#gwayne

However, many temptations such as desires of the flesh still lived beneath the surface, and he had come close to succumbing a few times. A lingering kiss on the knuckles of the young Lady Redwyne, or a daring kiss to the crook of the neck of Lady Tyrell after a vigorous dance and a cup of wine too many.

It was rare that he indulged so much, until he rode to King’s Landing to attend the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor. He had not expected your presence, and as a matter of fact, no one had—the only child of Lady Rhea Royce and Prince Daemon. Your mother had refused to attend, and despite having been sent back to the Vale, your father was present.

All agreed that you had your mother’s dignity and determination, however you bore some of the noble features of the Targaryens, and your beauty was striking. Gwayne found himself, to his great shame, captivated as you crossed the great hall alongside the rest of House Royce on the first night of the festivities. The banquet was luxurious in its own right, but the whole court had been assured it would seem pale compared to the wedding day feast.

Decided before his recent fall from grace, his father Ser Otto had thought the occasion to be the right opportunity for Gwayne to find himself a wife, but none of the ladies he had met at court since his arrival had roused any interest in him. They had all been on the recommendations of his sister and approved by his father, and while he strived to please them, matters of the heart were too dear to him and he did not wish to ignore his own preferences.

The Red Keep was barely awake on the morning following the first night of festivities when Gwayne came down to the Weirwood tree, hoping for a moment of silent contemplation and perhaps even prayer. 

However when the door closed behind him and he took the few steps down into the courtyard, he found that he had not been alone in having this idea. You were standing there, admiring the movement of the red leaves in the wind, and he had half a mind to turn without a sound and find silence somewhere else, but his footsteps on the gravel must have given him away.

You turned to face him, your hands crossed at your stomach. “Ser Gwayne?” you asked with a gentle smile and a tilt of your head. “The queen’s brother.”

“Indeed,” Gwayne replied, rather curt, from both your question and the fact that he was momentarily impressed by your beauty up close. Your face was as fair as could be expected from a lady of noble birth, your eyes deep and knowing, and your lips delicate as rose petals.

The smile fell from your face at his answer, and morphed into a contrite expression. Gwayne could admit that he had expected some teasing instead, much like Prince Daemon was custom to. “My apologies, I did not mean to offend you,” you said with a small bow, then made your way towards the gardens, intent on leaving the Weirwood tree to him.

“Forgive me,” Gwayne hurried to correct. “I did not mean to be impolite. Not all eyes on me have been kind since my father’s dismissal.”

Stopping a few steps away from him, your gentle smile returned. “I rather understand that,” you admitted. 

“Please forgive my lack of manners,” he tried again. “I hope you will not hold it against me.”

With those polite words, Ser Gwayne reached out to take your hand, which you gave him easily. He held your gaze as he dropped a respectful kiss to the back of your knuckles. “I am indeed Ser Gwayne. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

You bit back an excited chuckle at his impeccable gesture of chivalry, losing yourself in the pale blue of his eyes, themselves lost in the sea of his bright freckles. He was utterly charming, you noticed, but then you had already known. His reputation was the queen’s pride and she never ceased to groom young ladies into the perfect picture of the Maiden in the hope of marrying one of them to her brother. 

It was a shame that such a beautiful man, and eloquent as well, was reputed to be as pious as his sister.

“I will not, if you do not hold mine own father’s comportment against me,” you replied with a bold air that made his pale brows raise on his forehead.

“Do not worry, my lady, I would not dare,” he replied earnestly, letting go of your hand. 

The morning sun was making his hair glow, added to that the elegance of his accent, you found yourself mesmerized. It wasn’t in your nature to refuse yourself any temptation, but you regretted that your interest must be suddenly taken by a man who was known for his attachment to holy scripture. 

It was a secret to no one who discussed such things that Ser Gwayne had taken a private vow of chastity before marriage, and as far as rumor went, had never broken it. 

The most wicked, irresistible idea burst at the back of your mind, and you almost relished in the prospect of the task ahead. While you might not succeed, the pursuit of such a goal would delight you in and of itself. A wedding feast was entertaining, but you yearned for a personal challenge.

“My father has a rather distasteful reputation, and it is upsetting to me that it might tarnish my own name,” you said, forcing your eyes lower for a moment, crossing your fingers at your stomach in a nervous gesture, hoping Ser Gwayne would take the bait. “I have Targaryen blood and I am expected to conform to that, in a way.”

“I am sorry, that is deeply unfair,” he replied with a frown. 

“Thank you for saying that, ser,” you offered with the brightest smile you could muster.

“I know of the weight of such expectations only too well,” he explained, turning to look at the red leaves blowing in the wind. “My father is known to be ruthless at times, and some lords would expect me to have inherited it from him.” 

“You do not strike me as ruthless,” you commented pleasantly.

“And you do not strike me as promiscuous, if you would allow me to be so bold,” he said, which made you smile, but not with fondness. “You seem amused,” Gwayne then commented.

“Forgive me, I thought it ironic that we should bond over the expectations over our heads when our fathers are so notoriously enemies,” you said.

Ser Gwayne laughed at your comment. “Then we shall not conform to this expectation either, then.”

“Would you have us be friends?” you asked.

“Is it disagreeable to you?” he inquired, holding out his arm for you to take.

“No, not at all, ser,” you smiled, taking it gladly. “Not at all.”

From this tentative, unlikely friendship bloomed wonderful afternoons and evenings. His eloquence was a pleasure to witness, and his quick wit and sharp tongue was as much part of his charm as his fair looks.

Eager to gain his trust, you joined him to prayer every day, and it took all your strength to restrain the shivers that threatened to break out all over your skin when you felt his gaze on the back of your neck. It felt almost intimate, to be kneeling side by side, whispering to the Gods, your fingers brushing when lighting the candles.

Every night of the celebrations, he asked you to dance, and you were delighted to find out that he was a skillful dancer. It invigorated you, and whether it was a hand on his shoulder or at his waist, you enjoyed the closeness, observing him up close. 

Mostly, you delighted in the way his long lashes fanned on his freckled cheekbones whenever he looked down at you, his own hands always carefully placed, ever so respectful. You restrained your proud smiles whenever he glanced at the necklines of your gowns and quickly looked away, forcing his composure not to falter. 

It was incredibly easy to fluster him, you had quickly found out, and doing so was the most entertaining occupation you had had in a long while, perhaps ever. Judging from his lingering eyes and sometimes leading subjects of conversation, you were almost certain that a courtship was on his mind, and while you did not dislike to play the long game, you yearned for a quicker reward.

There was a wicked pleasure in pursuing the only son of your father’s enemy, of dreaming to taint such a flawless reputation.  

“You seem preoccupied, ser,” you commented one morning after prayer, your arm sliding with his as he walked you down the steps of the Sept. 

“It is nothing I could concern you with,” he quickly dismissed.

In truth, he could hardly voice those concerns to himself, barely daring to spell them out in his mind where the Gods were no doubt peeking during prayer. He had enjoyed your company immensely, and the wild atmosphere of the celebrations had gone to his head rather. Whether it was the wine or his father’s absence, he found himself mesmerized by your beauty, and utterly smitten by your joyful character. 

You were nothing like your father’s name would suggest, instead you were demure and collected, quick-minded but humble, and Gwayne loathed himself for the thoughts that plagued his mind. He wondered whether you were a temptation sent by the Gods to measure his resolve, and whether he would be found worthy or lacking by the end of it.

He knew he only had to bear a fortnight of celebrations and extended stay to visit his sister, and then he could put you out of his thoughts, if he did not manage to persuade you to enter an official courtship. You sometimes seemed to tease him with words of protest, vehemently defending that you had no mind to marry quite yet, and it made the appeal even greater. 

What could be more precious than conquering the heart of a woman who had proclaimed herself unreachable? Or perhaps it was your good education that prompted you to portray yourself as uninterested and chaste? Your faith seemed to drive your every decision, as a contrast to the reputation of your father, and Gwayne had immense respect for it. 

“Perhaps some fresh air would do you some good?” you suggested at the bottom of the steps, ready to request a pair of horses to the guards rather than stepping inside the litter again. 

“What did you have in mind?” Gwayne asked, curious—you always seemed so full of ideas, and he agreed with your assumption that fresh air would clear his mind.

“A ride in the Kingwoods,” you suggested. “Surely your sister the queen would grant access to us.”

In the end your offer was utterly correct, and as the two of you galloped under the blazing sun, a simple joy replaced his worries. Nature was always grounding to him, and helped to put sin out of his mind, replacing it with wonder at the world around him and humility.

However as you brought your horse to a stop at the edge of the lake, his worries returned to him, desire curling hot and bright behind his navel. The afternoon sun was making your hair glow, your skin flushed with sweat, cheeks a bright pink, tightening his chest with longing. 

For a foolish, brave second, he imagined himself asking for a kiss from your lips—perhaps it was all that he would need to quench his thirst. 

“Thank you for agreeing to accompany me,” you said over your shoulder as his own horse came to stand beside yours. “Fresh air was much needed indeed, I find that my thoughts get so muddled in that place.”

Gwayne sighed, guilt curdling the last remnants of his joy. “I can certainly relate.”

“I’m sure not,” you said, then quickly added. “Not to what I had in mind.”

“Pray tell?” he asked.

“You would not like to know, believe me,” you said, and he fell quiet. Your horse shifted and your knee came to brush against his. “Upon our first conversation we agreed that we were not like what was expected of us because of our name. Do you find that standard hard to uphold sometimes?”

“I do, recently more than ever,” Gwayne replied before dismounting—if riding had not rid him of his thoughts, then perhaps a walk would.

“Do you think it is inevitable, because of our blood?” you continued, unaware of his internal torment, clutching his hand in yours when he offered it to help you dismount your own horse.

“What do you mean?” he asked as you lowered yourself to the ground and came to stand in front of him.

You looked at him from under your lashes, almost shy, and he shivered. “Sometimes, I feel like the dragon blood inside me has a mind of its own.” 

Gwayne remained speechless, warmth erupting in his stomach. Your hand was soft in his, and he swallowed the unbearable desire to bring it to his mouth only to taste the salt of your skin. 

“Perhaps fresh air isn’t enough. I think I shall go for a swim,” you then promptly announced, grinning at his  nervous laughter—his cheeks were flushed pink, the sunshine making his hair the color of fire. 

“Are you certain this is appropriate, my lady?” he warned, knowing his self-control was slipping, temptation rising fiercer—his heart was fighting with his conscience and his faith, and he loathed the impure thoughts that arose when you pulled at the laces of your riding dress.

“I feel quite safe in your company, Ser Gwayne. Are you coming?” you called over your shoulder as you dropped your gown to the ground, the light gauze pooling softly at your feet.

Gwayne averted his eyes as you stepped into the lake, and closed them for a moment. The implicit trust you were showing him was only making his own failing starker, and he resisted the urge to fall to his knees and beg the Gods for strength he knew he did not possess.

Without a word he shed his own boots and his doublet, and after a second of hesitation, shed his undershirt as well before stepping into the lake to join you. The cold water was a shock and settled his nerves for a moment. “It certainly helps settle one’s thoughts,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

Standing in the shallower edge of the lake, Ser Gwayne’s cheeks were flushed pink by the afternoon sun, his hair a blaze you dreamed to rake your fingers through. He was so lovely you felt your own cheeks burst with heat, your belly clenching with anticipation. 

“What is the matter, ser?” you asked with a coy smile, although his lingering glances were giving him away—you could feel your breasts rising in stiff peaks, and you knew your white shift was not hiding much, apart from the sight of your skin.

“Nothing I could share out loud,” he replied, his eyes fluttering down once more, and he took a step back.

“Should I avert my own eyes?” you asked, biting your lower lip in a display of shyness. 

Gwayne shook his head slightly, following your gaze where it had dropped to the plane of his stomach, starting from the line leading to his sternum, down where a trail of copper hair disappeared into his trousers and underwater. He visibly shivered, the muscles shifting under his pale, freckled skin. 

“You are tormenting me,” he breathed an embarrassed laugh.

“I am sorry,” you said with a soft smile, your eyes surely betraying your inner mirth. 

“I should get dressed again before I embarrass myself,” he decided, turning back to the shore. 

You followed him without a word, unwilling to let him out of your grasp now that you had so clearly tempted him. You could see the shape of him under his wet small clothes and it made your stomach clench. You wanted to kiss the line of his spine, or perhaps the one that ran down his stomach. 

Such thoughts were said to be improper for a lady, but he was so pretty you could hardly help it, and it made no sense to you that men could so easily enjoy pleasure of the flesh while women were forbidden from it.

Sitting in the shallow water, you watched as he hesitated with his clothes in hand. “I am sorry,” you tried again, sadder this time, and it prompted a swift reaction from him.

“The shame is mine, not yours,” he reassured you, still keeping his eyes averted. You could see the deep flush of his cheekbones under his hair that was falling across his face.

“No, I am the one to blame. I let my impure thoughts get the best of me,” you quickly explained. “I know  I shouldn’t have those and yet…”

Gwayne looked up at you, eyes wide and almost pleading. He set his doublet down on a nearby rock, leaning against it. “Tell me?” he whispered. “If we confess, then we might pray together,” he offered, although prayers seemed to be far from his mind. 

At this, you rose from the water, your wet shift clinging to your skin. You were not naked yet all of you was bared to his eyes, from the shape of your breasts to the apex of your thighs, and he could not tear his gaze away. It was the first time he was seeing the female form in such an uncovered way, and he instantly felt his cock fill and grow heavy between his legs.

“Gods be good,” he whispered, his fingers twitching with the urge to relieve the tension. He was trembling with it all, his heart beating in amazement, his chest swelling with euphoria.

“Those are thoughts a lady should never think,” you confessed. “Do you think less of me now, ser?”

“I do not fault you, I have had them as well. They tempt me,” he admitted in turn.

Gwayne felt it was his own fault, that he had let his desires get the best of him and had corrupted you with them—all you had intended was to enjoy the cool water on a sunny day, but the mere idea of your body so close to him had unleashed his wildest thoughts. He was the man, after all, and protecting a lady’s virtue was expected of him. 

“Do you forgive me?” he whispered, his eyes closing in shame.

“Do you, ser?” you prompted. 

“Yes,” he whispered fervently. “I confess, I’ve thought about you, alone at night.”

“I forgive you,” you said as well, sitting on a large rock across from him.

You rubbed your thighs together, squirming, and he moaned, one of his hands gripping his thigh in an effort to restrain himself. The shape of his cock was visible through his clothes, and he shuddered when your gaze lowered until it landed on it.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, the heel of his hand pressing into the head of his cock—the sensation felt heavenly, a ripple of heat coursing through him, his mouth dropping open on a silent moan.

“Please, ser,” you called, then parted your knees, smoothing your shift down your belly until it clung to your folds. “I was taught that a woman should never take a hand to herself.”

At the sight of your womanhood, the wet fabric of your shift hiding nothing of its shape, he finally took himself in hand through his underclothes, pulling the skin back then over the swollen head of his cock, the tension inside of him mounting, such as was his desperation.

“Perhaps just this once?” he pleaded. “Oh gods,” he closed his eyes for a moment when you slid two fingers along the seam of your folds, then pressed at their apex, the loveliest of moans falling from your lips. Your hips ground up into your touch, your knees falling further open.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, rocking your hips forward into the tight circles your fingers were drawing. “It hurts, it feels as though I might combust but it doesn’t let out.”

Gwayne shuddered again at your words, looking utterly undone—his freckled face was flushed with pleasure, his eyes blown wide and dark. “Oh, my lady,” he moaned. “If I could…”

“Through the fabric? You wouldn’t be touching me,” you suggested, and he could not resist your offer.

Gwayne took a few steps forward, pleading with the Gods to forgive him this one transgression. He knelt between your parted thighs, and it did not feel so different than to kneel for prayer.

A broken sigh came from your lips when he kissed the inside of your knee, then further up your inner thigh, and it was followed by a cry when finally, his lips pressed to your core. It felt to him the most natural thing in the world, and he thought that there could be no altar so sacred as this one.

His mouth was hot through the wet fabric of your shift, his tongue pressing insistently against you as though he wished to taste you through the cotton. “Gwayne,” you moaned, tangling your fingers in his fiery hair. 

He was eager and clumsy in the ways of men who had only ever had their thoughts to entertain their cold nights, and your pleasure was fast and sharp nonetheless. Triumphant, you ground up into his touch and he allowed you, his own moans stifled against your skin.

Your core was pulsing in time with the firm presses of his lips and tongue, and with the movement of his arm between his own legs. The thought of him pleasuring himself with he licked at your core, coupled with the victory of having corrupted him, brought the tension inside of you to its height. 

Your core pulsed against his tongue as the tension snapped and released in powerful waves, shaking your whole frame and making pleas fall from your lips. Gwayne rose as soon as your hips settled again and did not wait for you to find your breath again. His mouth hovered over yours as he reached for the laces of his trousers, opening them hurriedly—at last, his length was freed from the wet fabric, flushed a deep red.

All it took was a few strokes from his own hand before he shuddered once then grew still, his mouth dropping open on a silent groan, his pale lashes fluttering. Ropes of pearly white pulsed across the wet fabric of your stomach, the scent of his pleasure heavy and tangy in the air. He was even more beautiful in his pleasure than you had hoped, and you dared steal a kiss from his mouth while he was catching his breath. 

However the haze of pleasure did not last long and he quickly pulled his mouth again, suddenly horrified, looking down at what he had done to you. “Gods forgive me,” he moaned.

“There is nothing to forgive,” you promised. “I am still intact, still a maid.”

Gwayne pleaded to the Gods for you to be right, ashamed at the way he had just defiled you. You had given him your trust, confiding in him your darkest thoughts, and instead of guiding you towards the light of the Gods, he had pulled you further into sin. “I have soiled you nonetheless,” he lamented.

“We shall plead for forgiveness together, and prayer will make me clean again,” you vowed, even though deep inside, you knew the delightful, sinful truth—now that he had had a taste of the forbidden, you were certain he would come back, yearning for another.

A/N: This story is based on this post by @onceuponnightmares. I'm sorry it took me so long to finish it, thank you for allowing me to write something based on your idea!

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— tags/warnings: virgin!reader, dark!Gwayne, 1950s AU, Hightower Incest (uncle/niece), church sex, dubcon, age gap (older man/younger woman), 36 x 16, public sex, vaginal fingering, forced orgasm, corruption kink, religious conflict, Otto is a pastor, mention of Helaena and Jacaerys being married but they aren't blood related, bittersweet ending, porn with a little bit of plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

❥ welcome to the day 19 of my Kinktober 2025 💕💕 sorry for posting this fic so late, i haven't been feeling very well, both physically and emotionally :(

❥ if you are a religious person, please be careful when reading this one-shot. i'm not trying to offend anyone, it's just fiction.

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Kinktober 2025 masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

When Gwayne Hightower decided to visit his sister to celebrate his youngest niblings's birthday, he planned to stay only a few days there and return to the big city as soon as possible.

Countryside life bored him a lot: the same people, the same faces, the same women… There had been almost nothing new in that neighborhood since he moved away two years after the end of World War II. It was still the same quiet place where he had been born and raised for most of his life, full of stupid Christian neighbors believing in a divine being that did not exist.

Now thirty-six, Gwayne realized that nothing much had changed. And even though he just wanted to see his sister and niblings again and leave quickly, he found himself wishing time would pass slower. Which was surprising in itself, especially considering the reason behind such sudden wishes: his little niece.

The last time Gwayne had seen you, you were still a ten-year-old girl who liked to be pampered and to play secretly with your brother Aemond's Army Men little toys. Gwayne enjoyed spending time with you, just as he did with Daeron, being like a father figure to you and your twin brother. However, being back to his hometown and meeting his family again after so long away, Gwayne realized it was worth staying there for a few more months, even if it meant having to attend his father's stupid church on Sundays. Anything for the chance to spend time with his innocent little niece, who was gradually succumbing to his charms.

There, sitting in the last row of pews on the right side of the small religious building, he watched the other church members, all of them focused on the preacher's wise words — or rather, those hypocritical, meaningless words. Everyone was in a deep silent, their expressions serene, nodding with each sentence, projecting their own recent thoughts or experiences onto the main content of the sermon, even though whatever was being said was nothing more than pretty words rehearsed to make people increasingly touched by the religion that was imposed on them without realizing it.

No one around seemed to notice what was happening between the man and his niece, the two of you sitting in the pew from the last row — although both the right and left were empty, with no people on the sides, due to the morning rain making it difficult for some people to attend there that Sunday —, acting as if nothing was wrong. Acting as if being fingered by your own uncle in a sacred place was not the most sinful behavior in the whole world.

"My father would be furious if he knew his sweet granddaughter was not paying attention to his false God today. You know that, do not you, dollface?" Gwayne whispered softly, just for you to hear, the breath tickling the back of your neck.

He had been like that for over ten minutes: one hand busy, focused on finding a pace that you would like so much that it would be even harder for you to contain any moan.

Gwayne alternated between circling your clit, pressing the fingers hard against that swollen bud, then lowering his ministrations to the entrance that seemed too small to be easily stimulated.

During his thirty-six years of life, Gwayne could not be considered the most noble man in the world at all. His share of flirting had been quite high before the war, and although he was no longer that promiscuous since the end of the war, it still was not enough to make him truly consider wanting a marriage lifestyle.

Therefore, he knew very well how to please women, especially when it came to young girls, whether they were those who wanted to get his attention, because they liked the idea of fucking with an older man, or those young girls who were virgins and naive, with no knowledge of sex, as pure as nuns. You fitted into the latter.

"Uncleee…" You whimpered, failing to close your legs around his wrist in an attempt to stop his touches. "P-Please, do not… It's wrong."

Gwayne did not seem fazed by those childlike noises that escaped your lips, nor by the way you pronounced the last part of the sentence, sounding so fragile, all of that while the tip of his middle finger had just been put inside your core.

Your velvety walls welcomed him, wetter than he had imagined they would be. You could feel the initial resistance, tightening around Gwayne's digit as he pushed it all the way in, then putting the ring finger inside too.

The soft moan that escaped your lips almost echoed loudly, so you quickly brought the back of your hand to your mouth, biting down on it to control any further moans that could come out. You wanted to beg Gwayne to stop, tell him you did not understand why he was doing that, call your grandfather for help, and immediately beg God for mercy. However, the idea of exposing Gwayne seemed absurd. You could not do such a thing.

Otto would disown him, his reputation as the only pastor in that quiet small town would be forever ruined, he would be known also as the father of the man who dared to commit the sin of incest in the very House of the Lord; Alicent would never come near him again, saying it was all due to his lack of faith, that her brother's soul was damned since he rejected their religion and he was now contaminating her little daughter's soul as well; Daeron would be utterly disappointed with his uncle, because he adored him before, so he would never want to see Gwayne again after that; Aemond would surely want — and try — to kill him, his mind still a bit insane since the end of the war and the loss of his eye on the battlefield; Aegon, despite not having a very strong fraternal bond with you, he would wanted to do the same things as Aemond, but he was even more impulsive than his younger brother; even the sweet Helaena, who was married to Jacaerys Velaryon — son of Alicent’s childhood friend —, would have resented those disgusting actions taken by her uncle and her younger sister.

You could not let that happen to your dear uncle. Gwayne was one of your favorite people in the entire world. His absence for those six years was something that often saddened you, and having him back should have been a wonderful thing. You never thought all that affection he felt for you in the past would turn into something so wrong, so sinful.

Not even Gwayne himself planned on letting things escalate so quickly. Taking you to church that morning without the rest of your family must have been tedious for him. His sister and other niblings had not been able to go to the church because of the rain, so he was the better alternative. You could not just stay there with Otto the whole time, he always arrived early to prepare everything and also left well after everyone else. That situation would have been like a torture for him if he were in his right mind, having to listen about God's forgiveness, love of neighbour, as well as all the other Christian meaningless preaching his father had forced him to listen to since childhood.

Unlike how wearied he felt during most of the sermons he used to witness in the past, Gwayne felt more involved than ever in that moment, fingerfucking his niece's virgin cunt. "Mmm, looks like you're nearly cumming. Sooner than I expected." He whispered like a purr, his gaze darting to Otto while he was preaching with the greatest ease in the world, the other church members watching him, all too focused to notice what was happening. Then his gaze shifted to you again, roaming over the buttery yellow linen dress, the one Helaena had sewn for you on your and Daeron's birthday.

His long fingers thrust in and out with a pace faster than you could handle, your eyes widening every time they hit the back of your core. You kept trying to close your legs, but you could not help but keep holding the hem of your dress still up, making it easier for Gwayne to do whatever he wanted.

He knows he should have been checking to make sure no one was watching, but Gwayne let himself be carried away by lust, humming as he appreciated the low, muffled whimpers you let out, smirking when his ears also caught the almost imperceptible sound of the wetness of your folds each time he began to quicken the pace of his ministrations. "It's alright, dollface. You can handle it."

You let out a broken sob, legs starting to tremble as you felt a strange sensation in the pit of the stomach, the same one you experienced every time you fell asleep hugging one of your pillows and woke up rubbing against it, feeling so shocked and disgusted with yourself that you immediately stopped those perversions, searching for the Holy Bible on the nightstand so you could confess your sins to God before trying to fall back asleep.

This time, however, there was not much you could do. The Holy Bible was lying beside Gwayne, far enough that you did not even consider reaching for it. Instead, you stared at your uncle with wide, tear-filled eyes, your body trembling, nearly slipping off the pew.

You could feel something coming. Gwayne's fingers began thrusting harder, having no mercy anymore. The faster and rougher he became, the more desperate you felt, like a porcelain doll made for his own personal entertainment.

"O-Oh... Oh, Lord!" Your eyes rolled back in your head as you felt the last thrust hit perfectly the right spot, your lips parting in a silent cry, the first orgasm of your life making you come undone wildly.

Gwayne had to suppress his own gasp at the feeling of your little cunt tightening around his two fingers. "Fuck, dollface. You feel so good…" He whispered with a soft voice, taking his hand out of your baby blue knickers, watching every second of your high: the way your spasms remained, the way your chest rose and fell, the tears flowing freely…

If Gwayne were a religious man, he would feel disgusted with himself, confess the truth to his family, beg for forgiveness before the Lord, even though he knew nothing would change what had happened there.

I grow tense as flails his hand around.

"I have done nothing but exact your cumbersome and frivolous commands with patience!" He snaps, "and now that I've met my limit yet you have the gall to ask me if I am being serious!?!"

Gwayne's eyes are wide and clearer than the skies. His pointed stare is piercing and I cannot deflect it as he speaks to me of my unreasonableness. Admittedly, my requests were some meant to annoy him, but I did not expect him to act so acridly. I mean, surely he was accustomed to it by now. Was I truly becoming too much to bear for him?

His face is flushed with rage. I stare at him, unable to speak, for in truth I did not know how to meet his apparently genuine frustration.

"Oh," he scoffs, chuckles bubbling out his throat, "she does not speak, for there is nothing else true to say." He grips the carriage door, "what? Have you realized you do work me worse than your own employed servants? That you ask of me more than what I am required of?"

"But it is my right!" I pipe up, though my voice is still small, "you must accompany me wherever I so wander."

Gwayne's jaw feathers, "I am tasked to protect you from peril and to prevent you from doing the unwise," he steps back, "not to carry your clothes and hang them in your wardrobes!"

I stare at him, dread building in my stomach.

"What?!" he quips, "do you truly not see the brunt of my frustrations?"

"... I do not think it unreasonable to-" I gaps when he closes the door with unnecessary force before storming away.

In truth, the gesture was harsher than it needed to be and bothers me more than it should. There is a tightness to my chest as I slowly open the door and watch the man so readily forsake me. Against myself, my eyes begin to prick with tears.

"Gw-" I shut my mouth at the sound of my voice breaking. I chew my lower lip and take deep breaths to calm myself.

I did not mean to make him cross— not like that. I feel my throat tighten as I replay what just happened. Guilt eats at me more each second and soon salt cascades down my cheeks. I sit there until the coachman knocks and asks if we should away. I dismiss him and tell him I will stay here for a little while.

I don't. It feels like an hour passed of me trying not to cry, crying, and calming myself. I start when someone knocks on my carriage door.

"My Lady Lannister?" a deep voice speaks, making me wipe my face in a panic.

I try to stifle my sniffle and use my skirt to dry my tears.

"Tis Ser Harwin Strong. You cannot leave your carriage here."

I clear my throat, but my voice still betrays me with a crack, "ap-ologies. I will have it m-" but my coachman is not here. I sigh and stare at my lap. My lips wobble as helplessness creeps up on me.

A prolonged moment of silence ensues before the man outside speaks again, "my lady... are you well?"

I huff and concede to simply opening the door.

I wipe my philtrum on my sleeve and feel twice as dreadful as I see the dark haired and bearded man outside my carriage. He is a beauty. His blue eyes narrow in concern, "my lady."

I shake my head and gather my skirts.

He instinctively reaches out a hand to me and assists me as I exit my ride. Once I am stood before him, I realize just how tall and broad he is. His brows tighten as he releases my hand. I offer him a smile, "I beg your pardon for the inconvenience. I do not have anyone to move the carriage."

Ser Harwin shakes his head, "one of the stable boys can move it." He turns over his shoulder and hollers for someone to do just that. A boy approaches us, nodding politely before climbing up the driver's seat to do what was instructed of him.

My stomach rolls when the towering man looks back at me. His demeanor is starkly juxtaposed to his stature. He ghosts a hand on my shoulder and raises an arm. He leads me off to the side and speaks softly, "is there anything I can assist you with, my lady?"

I shake my head, "I am well."

He nods and clutches his hands once we find ourselves standing just by the entrance of the Keep, "forgive me, but as a guard of the City Watch, it is my duty to uphold justice. I cannot stand idle in the face of trickery."

My brows quirk at his words. I tilt my head, "do you call me a liar, ser?"

"Yes," he answers simply.

My lips part as his brazen admission.

"True, it is not uncommon for one to weep with joy, but I recognize the distress laid upon your brow," he shakes his head, "would it not be simpler for you to say you require nothing of me than to pretend you are well?"

His words make me choke. I feel my eyes begin to fog with tears.

Ser Harwin's face falls. He raises his hands, "forgive me. I only meant-"

"No," I mumble, "you are right. I injure myself! I speak before I think and create inconveniences for entertainment." I scratch my tears away before they can fall. I look up to the man, feeling dread bite at me. I resist my instinct to slip further into my emotions and try to speak as evenly as possible, "the truth is... I had a... disagreement with my ward... we always get into disagreements, but... this time it was visceral."

The man shifts on his leg, "might I ask what the disagreement was over?"

"He says I work him like a dog, that I ask much more than what he ought to do," I sniffle, "and... perhaps it is true," I evade his gaze by turning to the sky. My lips quiver, "but I did not realize my presence was so heavily insufferable." I look back at him, "I am easy on the eyes, am I not?"

The man chuckles softly, "your features are quite comely indeed, Lady Lannister."

I nod once, "that is the only correct response, ser."

A rich chuckle fills the space between us. He hums and raises a hand, "have you expressed your orders were mere reasons to keep his company?"

My expression drops at his words. I laugh but it goes dry when I realize he spoke no jest. "Ser, my ward is Gwayne Hightower. He loathes me just as I loathe him."

"And do you normally weep for your enemies?" he tilts his head.

"I weep because he regards me so cruelly!" I snap in defense, "it is most twisted for one as he to raise his voice and show aggression to one such as I!"

Ser Harwin sighs.

I wipe my philtrum, feeling my body tremble with a mix of emotions.

"What was this errand you needed to be chaperoned to?"

I gulp as I bring my hands to my hips. I debate the sincerity of his words and decide he does not have the face of a man who would use my words against me. I huff, "the tailor's. I was to have a new dress made for me for-"

His brows quirk at my abrupt halt.

I feel blood rush up my neck, but I decide to ignore it and speak with as much scorn as I could muster, "Gwayne's nameday celebration."

I observe him carefully, ready to pounce and pound him if he so wishes to berate me for the honest admission. In truth, I am taken aback by the curtness of his reply. He nods and offers me an arm, "if it pleases you, I can accompany you to the tailor myself. I have finished my patrol and have nothing better to do."

My eyes dart from the curls framing his face to his meaty arm. My lips part as I find the words to say, "would you... rather not rest for the day?"

"My honor would not allow me after beholding a lady in her distress."

I stare at his arm for a few seconds and cautiously take it.

A good while passed until Gwayne returned to the stables to find his irritating lady. When he sees the Lannister carriage parked, he sighs and marches over, preparing himself to meet the rage of the woman that was still sitting inside in protest.

"Will you sleep-" he starts but stops when he opens the door to nothing. He raises a brow and closes the door. His attention falls on the passing servant, "you. Where is the lady of this carriage?"

The man looks at him then the carriage.

"Lady Lannister," Gwayne clarrifies.

He perks in recognition, "the lady Lannister and ser Strong headed to the tailor on horseback."

"On horseback," the knight scoffs in disbelief, "Lady Lannister?" his voice fades into a laugh. And he so enjoys himself laughing for a moment before sighing, "why, I applaud the good ser for his powers of persuasion."

Upon realizing that he no longer needed to be here, Gwayne grins and nods at him, "thank you my good man. Your news has made my day."

With that he walks off and heads to his quarters.

The next day, Gwayne has a spring to his step as he heads down the hall.

I am in the middle of having my hair fixed when I hear a knock on my door. I look at the reflection from the mirror before me, "come in."

I behold Gwayne and his grin as he struts towards my bed. He leaps into it, landing on his chest. He instructs one of my servants to get him a cup of wine. Each of these things would normally be cause to chew him up; all of these combined would make me unleash upon him the wrath due to his impertinence, and yet, I find myself uncaring of his blatant misbehavior. I merely instruct my servant to fetch the sapphire necklace that match my velvet dress and sit tight by my vanity.

Gwayne takes the wine that is served to him and sips before speaking out, "I hear Lord Harwin Strong was he who accompanied you to town yesterday."

I ignore him in lieu of twirling the baby hairs by my ears.

"And on horseback, no less," he takes another sip, "how ever did he get you to ride a horse by yourself?"

"I didn't," I turn to my servant who returns with my jewels, "we rode on the same horse."

Gwayne stills. He scrunches his face at the cup in his hand then looks at me, "what?"

I smile at myself on the mirror as the necklaces is clasped around my neck. I adjust the blue stone that sparkled between my collarbones and admire the look of it.

He sits up from the bed, careful not to spill his drink, "you rode the same horse?"

"Of course we rode the same horse," I roll my eyes, "he is not a fool who expects me to enjoy such sport."

The red haired man raises his brows. He waits for me to expound further, but finds I am distracted by my reflection. He scoffs, sipping again more before saying, "I pity the steed."

I grin at myself, pleased with my image.

"I pity the steed," he repeats, "that had to carry a knight, a brat, and her hundred dresses."

My eyes dart to him. He is already looking at me from the mirror. "He did not ride with me on the way back. He is not cruel like you."

"So he walked?" his forehead curls, "and on the way back, no less." He scoffs once more before drinking again, "well, the tailor is not that far."

I inspect my attire one last time before standing and heading to the bed. Gwayne lifts his eyes; the corner of his lips soon follow. He shifts on his spot and drinks deeply.

"You are dismissed, Hightower."

He licks his lips as his brows furrow, "what?"

I tilt my head and clasp my hands together, "you do so love making sport of me repeating myself."

Gwayne pulls his head back before standing. He lifts his nearly empty cup, "are you saying you— you have no plans for the day?" He purses his lips, "no errands you wish to force upon my being."

I clench my teeth but manage to pull a smile. Gwayne finds such endearment in the forced grins, not that he would ever admit so. I nod in agreement.

"So," he holds his cup with both hands, "I am free to do what I will for the day."

"Even more so to do it as far away from me as possible," I raise my hands before walking towards him to push him out of my room.

The man chuckles as he finishes what is left of his wine. He manages to hand the empty cup to one of the servants just before we both step out of the room. He licks his lips and tilts his head at me.

The smile that spreads on his face makes my stomach roll and I combat it with a glare, "do not wait on me. I will be promenading with a friend."

"Promenade?" he chuckles. The lines on his cheek remain as he raises his brow. He looks me once over, eyes lingering on the sapphire on my décolletage, "and pray tell, who in the Keep has merited the friendship of someone so high-nosed as you?"

"Ser Harwin Strong."

His grin falters.

I do not care to wonder why as I walk off and meet the man I named in the gardens as we had arranged.

Gwayne watches. He is left alone in the corridor. He chuckles to himself and heads off to the library to unwind. The closer he inched to his destination however, the more sour the taste in his mouth became. Before he even comes near the library, he finds himself marching off to look for gods knows what he'll find.

And it seems the gods do want him to find the source of his sourness. As he marched down one stairwell, he heard an unmistakable sound of laughter that made his ears perk. He heads to the hall and looks out the window.

There, he sees a man stood in front of a woman sat upon a bench, both of them giggling and both of them in blue. His eye twitches as the dark haired fool carelessly picks a flower from a bush and offers it to her.

Gwayne finds no relief when she does not take it, for instead it seems she instructed him to place the flower on the side of her hair.

"Ha," he scoffs, pulling away from the window, "promenade, says she? Ha!" Gwayne shakes his head as his feet take him back towards the library, "neither of them are walking. HA!"

