freya

While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.

Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”

His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.

“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”

There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.

Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.

“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”

With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.

“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.

The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.

Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—

And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.

The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.

And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.

“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.

Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”

“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.

You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.

After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.

As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Precious thing, she truly is.

With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.

“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.

His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.

A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.

“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”

Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.

Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.

“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”

“But—”

His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.

“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”

Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”

His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”

He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.

When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.

You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.

For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.

Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.

His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.

Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.

But you weren’t alone.

A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.

“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”

Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.

“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”

“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.

His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.

“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”

His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.

“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”

A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”

“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”

Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.

Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.

“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”

“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”

“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”

He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.

“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”

The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.

With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.

Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.

These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.

And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.

To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.

“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Oh—!”

A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.

His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.

“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.

However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”

Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.

“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.

His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—

His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.

Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.

How?

Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?

His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.

“Why were you with him?”

That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.

But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.

He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.

“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”

“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.

You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—

“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.

But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.

Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.

“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”

“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”

Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.

Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.

It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.

“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”

You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.

“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”

You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.

His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.

The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.

“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.

Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.

With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.

Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?

A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.

Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.

Fuck patience.

He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.

Fuck virtues.

Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.

“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.

“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”

He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.

So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.

When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.

As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.

You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.

There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.

“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”

The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.

Fuck.

The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.

You awoke before him.

With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.

Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.

At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.

“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.

Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.

You blinked. “What for?”

“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”

“Oh?”

“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”

He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.

“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”

You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.

“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”

Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”

His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.

“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”

“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”

Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?

Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.

When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.

What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.

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.

you — princess of the realm. younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and the late queen aemma arryn, sister to princess rhaenyra, and a dragonrider bonded to grey ghost. strict and reserved, you mostly keep to yourself. as a young girl, you harbored feelings for the dashing ser gwayne hightower—the brother of your and your sister’s childhood companion, lady alicent. but the moment your father took her as his second wife, you buried those feelings deep, well-aware that it’s the design of the power-seeking lord hand. however, in an attempt to tie the black and greens together, a betrothal binds you to the knight you have long admired, dooming you both as the house of the dragon fractures

gwayne hightower — noble knight of house hightower. the son of the hand of the king, and brother to queen alicent hightower. gwayne was left and raised in oldtown, and despite his estrangement with his father and sister, he has deep familial love for them. honorable, noble, yet possessing a touch of highborn arrogance, he has quietly carried a flame for the younger princess of the seven kingdoms ever since you offered him grace following his defeat by your uncle in the heir’s tourney, but was hesitant to act on his affections until his betrothal to you. his love for you is pure and genuine, but conflicts against his duty towards his house

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

but you, his lady wife, find in him an eager learner. where other men might scoff, he possesses only curiosity. he’ll watch you embroidering, eyes narrowed, puzzling over how you can create so many different shapes just with needle and thread. and what’s this one called? he’ll ask each time he sees a new stitch. whip stitch, chain stitch, back stitch, he’ll learn them all and file them away in his mind so that when he looks over your shoulder and says blanket stitch? you’ll give him a proud smile and a yes! that makes his chest swell.

there are some assumptions that need undoing, of course. he quickly finds that what he did think he knew of women are mere generalizations. perhaps his confusion is too obvious when he finds you deep in the pages of a book on the flora and fauna of the reach. detailed anatomical drawings and measurements adorn the pages. do you think ladies only read poetry and romances? you’ll tease (and perhaps, indeed, he had not expected you to have such scholarly interests).

then there is your daily routine: hair, jewels, perfume, layers upon layers of skirts. what is this made of, valyrian steel? he mutters whilst attempting to undo the clasp of your necklace. it takes him several evenings before he masters the art of unlacing your corset (a skill which, he insists, any good husband ought to have). does this not pain you? he asks, genuine worry etched onto his forehead. it’s the price one pays to be shapely, you reply, though that does not seem to ease his concern. the only shape i wish to see you in is this one, he’ll murmur, smoothing his hands down to your hips once your corset has been discarded to the floor. he’ll show you exactly how much he venerates your bare body when it’s free of all the vestiges of daily life.

not to mention the matter of your moonblood. he’ll find you abed with a cool cloth on your forehead or a hearth-warmed stone pressed to your back. when you teach him that there’s far more to your cycle than merely bleeding, it’s as if you’ve unveiled a dark secret. but gods be damned if he doesn’t see to it that every month hence, you’re brought warm compresses and teas to soothe an aching head before you even need to ask.

