#ser gwayne

As a Targaryen, you were accustomed to getting your way—or fire and blooding your way through those who stood in your path. Yet, here you were, bound by a political decree to marry Ser Gwayne Hightower. A man whose pristine armour matched his equally pristine, frustratingly smug attitude.

The feeling was entirely mutual. From the moment the betrothal was announced, your interactions consisted of sharp glares, venomous masked insults disguised as courtly pleasantries, and a profound, simmering hatred.

Gwayne Hightower was everything you detested: impeccably groomed, insufferably dutiful, and fiercely loyal to a faction that viewed your family as an existential threat. He thought you a reckless, arrogant dragon; you thought him a rigid, sanctimonious knight.

When your hands were joined before the High Septon in the Great Sept, your skin crawled beneath the heavy silk of your gown, the ceremonial ribbons feeling less like a holy union and more like iron shackles. Later, at the wedding feast, when he leaned in to press an obligatory kiss against your cheek, his lips were ice. His jaw was clenched so tightly you genuinely wondered if his teeth might shatter under the strain of his compliance.

"Try to smile, my lady," Gwayne murmured smoothly through a fixed, public grin. His breath was warm against your ear, a stark contrast to his chilling demeanour, even as the lords of the realm raised their goblets in a roaring toast to your long life together. "The court is watching, and you look as though you've just been served a cup of nightshade."

"I would prefer the nightshade," you shot back, keeping your own smile perfectly, deceptively radiant for the court. "At least it would kill me quickly, rather than boring me to death over a lifetime."

Even once the bedding ceremony was announced, the two of you flatly refused to participate. When the drunken lords and giggling handmaidens finally shoved you both into your marital chambers and barred the heavy oak doors from the outside, the festive atmosphere vanished instantly, replaced by a suffocating silence.

The massive canopy bed sat heavily in the center of the room, lit by dozens of flickering candles. Gwayne stood near the edge of it, his hand hovering awkwardly near the fastenings of his breeches, his green eyes cold and tightly guarded.

You didn't give him the chance to speak.

"If you take that cock out, I will cut it off," you hissed, your voice dropping dangerously as you stood rigidly in your rumpled wedding shift. "I want no part of your seed infecting me."

Gwayne’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in sheer shock before narrowing into slits of pure fury. Slowly, he let his hands drop to his sides, taking a single, step toward you. 

"Infecting you?" he repeated, his voice pitching up at your sheer audacity. The polite, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man whose patience had been stripped entirely raw. "You speak as though my blood is a disease, my lady, when it is your house that carries the plague of madness to the realm.”

He leaned down slightly, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "Rest assured, I have absolutely no desire to plant my seed in a field as barren and venomous as you. You want no part of me? The feeling is entirely mutual. I would rather couple with a pit of vipers."

"Then we are agreed," you spat, refusing to back down an inch, your eyes flashing with Targaryen fire.

You turned on your heel, violently ripping the heavy furs off the mattress and flinging them toward the far corner of the room. “You can take the settee.”

“I will not,” he growled, refusing to be displaced from his own quarters by a defiant dragon. “These are our shared chambers, and I will not sleep on the floor like a dog to appease your arrogance.”

You huffed, climbing onto the mattress and pulling the remaining silks up to your chin. “Then ensure you stay on your side. If any part of you crosses the center line, you will find that part missing by morning.”

Gwayne let out a harsh, dry laugh, watching you adjust the pillows with furious, aggressive movements. "A charming threat for a bride on her wedding night. Truly, the Seven have blessed me with a fortunate match."

He marched over to the opposite side of the bed, ripping off his heavy, embroidered doublet and threw it to the floor, betraying just how deeply you had gotten under his skin. He climbed into the bed fully dressed in his linen undershirt and trousers, turning his back to you.

"Goodnight, wife," he bit out into the darkness.

"Go to the seven hells, husband," you bit back, staring at the canopy above as the candles slowly burned down to ash.

The first weeks of marriage were a silent war of attrition. You occupied opposite sides of the massive chambers assigned to you, speaking only when absolute necessity demanded it. In public, you traded barbed pleasantries; in private, you weaponized a freezing, unyielding silence. But hatred is an exhausting emotion to sustain in isolation. Soon, the cold resentment turned into something far more volatile.

It started innocently enough. Gwayne was down in the training yard, unarmored but sweating through his training shirt as he ran through gruelling sword drills with the City Watch. He was, infuriatingly, a spectacular warrior—fluid, powerful, and possessing a sort of grace that made it impossible to look away. You watched from the shaded gallery above, purposely sitting beside a handsome young knight of the Kingsguard.

You knew Gwayne had noticed you. From below, his jaw clenched as you laughed a little too loudly at a joke the young knight made. Testing the waters, you leaned in closer to the Kingsguard, letting your hand rest conspicuously on his silver armoured forearm.

Below, Gwayne completely missed a parry. His opponent’s blunt training sword struck his shoulder with a heavy, echoing thwack. He didn't even flinch. Instead, his green eyes locked onto yours from across the yard with a burning intensity. The polite facade cracked, replaced by a dark scowl that promised retribution.

Two nights later, at a grand feast hosted by the Queen, Gwayne executed his counter-move. He spent the entire evening in a candlelit alcove, attentively pouring wine for a beautiful, doe-eyed lady-in-waiting from the Reach. He laughed—a genuine, amused sound you had never once heard him utter in your presence—and leaned in close to whisper something that made the maiden blush furiously and swat at his chest.

