wrap me in your skin and bones

Instead the Stranger had taken her in her prime, through dragon fire that had burned her flesh and rotted her core until she had eventually succumbed to it. Or perhaps it was the grief of losing another son, that in the end had been too much to bear. Many in the Red Keep suspected that the loss of Queen Helaena and their youngest son had been what had driven Aegon to madness, until his own men had taken pity. 

Only the Gods knew the truth of it, now all there was for Jacaerys to understand was that the two rulers, legitimate and usurping, who had sat the throne after Viserys were now dead, and the crown had landed on his head. 

Under the looming presence of the Iron Throne, Jacaerys paced the marble floors, attempting to make sense of the utter devastation around him. The high ceilings now felt suffocating, as though the very sky was crumbling over his head. 

“I should not be there,” he said outloud, almost to himself, or perhaps to the Gods, but his faithful friend Cregan Stark still answered his call of anguish. 

Wrists resting atop the pommel of Ice, which he carried at his waist these days, the young lord was watching over him as Kingsguard would, with the sort of silent presence that reminded Jacaerys that he was not alone in carrying his grief. 

“This is your rightful place, my prince,” he reminded him with the steadfastness he had come to expect from the northerner. 

“No it is not. It shouldn’t be, not by decades at least,” he resisted, and Cregan knew him to be right. 

Upon answering the call of the Dragon Queen, never would he have imagined that he would see a great dynasty fall to its knees in such a short time. Dragon riders had risen and fallen as quickly as the tide and as unpredictably, and he feared that it was only through sheer fate that one legitimate heir remained.

While it was not in his character to contemplate potential ruin, he knew the face of the crown could have been a child not even a decade old, would Jacaerys have drowned along with his dragon at the Gullet.

“Why have the Gods allowed it? Why allow my mother to die but me to survive?” Jacaerys lamented, the healed wound in his shoulder throbbing then, a pulsing burn from an arrow that had scarcely missed his heart—in that instant he almost wished it had not, and had allowed him to rest at the bottom of the sea with Vermax, instead of standing to inherit ruins.

“It is not for us to know,” Cregan replied, knowing it was no comfort. Then he cleared his throat, meaning to lead the young king to where he was expected. “They are waiting for you.”

Jacaerys turned to him then, his eyes rimmed with red and his face gaunter than a man of his age should be, the face of a man who had seen the Stranger many a time. “I cannot rule.”

Cregan stepped forward and put a heavy hand on his shoulder—still, the touch felt like the comfort of a brother, the sort Jacaerys sorely missed, and he leaned into it for support. “Then allow me to counsel you. We have been friends, haven’t we?”

Jacaerys nodded, swallowing heavily—the battlefield forged strong friendships, bonds of brotherhood the like he would have never imagined beforehand. “We have,” he confirmed. “There is no one else I trust.”

“Then believe me when I say, you will be a fine king,” Cregan replied, and it planted the seed of an idea in him, that perhaps not all of it was a curse—perhaps this was the call of destiny, no matter how painful, and he only had to answer it. “One I will gladly bend the knee to.”

The Red Keep had been your birth place, and now you were certain it would be your resting place. It had now been a fortnight since Rhaenyra had taken the Iron Throne once more, returning to King’s Landing with an army several thousands strong, made of Rivermen and Northerners, only to find that the revenge she sought had already been taken from her. Aegon laid cold in his bed, and she followed mere days later. 

You had been confined to Maegor's Holdfast, kept under close watch in your rooms most days, as though you were more than you were, more than a woman and instead a danger to the unlikely king now wearing the crown. You had never had to think of yourself as a political pawn until your brother Aegon, having taken the throne once more, had summoned you to the capital. You had obeyed your king, but in the span of a few weeks, he had perished and left you and your mother to face the consequences of his actions.

You loathed him as much as you loathed Rhaenyra and her brood. It was a cruel turn of fate, almost a cruel sort of poetry, that both pretenders to the throne had perished in the pursuit of it, leaving their heirs to scrub their blood from the stone floors and rebuild the dynasty they had destroyed, or pay the price of their pride in their own blood. 

All those that had betrayed Rhaenyra’s faction were now facing justice, and you feared you were only waiting for the executioner’s blade. You wondered whether your nephew’s own sword would do it, or if he would entrust the task to his most loyal man, Cregan Stark. Perhaps they would show mercy and send you into exile, to become a Silent Sister. 