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.

Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.

Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.

He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.

Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.

You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.

The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.

Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.

You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.

“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”

The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”

He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.

He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”

Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.

Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.

“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.

You knew it was not a jest.

You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.

He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”

It pains him?

You will show him something that pains him.

There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.

Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.

Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.

day one

You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.

The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.

If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.

Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.

Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.

You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.

“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.

When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.

“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.

He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”

“Tell me one,” you counter.

All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.

Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”

“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.

day two

You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.

“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.

You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.

“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.

“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.

“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.

Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”

He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”

“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”

Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”

“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”

A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”

You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.

“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.

You nod. “I could.”

The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.

It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.

If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.

day three

The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.

Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.

You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.

He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.

When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.

“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.

Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”

You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.

He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”

“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”

You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.

The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.

Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.

Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.

And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.

“Ser?” you whisper.

“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.

You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.

“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.

He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”

You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.

Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.

“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.

Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”

“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.

Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.

You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.

He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.

You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.

The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.

You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.

Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.

“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.

Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”

You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”

“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”

His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.

You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.

The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.

“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”

That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.

You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.

day four

Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.

The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.

You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.

It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.

“What are they?” you whisper.

“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”

“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.

Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”

“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.

He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.

“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.

You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.

“Can I touch one?” you mumble.

He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”

You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.

Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.

Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.

He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.

The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.

His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.

You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.

Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—

Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.

“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.

“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.

“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.

You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.

He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.

“Don’t cry,” he comforts.

You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.

day five

Gwayne did not like to see you cry.

He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.

He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.

Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.

You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.

He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.

Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.

He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.

The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.

“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”

You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”

Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”

“Then why have you asked?”

He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”

“You jest.”

“I do not.”

You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”

“That is unneeded for you to know.”

“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”

His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”

“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.

“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”

“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”

“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.

You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”

“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.

“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”

Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?

“Do you remember his name?” he asks.

“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”

He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”

You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”

“What happened to him?”

You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”

He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”

“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.

“I suppose so.”

day six

The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.

It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.

“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—

“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”

Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.

He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”

The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.

“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.

His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.

The walk to your room is silent.

Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.

“I’m sorry—” he begins.

“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.

He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.

You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.

You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.

As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.

“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.

“It is,” he agrees solemnly.

You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.

Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.

“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.

Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”

Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.

“I fear the same.”

You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”

He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.

“As you wish, my princess.”

day seven

Your horse stops before you instruct it to.

In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.

You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.

You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.

“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”

“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”

The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.

You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.

Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.

Where is Gwayne?

You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.

His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.

He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.

You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.

“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.

Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.

You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.

“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.

“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.

You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?

He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.

The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.

“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.

“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”

You want to keel over and die.

You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.

Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”

“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”

“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.

“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.

We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—

Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.

Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.

He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.

In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.

Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—

His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.

You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.

Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.

You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.

He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.

“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.

It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.

He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.

Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.

“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.

He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”

And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.

The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.

His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.

You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.

His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.

Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.

The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.

It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.

The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.

You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.

Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.

He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.

“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”

You nod, but it is not enough.

“Tell me,” he commands.

“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.

Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.

You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.

You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.

His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.

You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.

He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.

Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.

He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.

“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.

You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.

He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.

“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“

You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.

It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.

You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.

You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“

You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.

You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.

“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”

You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.

Still, you breathe out a chuckle.

day nine

The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.

Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.

He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.

You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.

His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.

You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.