A sharp, hot spike of irritation flared in your gut. You didn't care for him, you reminded yourself. You hated him. But the sheer audacity of him flaunting another woman in front of the entire court—in front of you—was a direct insult to your Targaryen blood.

You immediately retaliated by inviting a charming stormlander lordling to dance, pressing closer to him than decorum allowed. Across the crowded hall, you caught Gwayne’s gaze. His grip tightened around his silver goblet so fiercely that his knuckles turned stark white.

From that moment on, the silent treatment was replaced by a silent war. Over the next few weeks, the animosity didn't vanish— it simply began to change. the Red Keep became a chessboard of manufactured jealousy.

If Gwayne spent an afternoon openly escorting a beautiful lady of House Tyrell through the godswood, handing her a winter rose with a theatrical bow, you would ensure he saw you the next morning at the tilting grounds. You would be draped over the gallery railing, tying your silk favour around the lance of a dashing young Royce, ensuring you were caught perfectly in the sunlight.

To formal dinners where you knew he would be seated directly across from you, you began wearing gowns with daringly low necklines, only to spend the entire evening conversing exclusively with the eligible lords to your left and right. In response, he would return from the training yards dripping with sweat, purposely unbuttoning his linen shirt to expose the damp line of his chest while recounting, in vivid detail, the flattering compliments paid to him by the highborn maidens in the gardens.

It was madness. It was childish. It was the only time either of you felt truly alive. The original hatred had evaporated, replaced by a thick, suffocating tension that left you both breathless and constantly on edge. You were playing with fire, forgetting that while dragons thrive in the heat, Hightowers were the ones who lit the beacons.

The explosion finally came on a stormy night, deep within the belly of the castle.

You had spent the evening at a private supper, deliberately sitting next to a dashing southern lord who had spent the night praising your beauty. Gwayne had sat directly across from you, acting as a silent, brooding sentinel. His grip remained white-knuckled around his goblet, his entire posture radiating pure, unadulterated malice.

When you finally returned to your shared chambers, the heavy oak door had barely clicked shut before the storm broke inside.

"He was practically drooling into your wine," Gwayne snarled, ripping off his heavy velvet cloak and hurling it onto a chair. The polished, courtly knight was gone; in his place was a man possessed by a seething fury.

"Who, Lord Lannister?” you asked airily, unpinning your heavy collar with practiced indifference, though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs. "I found him delightfully attentive. A refreshing change from the sour company I am usually forced to keep."

"Attentive?" Gwayne strode across the room, his boots thudding ominously against the stone floor. He stopped mere inches from you, looming over you, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. "He was looking at you as if he wanted to tear that gown off your back. And you let him. You smiled at him. You touched his arm."

"And what if I did?" you challenged, tilting your chin up as your Targaryen pride flared to match his rage. "Are you going to forbid me? You, who spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon letting Lady Tarly press her favours into your hand? I saw the way you looked at her, Gwayne. Don't play the wounded husband with me."

"I don't give a damn about Lady Tarly!" Gwayne roared, the sheer volume of his voice making the candles flicker.

"Then why do it?!" you screamed back, finally losing your grip on your composure. The weeks of built-up tension, the longing disguised as spite, the agonizing game—it all came crashing down in a single torrent. "Why look at them? Why smile at them? Why do everything in your power to drive me mad?!"

"Because you were already driving me mad!" Gwayne yelled, reaching out to grab your upper arms. His grip was firm and unyielding, but careful not to hurt you. His green eyes were wild, dilated, searching yours with a desperate sort of need "From the moment we wed, you looked at me like I was dirt beneath your shoe. I wanted to see you look at me. I wanted to see you care! Even if it was anger, even if it was jealousy—I needed to know I could affect you the way you affect me!"

The admission hung heavily in the air, sudden and shocking. The storm outside lashed violently against the stained-glass windows, but inside, the silence was deafening.

"You..." you breathed, your voice instantly losing all its venom, leaving only a raw, exposed vulnerability. "You want to affect me?"

"You have no idea," Gwayne whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, breathless register. His gaze dropped to your lips, his hands trembling slightly where they held your arms. "You sit there, so proud, so beautiful, looking at everyone in this wretched castle but your own husband. It's torture. I hate it. I hate how much I want you."

The last string of your restraint snapped.

You closed the distance between you, fisting your hands into the heavy, embroidered lapels of his doublet and hauling him down into a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn't a gentle kiss, nor was it a surrender; it was a physical extension of the brutal war you two had been waging on for weeks. It was fierce, bruising, and born of a desperate, mutual starvation.

Gwayne let out a low, ragged groan against your mouth. His arms wrapped around your waist like iron bands, lifting you completely off your feet and slamming you back against the heavy, reinforced oak of the chamber door. The impact jolted through your spine, but the pain only fuelled the fire. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, anchoring him to you, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you, your fingers tangling into the thick waves of his auburn hair.

His hands were everywhere now, stripped of all chivalric restraint. They tore at the intricate laces of your gown, bruising the soft skin of your hips, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with a frantic, possessive urgency that demanded a lifetime of retribution for the weeks of forced distance. He kissed you as if he were trying to consume you from the inside out, to brand his name into your very soul, and you answered him with an equal, fiery Valyrian ferocity, biting his lower lip until you tasted the faint, copper tang of blood between you.

