run out of things to say, or are you simply calculating how much of my dignity you can strip away once we are within the walls of the keep?"

"you planned this." you said instead, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "the noble lord of oldtown, suddenly burdened by a sense of duty to personally escort a master of coin. it's almost as if you've realized that the walls of this inn are too thin to contain whatever this is."

gwayne stiffened. but the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, though he fought to keep it hidden behind a mask of indifference. "do not flatter yourself, my lady. it is a strategic move. i trust no one else to ensure lord horden isn't bribed or spirited away by your queen’s agents before the gold is accounted for."

"and yet you did not offer this yesterday," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest. the movement made you acutely aware of the soreness in your muscles. "you were quite content to let him rot in tumbleton."

gwayne finally let out a short, dry huff of laughter. it was not the mocking sound of the common room, but something almost fond, though he quickly masked it. he stepped toward you, his presence filling the small space of the room once more. "yesterday i thought i was negotiating with an enemy."

"and today?" you asked, not moving he closed the gap.

gwayne stopped just inches from you, the heat of his body radiating through his armour. he didn't touch you, but the air between you crackled, thick with the residue of the night's wreckage.

"today," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your throat where a faint, reddish mark lingered from his teeth, "i find myself wondering if the red keep has enough corridors for us to avoid each other. or if it has enough locked doors to ensure we do not."

the tension broke not with a kiss but with gwayne stepping back, his hand reaching for the knob once again.

The bluish cloak, whose silver threads were meant to resemble scales, made the young heir look older; the dark fur on his shoulders made him appear taller and more robust than he was.

“My husband is a handsome captain” she told him as he stood at the stern of the small, simple boat.

Smiling at her remark, Oscar knew full well that although his coat of arms was associated with water, he was no real captain.

For her, his beloved, he would become a leader even on a nutshell.

“A river can be just as dangerous; no enemy will be able to harm you” Oscar had replied.

His dark curls were a lovely chestnut brown in the light; in the glow of the setting sun, it truly suited his Tully nature as he steered the boat towards the gate.

A glance behind him and she could still see her family, her house, waving; the bank far away as she was ferried across in the old Tully custom by her young husband who protected her.

In the courtyard of the family seat, his grandfather’s men were waiting for the couple; even though Lord Grover Tully was still bedridden, the congratulations he sent to his grandson and her were touching.

“Welcome to Riverrun, my lady” Oscar was the first to disembark; the boat docked with a slight jolt as he stepped ashore, his gloved hand holding hers gently as they were greeted with clapping and applause.

Bluish-red banners hung down from the stone walls as a union of true love was sealed in the Riverlands.

She had taken his hand and stepped ashore into her new family, from the green expanses of the Reach to the Riverlands and the Tullys.

The initial bliss had lasted a year, a year in which the newlywed couple’s marriage slowly took shape, and in which Oscar had to find his place amidst the potential duties of an heir and a husband.

For every hour he spent in the master’s chambers, poring over maps of the lands and replying to letters for his grandfather, it became clear to the young man that the situation in the capital was growing ever more critical; the longer this went on, the more he tried to spend time with his love.

Whether it was rushing straight to her as soon as his lessons were finished to spend time with her, her fingers smoothing the wildness of his curls as he hurried over, still childlike in his haste.

Reading and composing poems together by the tranquil river, where they could entertain each other for hours on end.

Oscar impressed her with stories every child knew, yet how convincing he was, bringing her joy time and again as she clapped.

“How would my dearest feel about a ride to the ruins of Harrenhal? Our vassals would feel honoured” was just one of his suggestions; a smile of challenge and a thirst for adventure lay on his face.

An innocent excitement still gripped the young couple.

Yet it was a strange feeling to know that the young man, who had never seen a proper winter, just as she had not, would soon become Lord and Lady Paramount.

“Are there lemon tarts in the Grove of the Gods too?” and the innocent smiles on both their faces were the same as they left their chamber hand in hand to have the horses saddled.

After all, they were both still green, young, having seen neither sorrow nor death, nor the full extent of the war that would come upon them with fire and blood.

Outings like the one to the Grove of the Gods, a visit the two of them enjoyed…a visit that was, however, always shrouded in the spectre of possible death.

Even in the Grove of the Gods, whilst House Strong hosted them for those few hours as they sat beneath the old tree, the sweet scent of lemon tarts mingling with the watered-down wine, she could see in his gaze that his thoughts were wandering.

That the conversation about the rivers and the fireflies soon to appea, which they had both caught as children, was no longer what her husband was thinking about.

His fingers did not touch the goblet as he gazed into the sunny distance.

“How long might this happiness last?” his question had slipped from him as the golden sun slowly set; the ruins seemed once more to be ablaze, as if under the dragon’s fire, and everything slowly turned reddish.

She placed her hand on his, her gaze reassuring, knowing full well what he was hinting at.

“The gods take and give; when it happens, you won’t be alone, Oscar” she could feel his fingers clasping hers just a touch tighter.

That was true, neither he nor she were alone; they were together, and as his dark eyes looked at her, her husband gave her a chaste kiss beneath the ancient grove of the gods.