Death or eternal silence,you knew what you would rather endure. 

Thus you waited for the Stranger in the room that had seen your childhood and little else, as you had been sent to Oldtown for your education once the first spring of your womanhood had bloomed. The Faith of the Seven now rooted you and guided you, and you clung to prayers as not to fall into madness.

On the third night of his reign, it was not the hand nor the blade of justice that came to you, but Jacaerys himself, and you wondered whether the following morrow would be the last dawn you would see. 

You stood abruptly as he entered, glancing towards the guard at the door with dread. “Rest easy, you have nothing to fear from me,” Jacaerys assured you. He was dressed in regal clothing made of black, the velvet layer on the inside of his cape a deep red. His hair fell to his shoulders in dark curls, nearly black in the low light of the candles. 

“Don’t I?” you asked, openly weary and hostile. “Where are my niece, and my mother?”

“Confined to their own rooms,” the young man replied with what seemed to you as regret. 

You noticed that he was not wearing the crown, but his head was bowed as though it was weighing on his neck, a constant presence. “Might I see them?” you inquired, but it sounded more like an order you were giving him.

“Your niece, yes,” Jacaerys conceded. 

“She’s a motherless child. Surely you would not have her be confined alone,” you insisted, and it seemed to convince him.

“You will be escorted to see her,” he offered, but it did little to appease you.

You approached him in careful steps until he could see the unshed tears glimmer in your eyes, your brow furrowed in concealed anger. You were trembling, ever so slightly, and when he searched your face for any familiar flicker, he found none—you were his blood, and yet nothing tied the two of you together but hatred.

“What will happen to us, now?” you inquired, gauging him. Standing face to face, you were reminded then of the years of your childhood, and you wondered whether the boy you had known then was still within reach, or if he had perished alongside his kin, replaced by a man you did not know.

“Nothing, for the time being. You are to be confined until trials have been run,” he explained.

Hope burst in your chest then, a starving dragon freed from its chains taking to the skies, ready to burn the lands around it. “And after that?”

Jacaerys looked pained then, a frown between his brows. “I do not know,” was all he answered, and he looked like a child, frightened by his own crown and unable to yield the power he possessed, and you hated him for it. 

“Why have you come, then, if you do not know of my fate?” you accused, your burning tears pearling at the corners of your eyes, your simmering rage like a silent sob caught in your chest, and he did not have any more answers for you.

Once Jacaerys had left, leaving more doubts and fears behind, you realized you had only addressed him in questions. There was a rage inside of you, and a primal fear that was no doubt similar to that of a beast caught in a trap, forced to eat through its own leg to free itself. 

You only had blunt teeth, but you still hoped you could sharpen them in due time.

Over the last pair of years, Jacaerys had sat at many a council of war, at the Painted Table in Dragonstone, but always as a councilor himself, advising his mother—it was only now that he realized how comfortable such a position was, making the decisions without having to enforce them, or without having to consider their consequences.

Now he was the one standing at the head of the table, leading men that sat in front of their marble ball as though they had paid a price for it and ought to claim them with pride, when in truth they had been named because they were alive and breathing. 

Corlys Velaryon was still abed from his wounds, but the men who had advised his mother during her last days were now serving him, waiting for him to name his council as he wished. All of them were taking their orders from a king young enough to be their son or grandson, one or two failing to conceal their contempt for that fact, and Jace wondered if such was the fate of all the kings that had preceded him. 

However what Jace lacked in years lived, he made up for in the devastation he had seen. In many ways grief was his experience, more so than strategy and governance, and he supposed it forged a man just as well.

Before the war he had never realized what came with being king—the grief, knowing the crown had only been passed on because the previous monarch had perished. It was all the more burdensome knowing his mother had barely reigned, and never over peace.

Since Cregan’s declaration of devotion, he had had the time to contemplate the sort of king he would want to be, the sort of legacy he would want to leave behind, whether his reign would be long or short. What mattered to him most was not to assert his authority or to be admired—he needed to rebuild and to leave the crown strong for his heirs. His reign would not be for himself, but for those who come after. 

With such a conclusion he sat before his council that morning, Cregan at his right where the Hand would usually be.

Roland Westerling, an older man with a calm disposition, handed a roll of parchment to Jacaerys, the seal of which had already been broken, a golden stag. “Lady Elenda Baratheon has accepted your terms of peace,” he informed the council as soon as they were all seated. 