"You are mine," Gwayne growled against your throat, his voice a primal promise as his teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, marking you and making you arch into his broad chest with a gasping, breathless sob. "Tell me. Say it."

"I am yours," you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, your heart frantic, your mind finally clear of any future schemes. You pulled his face back up to yours, your eyes flashing with a warning fire. “And you are mine, Gwayne. If you ever look at another woman like that again, I will burn this whole keep to ash."

Gwayne pulled back just enough to look at you, a dark, breathless, utterly ruined smile breaking across his handsome face. The green of his eyes was bright with a dangerous, triumphant fire.

"Let it burn," he whispered against your lips, and carried you to the bed.

Inside the marital chambers, the aftermath of the storm lay scattered across the floor—shredded silk, a discarded doublet, torn laces, and the heavy scent of crushed winter roses and sweat.

When you and Gwayne finally emerged into the outer corridors the following afternoon, the transformation was staggering. The icy distance that had defined your marriage for weeks had vanished, replaced by an atmosphere of mutual possession. You did not walk a step apart as you usually did, maintaining the stiff, courtly boundaries of rival factions. Instead, Gwayne’s large hand was wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown and keeping you flush against his side as if daring the world—or his own family—to try and wedge itself between the two of you.

But it was the physical evidence that truly set the whispers ablaze.

The court of King's Landing was a nest of vipers, trained to notice the slightest shift in a lord's posture or the subtle tear in a lady’s sleeve. Today, they didn't even have to look closely; the signs of your mutual destruction were proudly on display. Gwayne, usually the very picture of immaculate, highborn decorum, wore a high-collared doublet that failed spectacularly to hide the deep, purple bruises blooming high on the side of his neck. The illusion of his pristine nature was shattered further because you had playfully, yet possessively forced him to undo the top two buttons of his attire before leaving your chambers, making the marks impossible to miss. His lower lip was slightly swollen, bearing the faint, dark split from where you had bit him in the heat of your desire.

You fared no better, and you made absolutely no attempt to hide it. You had deliberately chosen a Targaryen-red gown with a wider, daring neckline, exposing the trail of marks and the faint, dark shadows of his handprints on the pale skin of your collarbone and shoulders.

The way you walked, slow and languid, spoke of a physical exhaustion that had absolutely nothing to do with sleep. Every lord, lady, and sycophant you passed in the gallery looked, widened their eyes in sheer shock, and quickly looked away under Gwayne's fiercely protective, lethal glare. The court was accustomed to seeing the two of you trade icy daggers with your eyes; they were entirely unprepared for the unified defiance that now radiated from your joined forms.

As you neared the small council chamber, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadow of a carved archway. It was Lady Tarly. She was dressed in a gown of soft, maidenly blue, holding a small silk handkerchief she had undoubtedly intended to offer Gwayne as a favour for the upcoming afternoon drills. Her face was bright with a practiced, flirtatious smile—a smile that died the absolute second her eyes landed on your husband.

Lady Tarly’s hands flew to her mouth, the blue silk fluttering uselessly between her trembling fingers. Her wide eyes darted from the deep, unmistakable bruise on Gwayne’s neck to his swollen, split lip, her expression a mix of genuine horror and mounting panic. To an outside observer unversed in the language of the flesh, he looked as if a wild animal had savaged him in the dark, and she looked as though she were about to call for a maester, the City Watch, or the Kingsguard itself.

She gasped in shock, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Ser Gwayne, by the Mother... what happened? Are you alright? Who did this to you?”

Before Gwayne could even open his mouth to offer a courtly redirection, you stepped forward, tightening your grip on his bicep. The heavy fabric of his sleeve bunched under your fingers, an unyielding, territorial hold that drew Lady Tarly’s panicked gaze straight to you.

"Ser Gwayne is perfectly well, Lady Tarly," you said, your voice dripping with a smooth, lethal satisfaction. You leaned heavily into his side, ensuring the low, daring neckline of your Targaryen-red gown shifted just enough to give the young maiden a flawless, unhindered view of the dark, possessive marks and handprints decorating your own neck and collarbone. "In fact, I don't think my husband has ever been in better spirits. Or better hands."

"My wife speaks the truth, my lady," Gwayne murmured, his tone rougher and deeper than usual, a lingering remnant of the night's exhausting passions. He covered your hand with his own, his large fingers locking yours against his arm, cementing the unified front. "I assure you, I am entirely unharmed. Though... I admit the dragons of House Targaryen are far more feral than the histories lead one to believe."

Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked rapidly between the two of you, the scandalous pieces finally clicking together in her mind with the force of a sudden blow. The colour drained from her cheeks, replacing her initial shock with a burning, mortified blush as she realized exactly what—and who—had left those violent, passionate marks. The pristine, gallant Hightower knight she had been trying to court for weeks had been thoroughly, aggressively claimed.

“Was there something you needed from my husband?" you purred, the word husband leaving your lips like a final, devastating claim of possession.

Gwayne didn't even glance at the Tarly girl. His gaze was fixed entirely on you, his jaw relaxing into a dark, smugly satisfied grin as he felt the fierce, protective grip of your fingers on his arm. He loved it. The realization that you were actively, publicly marking your territory sent an intoxicating thrill straight through him.

Lady Tarly’s gaze flicked from your grip on his arm, up to the dark marks on Gwayne's neck and then yours, and finally to the unmistakable, lethal look in your eyes. The colour drained from her cheeks, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her handkerchief.

"I... I merely wished to ask Ser Gwayne if he required a new favour for the tourney grounds, Your Grace," she stammered, her voice losing all its previous confidence, shrinking under the suffocating weight of your stare.

Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles as he finally looked at her. "That is most kind of you, Lady Tarly," he said, his voice deep, rough, and entirely devoid of the polite warmth he had used to tease her just days before. "But I have already been thoroughly provided for. My wife has made it explicitly clear that I am to wear no one's colours but her own from this day forth."

He leaned down slightly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the crown of your hair, his eyes never leaving the disgraced lady-in-waiting.

"In fact," Gwayne murmured, his eyes shifting back to you, burning with the very same fire that had consumed your chambers the night before, "I doubt I shall have the energy for the training yards today at all. My lady wife keeps a very demanding schedule."

"I... I see," she stammered, stepping back into the shadows of the archway, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace, Ser Gwayne. I did not mean to intrude upon... your morning."

"No intrusion at all," you replied, offering her a sweet, razor-sharp smile that promised absolute ruin if she ever dared to look his way again. "But if you'll excuse us, the Small Council awaits. And after that, my husband requires a great deal of my personal attention to heal from his... recent exertions."

Lady Tarly offered a hasty, deeply embarrassed curtsy, murmuring a fractured excuse before turning on her heel and practically fleeing down the corridor, her silks rustling loudly in the quiet hall.

You watched her go, a small, triumphant smirk curving your lips as you tasted the sweet thrill of total victory. But before you could fully savour it, Gwayne stopped walking. With a sudden, fluid movement, he turned his body, using his broad shoulders to trap you against the cold stone wall of the gallery, effectively shielding you both from the main thoroughfare behind a heavy, ancient Targaryen tapestry.

"Satisfied?" he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek as his eyes tracked the rapid, telltale rise and fall of your chest. The smugness was back, but it was laced with a deep, breathless hunger.

"For now," you countered, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his tunic, resting right over the steady, frantic beating of his heart. "Feral, am I? Is that what you're telling the court, Ser Gwayne?"

"Utterly," Gwayne breathed, his thumb tracing the elegant curve of your jaw before resting right over the racing pulse at your throat. "And I have absolutely no intention of ever letting you be tamed."

His father, Lord Otto Hightower, had arranged the match six moons past. Lady Elara Tyrell, a perfectly suitable bride from a perfectly suitable house. She was pretty enough, with honey-colored hair and gentle brown eyes, the kind of woman any lord would be grateful to call his wife. Gwayne had tried to feel grateful.

The wedding was set for the turn of the year. Three months. Three months until his life would be bound to a woman he barely knew, to duties he had never asked for, to a future he didn’t choose.

He had come to King's Landing to see his sister, Alicent. The Red Keep rose before him as his carriage passed through the gates, its red stone gleaming in the afternoon sun.

He was shown to his chambers by a young squire, a boy with sandy hair and a nervous stammer who seemed eager to please. Gwayne dismissed him with a wave, too weary for pleasantries. The room was comfortable enough, decorated in the red and black of House Targaryen, with a large window that overlooked the training yard.

He could hear the clash of steel from below, the shouts of men at practice. For a moment, he considered going down to join them, to lose himself in the rhythm of swordplay. But the trip had drained his energy.

He settled into a chair by the window, watching the activity below with half-lidded eyes. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the light had shifted to the golden haze of late afternoon, and a knock at his door roused him from his stupor.

"Enter”

The door opened to reveal his sister, Alicent, Gwayne rose to greet her, crossing the room in three quick strides to pull her into an embrace.

"Gwayne” she breathed against his shoulder. "I was so pleased when I heard you were coming. Father didn't mention it in his letters."

"I wanted to surprise you” he said, pulling back. "How are you, sister?"

"I am well enough” she said, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "The King has been... unwell of late. It keeps me busy."

Gwayne nodded, understanding what she didn't say. King Viserys was sick. Alicent's position was precarious, her influence tied to a man who was slowly slipping away.

"Come” she said, taking his arm. "I have arranged a small dinner in your honor. Just family. Princess Rhaenyra and her sister will be there, and the King if he feels well enough to join us."

The mention of you, Rhaenyra’s little sister, brought a slight tension to Gwayne's shoulders. He had met you, the princess, years ago, when you had been a girl of twelve with a fierce in your eyes. He had not seen you since, and he found himself curious about the woman you had become.

"Of course” he said. "I would be honored."

The dinner was held in a small private dining room, far from the grand halls where the court feasted. It was intimate, the table set for six, with candles casting dancing shadows across the walls. Gwayne arrived with Alicent, his hand resting on his sister's elbow as they entered.

The King was there, seated at the head of the table. He looked older than Gwayne remembered, his face lined with pain, but his eyes were kind as he welcomed them. Beside him sat Rhaenyra, chin up with a proud smile. And beside her, sat you, dressed in jewels and the dark red of house Targaryen, and Gwayne felt his breath catch in his throat.

You had grown into something extraordinary.

You had become a woman, your silver-gold hair cascading down your back in loose waves, your lips curved into a small smile as you watched him approach.

"Ser Gwayne” you said, "It has been too long."

"Princess" he replied, bowing. "You have grown."

"Most people do. Though I suppose some of us grow more than others."

Your playful tone that caught him off guard. He had expected cold formality, royal etiquette. But you wanted to play with him so badly.

He found himself smiling despite himself. "I would hope I have grown as well, Your Grace. Though perhaps not in the ways that matter."

Your eyes flickered with interest, and you gestured to the seat beside you. "Sit with me, Ser Gwayne. Tell me about Oldtown. I hear the Hightower is quite magnificent this time of year."

The dinner passed in a blur of conversation and wine. Gwayne found himself drawn to you, your wit and quick laugh, specially, in how beautiful you had become. He could not take his eyes off your lips, neck, and decency kept himself from wandering further.

"The Reach is beautiful” you said at one point, fingers tracing the rim of your goblet. "But it seems so... peaceful. So tame. Does it not bore you, Ser Gwayne? To live among fields and dirt, when here we have dragons?"

"Not all of us are fortunate enough to have dragons, Princess," he replied. "Some of us must make do with simpler pleasures."

"Simplicity is a choice, a choice you seem to have made quite willingly."

The way you said it, a hint of accusation, that made him pause. You were right, of course. He had made his choices, had accepted his father's plans without question. But hearing it from your lips, hearing the judgment in your voice it was different. Different in the way we all realize things we already knew if someone mentions them out loud.

"Perhaps I have been too willing” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Perhaps I have not considered all the choices available to me."

Your eyes widened slightly, and you leaned closer, voice dropping so only he could hear. "And what choices would those be, Ser Gwayne?"

"I have not yet decided, but perhaps I am beginning to see possibilities I had not noticed before."

Gwayne felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt the heat rising to his cheeks. So did you. He had never felt this way before, never been so consumed by a woman's presence.

"Gwayne” Alicent's voice cut through the moment, and he blinked, turning to see his sister watching him with a curious expression. "I was asking if you would like to tour the gardens tomorrow. The roses are in bloom."

"Of course” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "I would be delighted."

But even as he spoke, his eyes drifted back to you, watching him with a knowing smile. You’d seen it, he realized. You had seen the effect you had on him, and you were savoring it.

The next few days passed in a haze of stolen glances and fleeting moments. Gwayne found himself seeking out your company at every opportunity, inventing excuses to be near you, to hear your voice, to feel your presence. He slowly found himself obsessed.

And you? You were more than delighted to welcome his attention, finding ways to be alone with him, to speak with him in quiet corners.

"You are betrothed" you said one afternoon, as you walked through the gardens. "To Lady Elara Tyrell. Is she beautiful?"

"Her mother thinks so” Gwayne replied, and you laughed.

"Her mother” you repeated. "And what do you think, Ser Gwayne? Do you find her beautiful?"

He stopped walking, turning to face you. The afternoon sun was behind you, casting your features in shadow, but he could see the smile on your lips.

"I find myself thinking of other things" he said. "Other women."

"Other women?" You asked, voice innocent, though your eyes told a different story. "How scandalous. Your betrothed would be heartbroken."

"I doubt she would notice" he said. "We barely know each other. The match was arranged by our families, as these things always are."

"A tragedy” you said, stepping closer to him. "To be bound to someone you do not love. To have your life decided for you before you have a chance to live it."

"Is that how you feel, Princess?" he asked, his voice soft. "You are the King’s daughter. Surely you have more freedom than most."

"Freedom” you said, "I am a woman in a world of men, Ser Gwayne. My freedom is an illusion, a pretty cage that I am expected to be grateful for. I am a princess, as long as I do as I am told."

"But you don’t do as you’re told, my princess" he said. "Do you?"

You looked at him sharply, and for a moment, he thought he had overstepped. But then you smiled.

"I don’t" you said. "I should. If i don’t, how will i earn the people’s respect? The love?"

"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Love?"

"I want to be seen” you said, voice a whisper. "I want someone to look at me and see who I truly am, not what they expect me to be. I want to be known."

"Then let me see you” he said, reaching out to take your hand. "Let me know you."

You did not pull away. Your fingers were warm in his, your skin soft as silk.

"You are betrothed” you repeated. A kind of sadness, a resignation that broke his heart.

"I do not care” he said. "I have never cared less about anything in my life."

You laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "You say that now. But when the time comes, you will do what is expected of you. You will marry Lady Elara, and you will have children, and you will live a peaceful, contented life in Oldtown while I sit here in the Red Keep alone as if i was my sister’s shadow"

"I will not," he said fiercely. "I will not let that happen."

"What will you do?" You asked. "Run away with me? Steal a dragon and fly to the ends of the earth?"

"If I could, I would" he said. "I would take you anywhere, princess. Anywhere but here."

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his face. Then you leaned in, lips brushing against his ear.

"Prove it" you whispered.

And then you were gone, walking away through the roses, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and his mind reeling.

The next few days were harsh, he could barely resist the urge to see you. Gwayne found himself sneaking through corridors and slipping into dark corners. He had never done anything like this, had never broken the rules so thoroughly. But with you, rules seemed irrelevant. All that mattered was you.

You met in the library one evening, the candles had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. You were perched on a reading table, legs swinging idly. Your eyes lit up immediately as you saw him approach.

"You came" you said, as if you had doubted he would.

"I always will” he said, crossing the room to stand before you. "I would follow you anywhere."

You smiled, "And what would your betrothed say if she heard you speak like that?"

"She would not hear it" he said. "Because I will not tell her. I will not tell anyone. This is ours, princess."

You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, feeling the warmth of your skin against his.

"I am not the kind of woman who shares" you said, voice low. "If we do this, if we allow ourselves this, I will not be content to be a secret forever."

"We will find a way" he said, opening his eyes to meet your gaze. "I will find a way."

You pulled him closer, hands tangling in his hair, your lips brushing against his. And then you kissed him, a small noise came out of his throat, a relieved noise.

He pulled you into his arms, his hands found your waist. He could not get enough.

"Gwayne," you said against his lips. "Gwayne, I—"

The sound of footsteps interrupted you, and you broke apart, breathing ragged. A servant passed by outside the door, oblivious to what had nearly happened within.

"We must be more careful" You said, voice shaking. “Everyone here knows about your commitment, If anyone found out—"

"I know," he said, his hand still resting on your waist. "I know."

But even as he said the words, he knew he could not stop. The taste of you was still on his lips, the feel of you still in his arms. He was lost, consumed by you, and he did not want to be found.

A/N: well well idk if i should make a part 2 but lmk if you wanna be tagged.

You thread your fingers through his mussed red locks and gasp at the feeling, rocking your hips up against his mouth to chase the brand new sensations he was pulling from you. You had reasoned with him that this would not taint you. That his mouth kissing over your soaked folds was not technically sex and that you would still bleed on your wedding night. Normally he would have fought back harder but the needy, pleading look in your eyes made his usually ironclad resolve crumble and accept your words. You were a princess after all, and him a knight. He was meant to serve you.

"Gods, Gwayne." Both of your hands grip at his head mostly as a way to keep yourself grounded. The feeling of him sucking over your pulsing clit was making you feel as though you might float away. A particularly loud moan broke past your bitten lips causing one of your hands to fly up and cover you mouth so as to not alert the guards outside. A needy groan vibrated against your core and was soon followed by one of Gwaynes hands coming up to grab your own to put it back in his hair. You smiled at the confirmation that he was enjoying this escapade just as much as you were.

"I- I think im-" You gasp suddenly, legs threatening to close around the knights head as your first orgasm from another persons touch burst through you. You were unashamedly grinding against his face now desperate to draw out your pleasure for as long as possible. He continued mouthing at your cunt, hooking his arms under your thighs so he could press his face further into you.

You collapsed back into the arm chair panting heavily and sliding your hands down to cup his face. "Thank you, Ser." You mumbled with a satisfied grin. He looked more beautiful than usual. His hair a mess (caused by you), a light flush over his cheeks and the remnants of you orgasm smeared over his mouth.

After Alicent left, you screamed at the top of your lungs. Your dragon raging in the dragonpit, feeling your turmoil. Silverwing. The dragon you bonded with after you arrived on Dragonstone with your family.

They needed you because of your dragon. If it came to war, they needed more dragons. You knew this. And it made your blood boil. You had fire in your blood and it was getting out of control.

Now looking at the setting sun, you let out a sigh. The room has fallen into chaos and no one has visited you since Alicent left for the cornation. She still hopes that you will change your mind and accept Aegon as the true king. Disgusst and worry filling your stomach.

Your thoughts going to your family. Your mother who must be worried sick about you. You missed your brothers Jace, Luce, Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys. The lively atmosphare at home. But...do they even know what happend in Kingslanding?

They must have made sure that no word of your grandsires death came out. There will be no one to warn them.

Nails dig into your palm and tears fill your eyes.

Hating yourself because their is nothing you can do about it. Not as long as you are locked up in here. You should have gone home with the others. Not staying behind because you wanted to spend more time with your grandmother Rhaenys.

Rhaenys! She must be still here! Hope blossoms in your chest. If she is still here, you have someone by your side to protect you and if she managed to escape she will warn the others.

Not all hope is lost yet. It's dark now and you decide to rest. Sleep does not find you this night and you are haunted by your own thoughts.

A knock was heard on your door and you sat up on your bed. „Saeyena? May I come in?“

You slowly stood up and walked towards the door. „Sadly you can not. The door is locked. What brings you here Helaena?“, you ask her. Helaena was always your favorite. You never hated her, well you never hated your uncles either. You just did not like them that much.

Helaena does not answer you for a while before you hear her sigh softly. „I hope you are feeling well...it must not be...very pleasent to be locked up in here. You will not be locked up for long. Someone will come and free you from your cage“, she tells you.

It comforted you a litte, not really but you were glad she was trying. „Thank you Helaena, however I do not believe that I will be freed soon. They will not let me out. You know this as much as I do. I might be a danger for you and your family“, you say. Your hand touches the wood of the door that parts you and you let out a sigh. In that moment you wished you could see her. Talk to her freely, under different circumstances.

„I have to go now. I wish you a good day Saeyena“, she whispers. You hear Helaenas footsteps dissapear down the halls, then there is nothing. Even if the talk was brief, it eased your heart a little. Still some fear lingered inside your heart.

Your door opened later that evening, servants bringing you meals. Not looking at you once before they left. At first you avoided eating, scared the food might be poisened but in the end the hunger was bigger. You ate everything. For your luck it was not poisened.