He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.

“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.

Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”

“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.

“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.

His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.

He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.

“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”

You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”

“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”

“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”

At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.

“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.

“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.

He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”

“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.

So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.

You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.

But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.

You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.

His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.

Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.

“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.

You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.

Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.

“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.

He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.

It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.

His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.

You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.

“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.

Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.

He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.

He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.

“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”

You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.

“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.

“Why not?” you breathe.

His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”

You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.

“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”

Ah. In that case—

Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.

It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.

Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.

Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.

You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.

It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.

He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.

It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.

You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.

“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.

He nods once. “As you wish.”

And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.

He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.

He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.

You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.

Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.

You think you might faint.

day fourteen

Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.

It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.

But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.

If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.

Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.

He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.

You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”

Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.

Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I want us to wed.”

Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.

“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.

“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.

“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.

Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.

“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”

“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”

“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”

Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.

As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.

“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.

Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.

You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.

He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.

The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.

The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.

“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”

You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.

Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.

He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.

“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.

It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.

He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.

One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.

The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.

His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.

There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.

He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.

In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.

“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.

day sixteen

When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.

You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.

Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.

You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.

You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.

When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.

He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.

“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.

His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”

For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.

Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.

You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.

It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.

“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.

Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.

You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.

“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”

His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.

The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.

“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.

She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.

You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.

But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.

The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.

day thirty five

You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.

The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.

It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.

But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.

You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.

If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.

He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.

You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.

But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.

These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.

If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.

A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.

You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.

Something deep inside you says it will.

You did worry for your husband when the isolated nights drew long and silent. You had faith in him and the gods you were so devoted to. Gwayne was as good with his sword as he was his words. He had never once failed to return to you in one whole piece.

Slumber welcomed you with open arms, and your mind rested on the thought of seeing him soon.

The Hightower was cloaked in moonlight as the night dragged on. It was silent, save for the fluttering of curtains of the window you had left open. The cool air nipped at your throat, but it was the gentle clack, clack, clack of steel that roused you. It was a sound you had grown to know quite well ─ the sound of armor. Your fists clenched the silken bedsheets below you, and your eyes remained squeezed shut. Your heart fluttered, a light and airy thing within the confines of your ribcage. Gwayne had returned far earlier than what was expected. You waited in silence, feigning sleep as you did so, and anticipated the sound of shedding armor and the shift of the mattress as his weight met it.

Only, those sounds never came. You could feel his soft breath against the nape of your neck, and his fingertips - hands freed from his gloves - tickled your skin as he brushed your hair over your shoulder. Your back was facing towards Gwayne as his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, and you could not stop the breathy sigh that escaped your lips.

A knowing smirk spread across his lips. Gwayne knew his wife far too well for her liking ─ he knew you had not been sleeping, your breaths too quick for such a thing. His mouth traveled lower, down the slope of your shoulder that had been exposed by the slip of your shift. He gripped at the quilted duvet that covered your form, inching it lower and lower as he went. His final destination was on his knees, hands grasping at the softness of your hips. The soft fabric of your shift bunched around his fingers, wrinkled from your slumber. Your body, now exposed by the lack of bedding and practically glowing in the moonlight, shivered beneath his gaze.

“What are you doing?” Your voice was a hushed whisper, hoarsened from your rest.

“Worshipping my wife.” Gwayne's voice was smoother, rich with a lilt that made your tummy flip. His hands smoothed up and down your calves. “As she deserves.”

The time apart from you had left him needy and hard within his breeches. His nights had been spent similar to your own when time allowed it, dreaming of the warmth of your skin, and the taste of you on his lips. Gwayne had foregone the task of ridding himself from his armor and swordbelt, favoring the sweetness between your legs.