“Nearly half of the great houses in the land are now ruled by babes and their mothers as regents,” Unwin Peake commented, as though this simple fact held an inherent flaw.

“I will gladly deal with these women. They might make wiser rulers than their husbands, who took to arm against my mother,” he said, unrolling the parchment and reading it over quickly before passing it along to Cregan. “Lord Roland, your daughter Joanna now rules House Lannister, does she not?”

“Indeed,” Roland answered with a slight smile of pride. “Loreon is a boy of barely five.”

Once great, powerful houses with proud men at their helm, the Lannisters and the Baratheons were now led by women, mothers of their heirs who would now lead the very men that had marched to war refusing to bow to a queen, and Jacaerys would laugh at their fate if he could summon the mirth. 

“There is still unrest in the Reach, I’m afraid,” Thaddeus Rowan said. “Those who remain loyal to the Greens are loath to settle, however the Hightowers are now ruled by a boy of seven and ten. He might easily be reasoned with.”

“Summon him to King’s Landing. I will receive him,” Jacaerys decided, to which Roland took note.

“He has made a rather unusual request to the High Septon,” Thaddeus continued with an appalled expression on his face. “He has asked for permission to wed his own father’s second wife, Lady Samantha Tarly.”

Jacaerys frowned—while there was no blood between a boy and his step-mother, it was still highly unusual and perhaps distasteful, especially since Oldtown was the cradle of the Faith. “How do you know of this, my lord?”

“Lady Sam is my niece, by my sister,” Thaddeus supplied. 

Without a word, Cregan gave Jacaerys a slow tilt of his head. “The Tarlys supported my mother, as did your house, did they not?” Jacaerys asked Lord Roland. “Did Lady Sam’s loyalties lie with my mother?”

Thaddeus observed Jacaerys for a moment. “Indeed.”

“Write to the High Septon in my name,” Jacaerys then decided. “Have him grant the marriage.”

As soon had he given the order, barely breathing after his words, that Unwin Peake cleared his throat. “While we are speaking of marriage, your grace, there is a matter we must discuss,” the man said, sharing a look with the other lords that spoke of a preceding agreement. “I loathe to be the one to say it, but a young king shall need a queen and heirs.”

“My brothers are my heirs,” Jacaerys protested. 

“The future of the realm partly rests on you securing a long-lasting peace,” Roland said. “While we have come to understand that an informal betrothal was made in childhood between yourself and Lady Baela Velaryon, she might not be the wisest match.”

Baela and himself had been children together, and while the expectation had been for them to marry, he cherished her friendship and had rarely considered the prospect. “A marriage is an alliance, a political calculation,” he continued.

Cregan crossed his hands atop the table and leaned forward. “What do you suggest?” he asked, but Jace could tell he already knew what point they were about to make, and he braced himself.

“The breach between the two branches of House Targaryen may be mended,” Thaddeus offered carefully. “Were his grace to wed the remaining child of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower.”

Horror rose from the pit of his stomach, settled only when he caught eyes with Cregan, whose gaze was calm and direct—without a word needed between them, the northerner gave him a slow nod, and with that, his fate was sealed.

Evening was falling, a heavy veil over the Red Keep, made of darkness and cold wind. Winter was settling and the days were darker and shorter, plunging the castle in a grim atmosphere that lasted from the end of the afternoon to the late morrow.

Supper was still an hour away when you were summoned to the king’s quarters. The room was brightly lit with candles and a fire, perhaps even more than was comfortable, as though Jacaerys was attempting to keep the darkness at bay. You stood near the threshold while he remained further into the room, arms clasped behind his back like a soldier at attention.

“I have asked you here to present to you a proposal I hope you will agree to,” he announced, the words sounding rehearsed, empty of all sincerity. “The realm is shattered and House Targaryen is in ruins, but together we might unite it.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, you knew you had come to hear. “Will you wed me, and put an end to this bloodshed once and for all?”

Your answer came like the crack of a whip. “I may not.”

“I understand that this is not what you would have wanted, however—” Jacaerys prepared his arguments, but you did not let him speak.

With a raised hand, you silenced him. “You misunderstand me. This has nothing to do with what I want, but what I can do,” you explained, your face contorting in anguish.

“I don’t understand,” he said, cutting you off as though he suspected what was coming and desperately wanted to keep it at bay, but he could not have known, you thought.

Rage rose in your throat, acrid and burning, but you swallowed it down. You wanted to curse your brother out for putting you in such a vulnerable position, but damning the dead would do you no good, and you did not wish to betray your king’s memory in front of the man who had replaced him.

“A few days before Aegon died, he took me to wife in a secret ceremony,” you admitted, tears clouding your eyes, and Jace’s heart ached in sudden pity. “Ask the Septon and he shall confirm.”

“Aegon is dead, a widow is permitted to remarry,” he countered, and he could tell from your face how impatient you were becoming with him.

“I have not bled since,” you clarified. It had been two moons now, but the Maester could not say with certainty until the quickening, and your morrows remained without any sickness, yet you doubted, dreading the child that might be inside of you.

Jacaerys blamed his naiveness. “Are you implying—”

You looked upon him severely. “I may be carrying Aegon’s child, yes,” you said, and this simple but devastating truth rang loud in the room—it could be your salvation, as much as your downfall. 

“This changes everything,” Jacaerys whispered, and upon noticing the subtle way you were trembling, once more inhabited by fear in his presence, quickly made his promise. “No harm will come to you, you have my word. I shall keep your secret until you are certain either way.”

You knew you should have been grateful, but you hated the mere thought of owing him any sort of gratitude. It was just as well that he ignored your tears, much as he had done the day prior, as though he sought you out not to converse with you, but to shout into a void that echoed back to him. 

Jacaerys waved you away, crumbling once the doors shut and he was alone once more. He might have been young and uncertain of himself, but he knew what would happen if you were to birth a son.

Aegon’s supporters were still many, and his reign was still too fragile. Power often turned loyal men into self-serving traitors ; he could still easily be toppled, be murdered in this very room as Aegon had, and a babe placed upon the throne in his stead. 

Unable to bear the storm inside of him he took hold of the crown resting atop the mantle of the hearth and threw it at the wall, wailing until his voice broke. 

Grief held him by the throat, an invisible hand that felt like that of the Stranger choking his breath from his very neck. The wounds on his shoulders ached and throbbed anew, as fresh in his mind as the day they had been inflicted.

“What should I do, mother?” he pleaded to the night. “What would you have me do?”

Alone and broken, the young king wept. 

While you were a Targaryen, he was not, and where he came from, where his blood was born, such an attraction was forbidden and looked upon with repulsion. 

Therefore once a week at the least, when his love became too wild and his desire too present, he came to his rooms at night with the intent of atoning. There was a ritual to it ; first he would fold his shirt, then place his knees wide on the carpet, adjust the grip of his hand on the familiar handle, and proceed.

This night was no different. He settled at the foot of his bed and took the whip he had begged the Septon for, many moons ago. The old man had praised his devotion to the Gods, only because he knew nothing of the lusting beast inside of Gwayne. 

It was made with a handle of braided cords that split into lengths of the same rope, with heavy knots on every strand, each as long as his lower arm. It looked almost harmless, simple hemp rope, but when whipped across the back, it was brutal. 

“Father, give me the wisdom and courage to face this weakness,” he prayed out loud, and braced for the pain that was to come. 

The first hit across his back made his breath catch in his chest—for a moment there was nothing, then a line of heat bloomed across his skin and he hissed behind gritted teeth. He never allowed himself to cry out or moan, instead he bore his self-inflicted punishment in silence. 

“Mother, give me the grace and patience to bear this burden,” he pleaded, and the second strike hit atop the first, reawakening the pain, a line of fire that made hot tears prickle at the back of his eyes.

As a rule, he disciplined himself with seven hits, and a prayer with each, counting each one aloud. With every strike, a new layer of pain was building atop the preceding hits, and if he did it with enough strength, he was utterly spent by the time the seven strikes had been completed. 

Tonight was no exception, and by the time he was nearly done, his knees were threatening to give out. “Warrior, give me the strength to overcome it,” he sobbed.

The seventh hit felt like salvation. He dropped the flogger and fell to his hands and knees on the carpet, but he could breathe again. His mind was clear, and his traitorous cock was soft between his legs—he was relieved of his burden, for a time at least. 

Wandering thoughts and wandering eyes were sins alike, as much as touch, you had been taught in your youth by your Septa. Transgressing in your mind and in your heart was deserving of correction, and the Gods were attentive to even those silent sins—and yet there you stood, untouched by any sort of godly punishment, save for being forbidden to love the one you loved.

Growing up in Oldtown alongside your mother’s kin, you had followed a strict upbringing, rooted in faith and the fear of the Seven Gods. However no matter how much you prayed or how long you spent reading scriptures, there was a part of your soul that you could not tame.

Perhaps it was in your blood—after all, many blood relatives had been wed inside the House of the Dragon, brothers and sisters, and uncles and nieces alike. Yet the man you longed for belonged to another house, and to other customs. 

The object of your admiration and desire, none other than your uncle Gwayne, was currently showcasing his talent with the sword, in training with his cousin Ser Ormund for all to see. The two men enjoyed practicing in full view and it was always a spectacle you enjoyed. 

Despite his arrogance, Ormund did make a good show of himself in tourneys and on the training field, but your eyes always strayed to Gwayne, no matter who he was competing against. It would have been more appropriate for you to admire your cousin Ormund. 

While an uncle and a niece was an appropriate match for Targaryens, it did not extend to other houses in the land—here in Oldtown, it would be more than frowned upon, it would be forbidden. 

Gwayne was kind and gentle, and had never treated you as an ignorant child. Ormund often took pleasure in reminding you of your young age and lack of knowledge of the world, while Gwayne listened to your thoughts and opinions, and never dismissed them. The two of you shared a passion for the arts, and some sort of understanding about the world around you. 

Sometimes there was a glint in his eyes that made you foolishly hope he would one day see you as more than his sister’s child, and that in his instinct to protect you, there was more than mere duty, but the primal desire of a man to defend his chosen spouse. 

Thoughts straying on dangerous paths, you watched as the two men charged each other as children would, laughing and forgoing all proper technique. Ormund was agile despite his size, and the man liked to brag, which was how he ended up twirling on himself and hitting Gwayne square across the back—the young man hissed and moaned, cursing him out.

“Gwayne,” you cried out as both threw their practice swords aside and turned to their respective benches, where you followed him. His back to you, he took a linen cloth and dipped it into the basin of water provided, wiping the sweat from his face and the nape of his neck.

“There is a spot of blood on your shirt,” you remarked, and forgoing all propriety, untucked the linen from the waistband of his trousers before he could protest.

The gasp that tore from your throat served as a bucket of ice water across his back, and the flush of heat from his training vanished. He spun around suddenly, but the damage had been done—horror was spread across your graceful face. 

“Who has done this to you?” you asked. Across his back, you had seen lashes from a whip, with deeper welts that you could not make sense of, and bruises underneath. 

“No one, fear not,” he replied, but it did little to assuage your worry. 

“What do you mean?” you inquired. 

Gwayne looked at you, seemingly ashamed, his high cheekbones flushed and his hairline as well, pink disappearing into his fiery red hair, and for a moment you thought he would not answer. “I discipline myself, when it is necessary,” he finally replied, quick and sharp, and his answer was almost worse than what you had imagined.

“Prayers ought to be enough, surely,” you protested with a small smile, attempting to ease his embarrassment. 

However his answer was curt and severe. “It is nothing I do not deserve. I am sinful and I must atone,” he explained, tucking his shirt back into his trousers and taking his leave without another look towards you.

“No one is without sin,” you said quietly, unsure whether he had heard you, and watched his retreating back, the traitorous spot of blood between his shoulder blade a startling crimson against the white cotton.

That night, you could not find sleep. The sight of the red streaks across Gwayne’s back was haunting you, as well as the admission that he had been inflicting such punishment upon yourself. Knowing you would not rest until the matter was resolved, or at least discussed, you rose from bed and slipped a robe on before making your way to his chambers.

It was quiet in the Tower. Slipping along the hallways without a word, you reached the bachelor’s corridor and knocked quietly, unwilling to attract any attention. Light was coming under the door, yellow and bright across the stones, and you thought candles were still lit—Gwayne was awake. Perhaps he was reading as he was prone to do before bed, or perhaps praying.

As no answer came, even when you knocked a second time, harder, you pressed your ear to the heavy door. It was inappropriate, you were aware, but the afternoon’s confession had taken hold of you, giving you more audacity than you naturally possessed. 

What you heard through the door made your heart startle in your chest. The sound was faint but rather unmistakable—the whistling sound of a whip followed by muffled grunts. Tears rose in your eyes and against your better judgment, you turned the handle and entered, closing the door behind you.

In the middle of the room, on the carpet, Gwayne was on his knees, his bare back to the door. It was already streaked with angry welts, his pale, freckled back flushed pink with raised marks. In his right hand, he held a flogger made of corded rope, but before he could deliver yet another hit to his own flesh, you cried out.

“Gwayne!” you called, and he startled, the flogger falling to the floor in a muted sound as he rose and turned, looking frantic.

“I did not hear you come in,” he said almost as a defense—his face was crestfallen, his eyes full of tears, and you noticed with heartbreak that he was shivering in pain.

“I beg of you,” you pleaded, reaching out to him, but he took a step backwards. “It causes me great pain to see you inflict this upon yourself.”

“I must atone,” he protested. 

“Then let it be through prayer, good works and charity!” you insisted, looking so earnest he wanted to lean into you. “Whatever burden you bear, I would bear with you if only you would share it with me,” you continued, and your words of friendship only added to the ache in his heart.

“I cannot,” he said once more, but you would not relent. 

“Why?” you cried out, and he loathed to be the source of your distress, but he would rather the Gods strike him down where he stood than speak of it and cause you even more anguish. His shame was his own to carry, and he could not stand to burden you with disgust.

“You are the source of my torment,” he finally confessed, his cheekbones flushed red and his eyes full of tears.

Sweet and innocent as you were, you did not seem to understand what he was alluding to. “What have I done that is so terrible that it plagues you so?” you asked. “Please tell me.”

“The fault is not with you but with my treacherous mind,” he explained. 

“I don’t understand, please speak plainly,” you pressed, your hand flat against his chest, and perhaps it was the softness of your palm against his wildly beating heart that finally broke his resolve.

Gwayne closed his eyes and sighed. “Please forgive me,” he murmured, and setting his hand atop yours, confessed. “I yearn for you, even though I know I should not.”

“Gwayne…” you murmured, hope galloping in your heart like a horse across a plain, suddenly freed from its reins.

“I desire you, and I cannot rid myself of this cursed affliction,” he admitted.

Eyes wide and mouth dropping open, your gaze did not leave his face as you removed your hand from his grasp—he let you go easily—only to lower yourself upon the floor and pick the flogger up, rising again. 

“Then take this and punish me as well, because I am just as sinful as you are,” you said tearily, handing the flogger back to him, but more assertive than he had ever seen you. 

With a trembling hand he took it, thunderstruck as you walked to the dinner table while undoing the laces of your night gown. Pushing your hair aside, you dropped the garment until it pooled at your waist, held at your elbows, and bared your back to him, bracing yourself on the edge of the tabletop.

“I desire you as well,” you confessed then, loud and clear, glancing at him over your shoulder. Stupefied, Gwayne approached carefully, his eyes roaming the expanse of your skin with barely concealed greed.

A shudder ran across it as he raised a hand and the tips of his fingers traced the curve of your shoulder blade. Against his better judgement, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then the back of your neck. “Punish me, then,” you cried out, and his heart ached—no matter how you begged him, he knew he was at fault, he knew he was the one leading you astray, but he was weak. 

The flogger fell to the ground in a muted sound, and then you heard the thudding of his knees on the carpet—you turned and there he was, kneeling, devastation painted on his handsome face. 

“Do you think me wicked?” you asked.

“Never,” he replied, quick and certain as though he knew no other truth, and at that you freed your gown from the crooks of your elbows, and the fabric fell to the ground, pooling at your feet. 

“Gods have mercy,” he whispered, his gaze following the drop of the fabric and remaining caught at the apex of your thighs, your most intimate place now bared to him.

Leaning against the tabletop, you gripped its edges and waited. He could easily send you away with a single word, or chastise you as an uncle ought to chastise his transgressing niece, but instead he was looking at you like a supplicant looking at a goddess, worshiping the sight of your curves. Slowly he raised his hands and rested them alongside yours, finding purchase on the smooth oakwood. 

The first kiss of his mouth upon your core was reverence, a taste of the heavens—his lips were soft and almost shy, afraid to startle you. Instead it spread a gentle heat in your core. You trembled and sighed when he did it again, firmer, lingering slightly.

Attentive to the way your sighs grew deeper, he allowed himself to be bold, and licked across your folds once—you quivered then, one of your hands carding through his bright mane.