The routine was exactly the same for three days. Servants coming in bringing you food and ignoring you. No vistis nothing. But on your fourth day you got woken up early. Servants helping you wash and dress. Your first bath in days and you were really greateful for it.

When you were fully dressed, Alicent entered, Criston Cole at her side. „Mylady if you would follow us please“, Criston says. His eyes seem cold, full of disgust for you. It made an unpleasant go down your spine. Why that man seemed to hate you that much, was a mystery to you. Alicent went closer to you, her hands placing on your shoulders. „It is time“, she tells you. You want to push her away, but you do not. She steps to the side and Criston Cole stays close as you leave the chamber. The first time in so long that you saw something other than the walls of your chamber.

„You are to marry, Ser Gwayne Hightower on the morrow“, Otto announced. Your eyes widen and you could not believe what you have been told. This is a cruel joke. It has to be.

It felt like to you as if they were trying to replace your bloodline with theirs. That must have been Ottos plan all along. „What if I refuse?“, you asked. Your uncle, Aegon started to laugh. A bright smile on his face as he looked at you. „You are not allowed to refuse. You do not have a say in that matter. Be glad that you are not executed because of your refusal to bend the knee“, Aegon informed you.

The other members of the council either avoided to look at you or looked at you with pity. Your nails digged into your palm and Otto stood up from his chair. Slowly walking up to you, stopping infront of you. „Princess Saeyena I am very well aware of the fact that our houses are divided. I don't mean you any harm“, Otto told you.

In this he did not lie.

He did not wish you any harm. Never did. Still he would use you for his advantage.

You hated him. All of them. They were all traitors. A scoff leaves your lips and you look to the side. „This is a lie. We both know that you do not hold any love for me. I will marry your son but only beacause I do not have a choice in that matter. This will not change my opinions on you“, you whisper. Your eyes staring into his, not backing away. Silence filling the room.

Otto's eyes search your face before he returned to his seat. You felt the threatening presence of Criston Cole behind you as well as Alicents. „The matter is settled then. Bring her back to her chambers. I do not want my niece to run away and ruin everything“, Aegon breaks the silence. Ser Crsiton Cole takes your arm but you push him away. „I can walk on my own!“, you growled.

With that you rushed out of the council room, Criston and Alicent following you.

The morning came faster than you wanted to. You got prepared for the weeding. Put into a weeding dress that has golden stripes on your shoulders, your hair was braided beautifully and a dragon necklace around your neck.

The carriage ride to the sept was long and you hated every second of it. Your worries were big. Alicent and Helaena sat with you in the carriage, Alicent looking at you with pity. You did not want her pity. Mostly you managed to ignore her looks. Your thoughts occupied with other thoughts.

About your soon to be husband and your family. You missed your mother, your siblings and your father. Not Daemon. No. You missed Laenor. He would have known how to cheer you up in a moment like this. One of your fondest moments was eating cake with him and singing sailor chanties all day at the beach. Your mother had to force you back inside late at night, otherwise you would have never left the beach with him. The next day you had catched a cold because of this. You remember very well how your father visited you while you were in bed and brought with him more cake.

That memory always made you smile. Today however you could not bring yourself to smile.

Your thoughts wandered to Gwayne. You had never seen this man, not once in your entire life. Will he be mean, cruel and awful to you? Does he look ugly? It was such a childish thought but you did not want to be married of to a monster. Fear makes your heart race violently against your ribs. All kinds of feelings rage inside of you. Making it hard for you to breath. You missed your mother. So, so much.

The carriage stopped signaling your arrival at the sept. Alicent and Helaena got out before you. You did not want to leave the carriage. Only slowly you rose when you saw a member of the kingsguard holding out his hand for you. You took it and got out of the carriage. It was a small weeding held for you. Not many were there. Your eyes fell to the high septon and there standing was Gwayne. Already waiting for you.

He did not look like what you expected. He was a handsome man. To your displeasure Otto took your arm, leading you towards Gwayne and the high septon. Once their Gwayne gave you a gentle smile. Otto left and the ceremony began.

It happend all in a blur. The vows have been spoken and a small feast was held. You only exchanged a few words with Gwayne. He seemed kind. Different then the other Hightowers you have met. You were careful not to trust him. He could still turn out to be a liar and a manipulator.

The feast was over and you found yourself in your chambers with Gwayne. An uneasy atmosphare around the both of you. „Saeyena you know what we have to do now? I am very well aware that you did not ask for this but nor did I. Still we have to fulfill our duties.“, Gwayne beginns.

Slowly he approaches you.

Careful, so he does not scare you. His hands placing softly on your shoulders. „I will not hurt you. Nor will I do something you do not like. I promise you. You have to tell me...“, he whispers. His warm breath brushing over your ear. A shiver runs down your spine and this time it is not an unpleasent one. You look to the side and your hands shake a little. There is no way that you can hide how nervous you are. „You say that now but how can I believe you?“, you ask him. Your voice shakes and you hate that. Hate how weak you must sound.

His hands travel up and down your arms, giving you a little comfort. „May I kiss?“, he asks you. Gwaynes hands stop traveling up and down your arm waiting for your answer. Moving a little closer to you so you could feel his chest pressing into your back. Your heart raced in your chest. He still has not answered your question.