··········

It had lasted but a year; the young couple’s marital bliss had lasted a year, in which they must now be old enough to cope with two pieces of news.

The king was dead; his son, crowned in the Sept, proclaimed himself King Aegon, and on Dragonstone, his eldest daughter Rhaenyra likewise proclaimed herself the rightful queen.

Whilst crowns were placed upon the heads of dragons, it was Oscar whose hands now held a sword, whose title changed from heir to Lord Tully, Paramount of the Trident.

A decision, something that could not be undone, as the funeral and the conferral of the title took place within a matter of hours.

Watch over my husband, gods, be merciful to him, do not take him from me too she prayed to the Seven, as she was only allowed to stand beside him the whole time.

In her role, Oscar did her best to look after him with her gaze. Knowing that he must not show weakness at that moment.

Not as the boat with his grandfather on the lake stood ablaze, the old ruler being traditionally cremated, the bow clutched convulsively by the dark-haired man.

Oscar himself had whispered a final request before turning to her and his men that the investiture should and must go ahead.

It had taken a day before she could take the sword from him as they closed the door and entered his grandfather’s chamber.

“It is over… let tempers calm for the night” she said, the weight of public scrutiny and stares lifting as her husband sat down on the bed, drained of strength.

Her hands clasped his curls, unable to tear away from the realisation as she removed his cloak from his shoulders.

Her fingers ached slightly from the hours spent in a prayerful position.

Now, without the thick cloak, in the simple linen tunic, if she were to take off her own dress and they looked at one another freely, they saw young souls: not stately lords and ladies.

“What-What if I cannot do it? If I cannot lead, dragons will rise and everything will burn” worries that any newly appointed lord would have, understandable yet all the more deceptive.

Sitting down beside him, her dress a sea of colours as her hand took his, her mouth opened - yet no words came out.

Didn’t his words already say it all? His dark eyes did not leave the stone floor; he was searching for something on the dark, pitted floor that wasn’t there.

“Dragons are the crown; that is a burden, yet today alone you have shown poise and strength” she began, seeing how his shoulders slumped; the tension eased as they both let themselves fall back slightly onto the bed.

Just as a year ago, when they had laughed and tossed pillows at each other; now, in the reality of their worries.

“Today it may have been a success, it was exhausting. I wanted to be with you… all the time, to hold your hand” Oscar replied, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, searching once more for something in the dark stone.

She felt his fingers now holding hers, gentle, with a hint of a tremor.

“Whatever may come, Oscar, I will be there; my house, your house, our vassals, they will follow” she continued, looking towards him as Oscar turned his head as well.

In both their gazes, fear was replaced by a slow calm; with a gentle movement, he rested his forehead against hers.

It was the knowledge that they held each other, that they were together, which was more comforting than anything they could have given each other.

··········

All in all, that was the situation for the young, high-born couple.

Since Oscar’s appointment as Paramount, it had taken only a few days for word to reach House Strong that they were to receive an honourable visit from King-consort Daemon Targaryen, who wished to speak with Oscar at once.

“I spoke to him briefly before our wedding; he was impatient and hinted at things full of shame” the Tully let slip amongst the servants and soldiers preparing for the departure to Hairyhal.

Even though she had never met Daemon, the Dragon Prince’s reputation was known throughout Westeros.

“You-no, we are no longer children; he is dependent on your army; he will listen to your terms” she reminded him, the thousands of soldiers trained and ready not only to fight for Rhaenyra but also to defend Oscar, even against a dragon rider.

Standing before his stallion, her curls bobbing as her husband looked at her, the same dark brown hair, chestnut-coloured in the sunlight, dark eyes with a hint of green as the armour adorned with the trout clung to his body.

This time it was no illusion; Oscar truly looked older, stronger.

“He will have to face us” he said, his hand reaching for hers, holding it for a moment as he looked at the woman he had married, the woman he loved.

Before he drew her into a tender kiss, she could still feel his smile as she placed her hand on his chest.

“The dragon will bow” she whispered, and Oscar gently released her so she could climb into her carriage, with her husband riding ahead.

They would set out for Haarenhal with everything they had, and there, together, they would face the prince and an approaching war.

• ────── ✾ ────── •

masterlist

Princess Y/N Targaryen sat upon her dragon. Beside her flew her uncle Daemon, King Consort and husband to her sister, Queen Rhaenyra.

They had come to Riverrun for one reason. An alliance.

King Viserys Targaryen was dead and the realm had been torn in two. Aegon had stolen the Iron Throne, usurping Rhaenyra’s rightful birthright and taking the crown that had always been meant for her.

Now the Seven Kingdoms stood divided and every house that had once sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra mattered.

And House Tully mattered greatly.

As their dragons descended into the courtyard, servants and guards hurried forward to greet them.

Princess Y/N dismounted first, her long silver hair settling over her shoulders as she smoothed down her dark red gown. She glanced toward the castle entrance, where several men were already waiting nervously.

Daemon landed moments later.

Y/N looked at him. "Try not to frighten them," she murmured. Daemon gave her an innocent look. "I never frighten anyone."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You do."

He regarded her with a perfectly neutral expression. "Only the boring ones."