“Gwayne,” you gasped like a prayer, and his own desire burst in his core. His cock filled with blood against his thigh.

He licked the seam of your folds once more, pressing at your pearl with a flick of his tongue, relishing how it made you quiver and whine. Slowly, he built a rhythm you thought would drive you to madness, kissing your pearl and pulling it between his soft lips before pressing his tongue past your folds, into the sensitive divot that led into your body. Each of his kisses and each pass of his tongue was making your thighs quiver, liquid heat spreading into your veins, throbbing in your core.

In your pleasure, your hand had tightened in his hair, but the sting at his scalp only spurred him on. 

“Please, I need to feel you—” you sobbed when he thought you would finally collapse where you stood, desire and pleasure making you tremble violently.

He knelt back, looking up at you with reverence. His mouth was a gift, and it was a transgression far greater than you would have ever imagined would take place between the two of you, but not enough to sate your hunger. 

“I will not take you,” he replied, almost broken. “It would only damn us both.”

“I will be damned if you send me away now,” you protested.

Devout, he rose until he was standing over you, and swiftly took you into his arms and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his slim waist. He walked you to the bed, his length trapped between your stomachs, and you whined, unable to rock back against him.

When finally he lowered you to the sheets, discarding his trousers, you did not let go of him, instead found purchase to grind up into his body, spreading your wetness over his cock.

It was only a facsimile of what he desired most, but the look of rapture on your face made it impossible for him to refuse you. He dipped his head down and captured your lips in a kiss that spoke of all he could not voice, his mouth hot and relentless against yours. You whispered his name against his own lips, kissing him back with as much passion and yearning.

Taking his cock in hand, he guided it to where he most desperately wanted to sheath himself but could not. Biting his lip, he teased the head of his cock between your folds, feeling your wetness and the way you clenched around his absence, the divot leading into your entrance squeezing him. It was the cruelest torture to you both, a taste of what you both desired but could not have.

Only allowing you a taste of the forbidden, he took his cock away, making you mewl, only to find his place against your core, trapping his length between your stomach and his, your pearl caught against it.

He started a desperate rhythm, nearly frantic by moment, sating the hunger that threatened to unravel both your minds, and painfully slow the next, trying to stave off the peak that was rising in him. There was no grace to it and yet you were grinding back against him, lost to it and unable to contain the moans that felt from your lips.

“Gods be good, how lovely you are,” he praised, slanting his mouth over yours for a breath of air at your lips, falling into your embrace further, your knees digging into his waist, your hands curled at his shoulders. 

Gwayne hissed when you dug your nails into his sore back, reminding him of the burning streaks there, but the pain only seemed to incense him more. He looked undone, and the sight of him was more arousing to you than the feeling of him between your legs—his skin was flushed the loveliest pink, his freckles standing out like the stars on the backdrop of a dark sky, his eyes wide and wet in wonder. 

He swallowed, taken by yet another shudder, and it seemed to you that he was on the verge of collapse.

Once more he guided the head of his cock past your folds, snug against the flesh that prevented him from pushing inside of you, pressing against the limit he had set for you both.

“I love you,” he sobbed, and those three words snapped the tension inside of you like the edge of a knife to a frayed rope. Crying out, you threw your head back as your peak speared you to the very core, pleasure pulsing through you until your ears rang with the force of it. 

Gwayne moaned, feeling your core throb around the head of his cock. He cursed aloud, pulling away with barely a split-second to spare and spilled his seed over your belly in hot ropes, unable to restrain himself any longer. 

As pleasure rescinded, the reality of his transgression rushed over him at the sight of his seed on your skin, over your womb, and shame pulsed in his chest at how it aroused him. “Gods forgive me,” he said, and you kissed the prayer from his lips.

“We shall pray together then, and earn their forgiveness,” you promised. “However the Gods cannot fault us for the way they made us. My soul calls to yours, and surely that is of their making.”

Gwayne hoped that you were right, and that he was not leading upon a dark path, one that would be your downfall. “As mine calls to yours.”

Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. A special thank you to @/zaldritzosrose and @tumblin-theworldaway who encouraged me to write this!

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

Gwayne Taglist: @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose @multyfangirl @purple-1995 @tumblin-theworldaway

@caterina-caterina @oldtowrs @targaryenswhxre @tabiitha @lothiriel9