Taking a deep breath you nod. Your hands trembeling. Slowly your feel his hands travel down your arm, his hands taking your, gently lifting them up. Pressing his lips on your skin, his head resting on your shoulder now. „I want you to say yes. Not only nod“, breathes into your ear. His warm breath sending another shiver down your spine. You feel heat spreading through your body. Your mind swirls with thoughts of shame, anger and fear. It is difficult for you to think clearly.

Shame because you somehow wanted him to continue, anger because you were forced to marry him and fear because you were scared of what would happen soon. Consumating the marriage. You knew what it is. You saw drawings of it. Still the thought of doing it yourself soon made you want to jump out of the window.

That would save you right?

It would only make things worse. You swallow and your lips parting slightly.

„Yes you may kiss me...“, you answer. Your voice shaking slightly. Gwayne still holds your hands when he starts to press his lips against your neck. Soft kisses, slowly moving down to your shoulder, were he slips of your dress. „Saeyena, you are save with me...you do not need to fear me...I will be a good husband to you...I vowed and I promise...I am all yours...princess“, he breathes against your skin. He unfastens the laces of your dress, making it fall to the ground. Now exposed and bare before him.

His hands wrapping around your waist pulling you against his body. Warm lips pressing against your cheek. Gwaynes right hand traveling down your body, reaching your middle. „Do you want to know what I thought the moment I first saw you? I was struck by how beautiful you are...I had heard of your beauty from my sister, but gazing at you was like looking at a light in the darkness“, he tells you. His fingers sinking inside of you. A gasp leaving your lips.

He gentle moves his finger in and out of your heat, taking in all your reactions. His lips kissing your jaw softly. Whispering sweet nothings against your skin.

You hated how good Gwayne made you feel. Guilty that you enjoyed what he was doing.

His other hand kneaded the flesh of your breast. Playing with your sensetive nipple. His thumb circled your clit, making your pleasure more intense. Never in your life have you felt like this. Your body all warm and heated. Turning hungry for more. Gwayne gently starts to rock his hips against yours, groans leaving his mouth. „Saeyena...do you feel good?“, he asks you hoarsly. He adds a second finger, opening you wider. Your head falls onto his shoulder and your breathing goes faster.

„Yes...yes I...feel good“, you whisper hoarsly. Your eyes rolling back into your head. He hums against your skin and his lips travel down your jaw to your neck again. The knot inside your belly get's tighter and tighter. It feels like you are going to explode. Unfamiliar for you.

„Gwayne...I...“, you try to speak but no words come out of you. A silent cry leaving your lips when your eyes fall shut and your body explodes. Heavy breathing fills the room. Gwayne slowly removes his fingers from your pulsing heat, licking them clean. „Are you alright?“, he asks you softly. Slowly you nod. Your body still trembling from your release. He turns you around and pulls you into a deep kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. When you break the kiss to catch your breath he pulls away. Starting to remove his clothes. Eyes fixed on you.

First he reveals his bare chest to you, his hands going to his pants. You can not help but stare. Your mind still dizzy from pleasure. He pulls down his pants, his cock standing proudly. Gwayne tilts his head and smiles at you before he comes closer. „Saeyena...“, he whispers. Slowly moving towards you again, pulling you into his arms. Kissing you hungrily, you return the kiss. Your own hunger having been awakend.

Gwayne leads you towards your bed, gently laying you onto it and placing himself on top of you. „Tell me if it hurts or if I should stop“, he tells you. His hand travels between your bodies and he presses his cock against your entrance, pushing inside of you. A moan escaping his mouth and yours.

He slowly moves inside of your making you feel all of him.

Your hips start to meet his, your hands holding onto his back. Gwayne warps your legs around his waist, now nothing would fit between the two of you.

His lips kissing your over and over again, like he would die if he did not kiss you. His thrusts grew deeper, and your tongue traced his lips. Gwayne opened his mouth, and you explored it. His body tensed, and he moaned into your mouth. Warmth filled you from within, and he thrust deep inside you one last time before leaning his weight against you. His seed filling you up.

Heavy breathing fills the room, his eyes gazing gently into yours. Gwayne brushes your hair out of your face, kissing you again. „I hope you enjoyed this as much as I and...that you are not afraid of me anymore“, he whispers softly. A small smile is on your lips, you have not smiled in such a long time. You really enjoyed it, loved it. „Yes I did...you are not as bad as I thought you were“, you chuckle. Your fingers running through his hair. Gwayne gives you another kiss before he hugs you tightly and pulls the blanket over you. „Well...we will have to do this a lot, to make sure my seed takes root inside of you. Till we know that you have my baby growing inside you“, he sighs.

You never thought about it. Your mind was on other things but now you can not think about anything else. A baby. With him. Your mother alone had many children, so the aspect of getting pregnant did not scare you. However what would happen to your baby...if it comes to war?

What would happen to Gwayne? Many thought's raced inside your head. What would happen now?

„Sleep well, my wife“, he breathes into your ear. Gwayne closes his eyes and you listen to his soft breathing. „Sleep well“ You struggle to fall asleep but after a while your eyes fall close and everything turns dark.

Jaehaerys targaryen is dead. Murdered in the middle of the night. Gwayne informing you of the news as you get dressed. „I fear my dear wife...that we have to see many more crueltys in the future. Aegon has ordered you to come to the council...do not worry I will be by your side“, Gwayne tells you.