Y/N stared at him for a moment before a quiet laugh escaped her. "Uncle..."

"What?" Daemon asked, as though he genuinely couldn't understand what he'd done. She shook her head, smiling. "You are impossible."

"I have been told that before."

~~~

The doors to the chamber opened.

Y/N entered first, Daemon following close behind her. Oscar was seated at the table, going over several documents. At the sound of the doors, he immediately looked up.

The moment he saw them, he stood so quickly that his chair nearly toppled backward. He stopped the moment he saw the Princess. Completely stopped.

His eyes widened. For several heartbeats, he simply stared.

Y/N blinked and Oscar's face slowly turned red.

Gods. She was beautiful.

That was the only thought he could manage.

He had heard stories of their silver hair and violet eyes, of dragons and ancient blood. But none of them had prepared him for her.

She looked almost unreal standing there.

Oscar realized he was staring and his eyes immediately dropped. He bowed deeply, clearly embarrassed by his own nervousness. "M-my grace."

His eyes widened. "I-I mean..y-your Grace." Y/N's lips curved into the smallest smile.

"It's an honor, Your Grace," Oscar said politely, still standing. Daemon gestured toward the chair. "Sit."

Oscar quickly obeyed. Y/N took a seat beside her uncle. Daemon studied the young Lord for a moment. "How is your grandsire?"

Oscar's expression softened. "Sadly, he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep."

"So he's alive," Daemon said.

"Yes." Oscar's face brightened with genuine relief. "Gods be good."

Daemon leaned back in his chair. "Well, my time is short and I have need of an army. Perhaps you might place a pillow over his head and speed up your inheritance."

Oscar stared at him. His eyes widened in complete disbelief. For a moment, he seemed unable to find words. "I-I..." He swallowed. "I love my grandsire. Like a father."

His voice became quieter. "My own lord father died suddenly, himself still a young man." There was emotion in his eyes now. "Lord Grover raised me in his stead."

Daemon remained unmoved. "All very touching."

Oscar lowered his gaze. Daemon leaned forward slightly. "Are you here to speak with your grandsire's voice for House Tully and the Riverlands?"

Oscar looked up, confused. "While he still lives?" Then he shook his head. "That is not our way."

Daemon's expression hardened. "Then you are of no use to me."

"Uncle!" Y/N rose from her chair.

Daemon stood. He gave Oscar one last look before turning toward the door. "I have no patience for waiting." And with that, he left the chamber. The doors closed behind him and silence settled over the room.

Oscar remained seated, staring at the floor. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Y/N's expression softened immediately. "No."

Oscar looked up. "I am glad that your grandsire is still alive." She stepped closer to him. "I can see how much you love him."

Oscar's eyes became glossy. "He's my family..."

Y/N smiled gently. "I know." She hesitated for only a moment before carefully reaching out and touching his cheek.

Oscar went completely still. Her touch was soft, almost comforting. "I wish him strength and good health," she whispered.

Oscar looked at her as though he had forgotten how to breathe. His cheeks slowly turned pink. "Thank you, Princess."

Y/N's gaze lowered to his armor. Her fingers gently brushed over the silver trout adorning his chest. “You will be a great Lord Paramount one day, dear Oscar.”

Oscar blinked. "Y-you think so, Princess?"

“I do.” There was no hesitation in her voice.

Oscar looked down again, his shoulders still slightly tense. “I don't know if I am ready for it.”

Y/N studied him for a moment. “You don't have to be ready today.”

Oscar looked at her.

“Your grandsire is still here. You love him. You want him to live. There is nothing shameful in that.”

His expression softened. Y/N stepped a little closer. “Perhaps my uncle sees your compassion as a weakness.” She gave him a gentle smile. “I do not.”

Oscar stared at her.

“You have a kind heart,” she continued softly. “And you care deeply for the people you love. Those are not qualities that make a lord weak.”

Her fingers lingered lightly against the silver trout. “They may be the very things that make you a good one.”

Oscar swallowed. Nobody had spoken to him like this before. Not as a boy who had inherited a title too soon, but simply as Oscar. “You really believe that?” he asked quietly.

“I do.”

His eyes grew glossy again, though this time there was a small smile on his lips. Y/N smiled back. “And when the day comes that you must carry the weight of Riverrun yourself, you will not have to become someone else to do it.”

She gently squeezed his shoulder. “You only need to remember the man your grandsire raised you to be.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes, a shy smile appearing on his face. “Thank you, Princess.”

“You don't need to thank me.”

“I think I do.”

Y/N's smile softened. “Then you're welcome, Oscar.”

For the first time since Daemon had left the room, Oscar's shoulders relaxed. He looked down shyly, his cheeks still warm.

Y/N smiled. "I think I have to speak to my uncle now. If you excuse me."

"Of-of course." Oscar immediately stood again. He bowed deeply. Y/N watched him for a moment, her smile lingering. Then she turned toward the door. Oscar lifted his head and just before she left, their eyes met one last time.

i love House of the Dragon, so i think i'll write a few oneshots, mostly for Daeron Targaryen and Oscar Tully. <3

My first Daeron oneshot: