#gwayne x reader

daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.

daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.

he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.

"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.

gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.

"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.

"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.

"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.

"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.

"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.

He corresponded with you via raven weeks before your wedding day. In your letters, he found you were friendly, a little erratic in your sentence structure, but prompt in your replies. He wrote to assure you that he intended to give you a good life as Lady Hightower. You would be well cared for in Oldtown; the Reach would offer a climate that you would find very enjoyable. He promised that he would not rush you into marriage consummation, or sharing a marital bed, since you were only meeting for the first time on your wedding day. He wanted to make sure you were comfortable in your new life, as he could hardly imagine being in your shoes. He hoped you were pretty, or at least kind, but did not let himself hope for much. Marriage was duty, nothing more.

Standing at the alter in the Starry Sept, Gwayne mentally cursed and kicked himself a thousand times over. When he lifted your veil, he was met with the most dazzling girl he'd ever seen. Your bright eyes shone under the candlelight, the air around you seemed to sparkle, aided by the twinkling jewels pinned in your hair. Your mouth quipped into a half, nervous smile, that made is knees turn to jelly. He could tell you were accessing him back, brow furrowed in concentration. The crinkle that formed between your eyebrows was downright adorable. And with your wide eyes blinking up at him, you reminded him of a deer wandering a forest. When the Septon asked Gwayne to repeat the sacred words And I take you for my lady and wife, his mouth felt impossibly dry and disconnected from his body. He tore his eyes away from you, to look at the Septon instead, so he could concentrate. "And I t-take you for my lady and w-wife" Maybe he had been wrong about marriage before.

Honor? Duty? Where did it get him? Now, it seemed like those things, once upheld in his family's name, had doomed him. Gwayne had already put you at an arm's length by telling you that he did not expect you to share his bed. So all he could do was be a kind, doting husband, hoping that eventually you would feel comfortable enough to desire him the way he already did.

Gwayne observed you and helped you as you settled into life at the Oldtown. You were acclimating well, greeting everyone you met with a warm smile. You made an effort to learn each servant's name, offering genuine compliments on their work. Gwayne decided that he adored your smile, and you were as beautiful as the Mother, herself. Before he met you, he had faintly hoped that you were beautiful. But now, he wasn't sure if your beauty was a blessing to his eyes, or a curse that he had suffer to look upon you at a respectful distance. You were practically skipping through the corridors. Gwyane noticed you always moved so quickly, never simply walking, always seeming to be in a hurry to get to the next place. Suddenly, the ribbon tying your hair back slipped free and onto the floor. You bent down to pick up the ribbon, the fabric of your dress straining against the swell of your breasts. He’d always thought that a woman’s thighs were the asset he favored the most. But when he noticed the curve of your breasts, he wanted nothing more than to squeeze them, knead them, commit the softness to memory. Your nimble fingers twirled the ribbon, hands so petite and pretty. Perhaps one day they would intertwine with his? He could hold your hand and guide it along his cock, showing you how to stroke it and-

Then you were gone. Scurrying away and out of sight. Only the aroma of your rose scented soap was left for him to bask in, and replay over and over the time he had written that you were not expected to share his bed, and hate himself for it.

The day you came into his solar to show him your new dress, a part of him died inside. He was scribbling a letter to his father when you entered. When he looked up at the disturbance and saw it was you, he stood up so fast he almost sent his chair falling backwards. "My dear wife. What do I owe this pleasure?"

"So formal" you tease, your twinkling laugh lighting up the dim room "I just came to show you this!" You hold out your arms to display your attire, causing Gwayne's breath to hitch in his throat. You were wearing a rich green gown, with gold beading and embroidery all down the length. The design curled around your hips and torso, clinging to all your curves. The candlelight reflected off the gold shimmer, making you look like an angel dripping in Hightower colors.

"Do you like it?" You step closer to Gwayne, always on tip toe, and quickly, like a graceful doe. “Do I look comely?”

Your husband chokes on the words, watching you move closer to him- closer to his grasp. You are so near, he can count each if your eyelashes. “Come-? Comely?” Gwayne’s ears burn red at his misunderstanding. A feeble cough, then he manages to speak. “Yes. Very.”

"The seamstresses fastened the dress itself, but I did most of the embroidery work. See?"

Tentatively, he reaches out to graze his fingers over your hard work. He brushes the gold embroidery at your hip. You're babbling about the time that it look, and the technique you practiced, but Gwayne is zoning out. Only focusing on the warmth of your skin he can feel under the velvet. Your backside, that he had admittedly gawked at whenever you walked in front of him, was under his hand, splayed over your hip.

Your voice fades into the background as his hand, on it's own accord, moves up to your elbow, your shoulder, then brushes against the ends of your hair ever so slightly. It was so much softer than he thought possible. And when he brushes the tips of your hair, the smell of your rose soap wafts up to his nostrils. He watches in anticipation as his hand, seemingly pulled by an invisible force, moves to rest on the small of your back. You do not falter or pull away. In fact, you don't react at all. You just continue smiling, talking about your dress. Then you hold up the fabric of your skirt.

"Here, feel." You instruct, and Gwayne tentatively runs his hand over the gold beads. "I stayed up half the night to finish it. But I think it's worth the trouble." You laugh softly. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful." He swallows, and meets your eye. "Like you."

Playfully, you roll your huge, doe eyes and there it is again - that laugh that makes his heart flip inside his chest cavity. Your lips brush his cheek so quickly, he thought he might have imagined it. But it was real. You kissed him. The dampness of your lips leave the irrefutable proof on his skin. Just as soon as you entered, you are moving away, towards the door, and out of his reach. "I think I will lay down to rest now. I am weary after staying up so late."

Gwayne must be unwell. He must see a maester. He feels unsteady on his feet and his heartbeat pounds mercilessly in his ears. Because after you leave his solar, his legs jerkily pull his body towards the door. You're fast. Much more agile than a young lady should be. Because you're leagues ahead of him, already out of sight down the castle corridors. He walks in a trance, following the trail of rose, stumbling after you. His cock jerks in his pants, half hard simply from touching you and the green fabric of your damned dress. Feverishly, his skin burns hot under his clothes. You're ill, you're reverting back to being a green boy, he tells himself. He wills himself to gain some sense, and stop following you like a lunatic, but his legs still carry him the way to your bed chambers.

When he arrives at your chambers, he enters without ceremony. He falls against the door and stumbles inside. It looks like you are getting ready to leave, having changed into a simple grey dress, and clutching your prayer book with a startled look on your face.

“Gwayne? Are you alright?” You ask, concerned for your husband’s current state- looking dazed in the middle of your bedchambers.

He does not answer your question. “I thought you were going to lie down and rest.” He blurts.

You were supposed to be getting ready to rest, he thinks, wearing your soft nightgown that I know you own because I've seen the servants filling your closet with clothes before you moved here. And you're supposed to be rubbing your eyes, sleepy and soft. I know you get like that when you're tired because once we dined together early in the morning. And I adored how you looked, one foot still in slumber, the other in wakefulness.

You smile, helpful, but so infuriatingly oblivious to his torment. “I was, yes, but then I remembered I am meeting the Septons this afternoon. We are discussing aid for the poor.” A pause. “Are you alright?” you ask again.

A broken sound emanates from your husband. A mixture of a groan and whine. He falls to his knees in front of you, hands clambering, pulling at your skirt. Gwayne knows he is a knight of the realm, but in this moment he does not care. He is a beggar at your feet. “Sweet girl. My sweet wife, please. Please do not leave.” His fingers fist tighter on your skirt.

Oof. You grunt, tugged off balance by your imploring husband. “I must go. I am new to my duties as Lady Hightower. And I can’t be seen shirking them so soon.” You rake your fingers through his auburn hair, as he presses his face firmly into the junction of your thighs. Gwayne’s hands have lost all restraint, pawing at your arse, tugging your cunt even closer into his face. With every trace of your fingers through his hair, his cock grows stiffer, straining uncomfortably into his pants. This surprises him, the reaction to your touch in his hair. All these new discoveries, particularly the unlimited bounds of his yearning, has his mind reeling.

You sigh. "By the seven, I really am late." You thread your fingers at the top of his head, and pull his gaze up to meet yours. "Oh Gwayne, what am I going to do with you?"

He strains, gazing up at you with watery eyes, "Oh dove, I-"

Footsteps cascading across the library's wooden floorboards drew your gaze up. They were in a pattern of approach towards the daybed you lay on, positioned in such a way so that the sun hit you and the book resting on the skirts of your lap with its warm afternoon rays. Your attention was now away from the inked words littering the pages of the book and focused on something entirely different.

Gwayne.

Your bethrothed.

You feel the flesh of your cheeks warm as your lips unconsciously shift into a meagre, almost timid smile at the sight of him and his advance. It was young love, you supposed. Youth was said to be full of such things; intimacy and affection bound by raw, inexperienced optimism and hope. Your mother had always said such things, yet her tone was derived from regret and affliction with all her years instead of the fantastical longing one would expect. Near Gwayne, you couldn't fathom ever feeling the way your mother felt about your father.

Gwayne stops before you, a small bundle resting in his calloused grip, a chivalrous smile gracing his lips as he offers a nod of greeting. "My lady," he begins, formality raveled in an almost boyish excitement he tried to cover wth poise and etiquette. He sits across from you on the daybed that mirrors your own, a small wooden table placed like a marker between the two pieces of furniture.

You fold the book resting in your lap over, the two sides of the book coming together with a muffled thump, before you move it away from you, placing it on the softness of the cushioned seat like a relic, which it most definitely was. "Ser Gwayne," you nod back, hands clasping together in your lap as you face him, gaze faltering now and then for reasons that could only be described as nerves. You had been in Oldtown for almost half a moon now, but it all still felt undoubtedly new and uncharted.

His gaze lowers for a few moments, smile deepening with lighthearted amusement. He adjusts his posture on the seat, leaning forward slightly as he speaks, "Here," he begins, outstretched his hands and placing the neatly wrapped bundle on the table. Your gaze lowers with them before following his hand and returning to look at him as he continues, his voice low to avoid disturbing the peace of the Hightower library.

"A merchant from Lys was selling them. I thought you might like them." He hums, his hand moving slightly as he talks, as though he were annotating his statements. His gaze stays on you, hopeful and observant as your expression shifts to one of gleeful surprise. Your lips part in a statement before you can think of and articulate what you wish to say, "I-….I…Gwayne, I thank you. Truly." You say, the smile that remained dancing across your lips unrelenting and growing with each passing second.

Merchants were common on the streets of Oldtown; people from all of Westoros, the Free Cities, and across the seas set up stalls along the streets and harbour, specialties and knick-knacks lined around them as they called out to passersby for business. It now made sense why Gwayne had been gone for most of the morning; it seemed easy to find yourself occupied and entertained by the wide range of items and curiosities from all over huddled into a few streets and ports.

Your hands stretched out to the bundle, which was wrapped in a vibrant orange cloth and tied with a string, riddled with bumps from the objects inside. You hold it gently in your grasp, the soft sound of glass clinking together arising as you pick it up, untying the bow of string to reveal the item. Now in your hand lies an array of oils in glass vials, detailed with intricate designs and titles. You move the opened bundle to rest in your lap, bringing one of the vials upwards, uncapping it, and smelling it.

The smell of something flowery, backed by subtle notes of cicrus fill your nose, a gentle hum of delight escaping your lips. You can see Gwayne's form slowly relaxing as you express your joy for the gift, thanking him yet again, smelling the vial in your grasp once more before placing the metal cap back on and placing it with the others. You admire the small vials, all filled with a clear liquid, but varying in hues; some lie with hints of orange or yellow, while some are underlying shades of blue or purple.

Each seemed to be a different scent; clearly, they were not brought as a set, and all were undoubtedly hand-picked. A heavy warmth arises in your chest at the thought of Gwayne, spending time, thinking, and contemplating which oil to get his soon-to-be lady wife, based upon the knowledge he had acquired over the past two weeks together. Your eyes move towards him after admiring the vials for a few moments longer, feeling the material it was wrapped in between the buds of your index finger and thumb.

"You are too kind, Ser Gwayne. You did not have to do this... I do not expect you to do things like this," you say, a statement riddled with reassurance rather than admission. Gwayne watches you for a second longer, lingering on the soft curl of your smile, before shaking his head. "You are to be my wife. I wish to care for my wife," he replies with a subtlety of a nod, his words to be undisturbed, but not by the means of a commander, but by the means of someone genuine and wishful.

Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.

Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.

Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.

He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.

With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.

Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.

“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.

You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.

And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.

Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.

“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.

“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—

“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”

Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.

“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.

He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.

However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.

“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”

One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?

And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.

“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”

You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.

“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”

Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”

You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.

What a fool he was.

He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.

He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.

Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.

“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.

“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”

“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”

“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”

The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.

He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.

“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”

You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”

So he had failed, again. Sigh.

What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?

Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.

Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.

With Criston Cole.

The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.

It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!

A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.

“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”

“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”

What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?

“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.

“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”

He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.

But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.

“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”

The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.

“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”

His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:

“May the best knight win, ser.”

Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”

Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.

You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.

Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?

“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”

That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.

He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.

You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.

Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.

However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.

Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.

Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?

Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.

Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.

The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.

And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.

With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.

Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.

Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.

The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.

“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”

“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.

Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.

Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.

But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—

“Do not touch me,” he rasped.

The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.

. . .

Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.

It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.

He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.

“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”

It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.

He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.

The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.

But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.

So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.

You are in love with him.

You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—

But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.

“Mrawgh...”

“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.

To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.

Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.

Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.

A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.

“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—

“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”

“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”

Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—

From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.

“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”

This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—

His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.

“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”

This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.

Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.

“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”

Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.

Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?

“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”

He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.

When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:

Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?

As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.

You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.

He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.

“Ser Gwayne!”

Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—

But then he heard you sob.

“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.

Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.

He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.

“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”

Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.

As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:

Has she... returned my feelings?

When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.

He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.

Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—

—and pressed your lips to his.

Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.

He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.

“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”

Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.

Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—

His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.

In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.

Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.

He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.

“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”

“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.

“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.

Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.

“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.

“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”

In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.