His wrists wrapped around your ankles, his thumbs brushing over the delicate bone beneath the skin, and with a practiced ease, he tugged you closer to the edge of the bed. The sheets ruffled beneath you, and a little yelp of surprise slid past your lips. Gwayne's strength never failed to arouse you, even with the years you had known him. It was such a simple thing. He gazed up at you from beneath tousled strands of copper hair, his gaze locked on your own. His mouth found the inside of your knee, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the expanse of your inner thigh.

Your chest heaved, one hand reaching down to thread through his locks as you propped yourself up on your elbows. With the growing pit of warmth in your core, and the abundance of wetness pooling in your smallclothes, you found your voice. “How… how was your journey?” You sounded breathless, still trying to bring your concern for him to light.

“Long,” Gwayne answered simply. He nipped at your soft skin before he soothed the bite with his tongue. He switched to the other thigh, coating it with kisses and licks and nips. “It was a laborious affair,” he spoke between breaths, “and quite dull in nature.” His head dipped closer to where you needed him. You could hear him inhale deeply, heat of embarrassment rushing to your cheeks and neck. A playful scold died on your lips as his mouth met your cloth-covered cunt. He placed a kiss upon your clit, and he groaned at the wetness he could feel through your smallclothes.

“Gwayne-!”

The fabric was shimmied down your legs with a swiftness that left you gaping. His hands grasped at your hips with a need that was unbecoming for a man like Gwayne, and he tugged you ever closer. Your thighs were thrown over his shoulders, his pauldrons digging into the soft flesh. You shivered at their coldness, your grip in his hair tightening. With the lessened proximity, you could smell him. “You reek,” you announced breathily, “of horses and steel and… blood.”

“Not mine own.”

Gwayne's head of red hair disappeared beneath your shift, his tongue delving between the slick folds of your pussy. His hands gripped at your hips, stilling the way they threatened to twitch and buck. He flattened his tongue, lapping through your slit and savoring the familiar taste of you. His eyes fluttered shut as the tip of his tongue circled your clit, feeling the little bud throb and swell. His lips closed around it, encouraged by the whines that you made, sounds that made his cock twitch with need and greed. He suckled on it gently, moaning against your cunt as your thighs clamped around his head. Any thoughts of worry for your husband had been placed on hold, pleasure curling in your gut like a spring about to snap. His mouth moved with practiced ease, born of the many nights spent together.

“Gods, you're so-” you choked on a moan, tugging on his hair to keep him close, “too good. Too good, husband.”

Gwayne sucked and licked, his tongue circling over your entrance before he pushed it inside of you, lapping at the depths of your core. His nose nudged against your pearl, and the hands upon your hips had tightened, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your thighs trembled on either side of your head, your noises growing in pitch and volume as he fucked you with his tongue. Unable to stand the ache in his loins, Gwayne moved. His hips rutted against the mattress like a dog in heat, the featherbed creaking in time with his rhythm. The grip he held on your flesh had loosened, arms wrapping around your thighs to lift your weight off of the bed.

With a squeal of pleasure, both of your hands found purchase in his hair, and you rocked against his face. Gwayne whined against your cunt, encouraging your movements as his hips began to stutter, nearing his own orgasm.

“Gwayne, I'm-” the warning died on your tongue, and with a particularly firm suck on your slickened clit, you threw your head back with a shout. Your husband eagerly drank up your release, working you with his mouth until you were shaking and whining. With one final thrust, and a sharp grunt, he spilled himself within his breeches.

Gwayne felt your body grow pliant, melting into the bed as your thighs grew lax upon his shoulders. He pulled back from between your thighs, your hands slipping from his hair. A languid grin grew across his wet lips, his chin coated in spit and your slick. “That was quite enjoyable, wife.”

You flung an arm across your face, shielding yourself from his view as you tried to catch your breath. The kiss he planted to your thigh had your legs jolting again, and you could nearly see his grin widen in your mind's eye. His touch, gentle and firm, slid your thighs off of him, and settled you back into your previous place in the bed. You could hear the clinking of plates of armor as he rose, and the subsequent shedding of those layers before you slid your arm away. You watched Gwayne in silence as he undressed, eyes honing in on the stain of his breeches. The light filtering in through the window offered just enough to see.