Your noble husband was the picture of gallantry, never a single word out of his mouth that could be considered impolite, a perfect prince charming. He was a handsome man, tall and lean, his hair the color of autumn leaves, and a smile that made your knees weak.

All that knew him, adored his kind heart and effortless wit. He had a way with people, he was a people pleaser through and through. It was hard not to fall in love with him.

But he held a secret, that only you were privy to. One that only came out when the door to your shared chambers was locked and you were alone together.

So, it surprised you when this secret side of him came swimming to the surface on a warm summer's day. When the two of you were taking a picnic out by the waterfall near his family home.

He was laying back, a glass of wine in his hand, watching the way your gown floated around your hips as you walked along the edge of the water. You were humming a little tune to yourself, a smile on your face as you admired the view, the sunlight glistening off the rushing water.

You had turned your attention to him, catching him staring at you. Your lips pursed and he chuckled, raising his glass in greeting.

You laughed and made your way back to him, plopping down on the blanket.

"You look absolutely beautiful my darling," he sighed, a hazy look in his eyes.

"And you're drunk," you replied playfully, reaching for his glass, and taking a sip.

"Nonsense, I've only had a few," he teased, leaning over and kissing your cheek.

His hand had moved up your thigh, slowly pushing the fabric of your gown up. You gasped and looked at him, a wicked grin on his lips.

"Sweet husband, what are you doing?" you asked, though your voice was breathless.

"I'm having dessert, before my meal," he purred.

"But... Someone could see," you whispered, the thought making your pulse race.

"I'll have them executed for such an affront," he joked, and you rolled your eyes.

He pushed you back onto the blanket, moving between your legs and continuing his journey, kissing the soft skin of your thighs.

"I love how soft you are, it makes me want to eat you alive," he teased, nipping at your thigh.

You giggled and lifted your skirts up for him, allowing him to push them over your hips. He licked his lips and hooked your legs over his shoulders, diving in without a second thought.

You gasped and grabbed ahold of his hair, arching your back at the feel of his tongue sliding against you. The seven had truly blessed him with a talent for this, a skillful tongue, and the knowledge of exactly how to drive you mad.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, a loud moan leaving your lips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs, keeping them firmly in place while he devoured you.

He didn't care that anyone could see or hear you, the waterfall was loud, and no one would dare come close enough to catch a glimpse of a Hightower eating his lady out in the daylight.

He lapped at you eagerly, his fingers working inside you, his nose pressing against the sensitive bud. He would be more than happy to die this way, losing his breath in service of his wife.

You whimpered and moaned, writhing under him, the pleasure almost too much to bear. It was like a fire, building in your belly, making you feel as though you would burn from the inside out.

Your back arched, toes curling, the rush of your climax hitting you, the waves washing over you as your eyes slammed shut, the sun burning the back of your eyelids.

He didn't stop, continuing his assault, forcing the pleasure to build again, his fingers stroking the spot that drove you wild, his tongue lapping up all the wetness.

Your hand tightened in his hair, the other fisting the blanket. You were shaking, panting, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Slow down, d-dear husband," you gasped, your hips jerking away from his mouth.

"Nooo, I think you can handle a bit more," he murmured, and pulled you closer, holding you in place.

He continued to suck and lick at you, burying his nose deep within the soft curls at your apex, the tip of his tongue teasing that sensitive bundle that sent your mind reeling.

You felt a scream bubble up, and you threw your hand over your mouth, trying to stay quiet. He loved it, hearing you like this, seeing you writhe under him, lost in the throes of passion, his doing.

His goal was for you to reach bliss at least four times, his record being five, but he decided today would be the day he would break it.

Your hand fisted the blanket again, so tight that your knuckles were turning white, your body was aching and exhausted, and yet he continued.

The third orgasm hit, and he groaned, lapping up your essence eagerly. Your scent was better than any wine, the taste of you a delicacy reserved just for him.

He wanted to drown in you, never let go, keep you in his mouth forever. The sounds that were leaving your lips were a gift from all the gods, your body the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

A fourth and fifth orgasm hit, back to back, leaving you screaming and sobbing. Your body was aching, trembling, and yet he kept going, his eyes glued to your face, watching you cry and whimper.

The sixth came quickly after, your thighs shaking, clamping down around his ears.

"Please, p-please Gwayne, I c-can't... no more..." you sobbed.

"You taste so sweet, just a little more, come on my love" he encouraged.

He didn't slow, instead, he picked up the pace, his hands sliding under you and gripping your ass, pulling you flush against his mouth.

You cried out, your hands fisting the blanket as the seventh crashed over you. You screamed, the sound echoing around the clearing, bouncing off the water and rocks. Your thighs shook violently, thrashing in his hold, your body aching, the pleasure overwhelming.

Gwayne finally slowed, helping you through it, licking gently, drawing it out as long as he could. He knew you would probably pass out if he kept going, and though it was tempting, he didn't want to risk it. Besides, seven was a good number, a holy number, and he was always one for tradition.

Reluctantly he pulled away, your pussy swollen and pink, still pulsing from the aftershocks. He leaned in, unable to resist one more taste, giving you a slow, loving lick before leaning back and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"I think I might faint,” you gasped, closing your eyes, still twitching.

"Not a bad way to go, is it?" he chuckled, crawling up next to you and pulling you into his arms.

"I hope you're prepared to carry me back to the castle," you muttered, your limbs still too weak to move.

"With pleasure, my love"