“It seems you have missed me dearly,” you teased - or tried to, if it weren't for the breathlessness of your words. Gwayne turned to you then, and his gaze softened. Stripped down to his tunic and trousers, he cradled your face in his hands as he hovered over you.

“As always, my sweet one.” His lips met yours in a dance as old as time. It was wet and filthy, it was slow and sensual. Gwayne sighed softly as your hand slid into his hair again, carding through his copper locks. He broke the kiss to gaze down upon you, a string of saliva still connecting your lips. His touch was reverent, as was the look in his eyes, as he brushed a wayward strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “It would be wise to get comfortable. I am nowhere near done with you after such an arduous time away.”

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.

The argument was petty, it was stupid, it should have never escalated as far as it did but now neither of you were refusing to back down. You were used to Aerion's obsessive tendencies, accepted it long ago at the beginning of your relationship. Aerion Targaryen is a jealous, possessive, mad man, and likes to keep his things close to him, never out of his sight.

Yet, you strayed a bit too far today, making small to the various guests at the fundraiser both of you were forced to attend by his dad, Maekar. It wasn't really your fault, no matter what Aerion thought about it. All these rich men and women were suffocating and you needed a bit of air, so you stepped out of the venue for just a moment, a minute really, and those seconds were enough for the dragon blood to panic and look for his most precious treasure. Of course he would never show it on his face how ice filled his veins when he couldn't find you on the floor, or when you didn't the pick up the phone because it was on DND.

It didn't take him to long to find you but it felt like an eternity to him anyways. That wasn't acceptable, a stark reminder of how important you are to him, he didn't like that and you know it, the blank look on his face telling you more than a thousand words can. He didn't berate you with one of his cutting comments, simply looked over at you once as if checking if you're whole, before giving you a curt nod, "We're going home."

The fight happens midway when you're about to say sorry, thinking he had calmed down a bit, but oh, you're wrong. He is harsh and cruel, even more so than usual, spurned on by the fact that you're a mere mortal who can be gone from this world in a blink of an eye. The dragon doesn't like this reminder and he shows it too, listing all of your flaws (that he fucking loves), all of your mistakes (that he doesn't care about), all of your failures (he's wins enough for the both of you, does it really matter if you lose a little here and there? He's always there to cheer you up anyways, never mind the fact sometimes he's behind your losses.… just trying to ensure you don't leave him when you finally do a bit too good for yourself.)

Any other day you wouldn't let the poisonous words touch your heart, after all, it's Aerion, you know better, but today had a lot of small things piled up together. Your own anxiety for attending such a 'prestigious' event, Maelor's not so obvious disapproval of Aerion and you, not to mention your boyfriend's own fucking covetous behaviour regarding the fact he has to 'share' you with others for one evening.

So today you bitched back at him, screaming louder, and louder than he did. It wasn't a surprise when he pulled the breaks of the car, stopping the vehicle on the highway at night with no-one else at sight. Aerion liked to use this route because the traffic were always less to none, too many animals, too much of a risk, he loved it though, loved the greenery when it was day and loved the menacing chill of this place when it was night. You knew no-one is going to come here to witness whatever hell fuckery scene you two were about to make.

"Get out." His voice is calm, collected, cold.

"No," you snapped, heated, you have never had the control Aerion did, pulling himself back together in seconds, it gave him an unfair advantage whenever the both of you fought and he wasn't ever shy about using it. He would remain collected, stare down at you with nothing in his beautiful violet eyes, making you feel like you're in the wrong, that you're dragging it too far and simply overreacting.

"Get in the back," he said, "I won't repeat it twice. You need to learn a lesson."

You get out of the car, but don't open the door to enter the backseat instead you take your phone out to call an Uber. Suddenly Aerion is in right front of you snatching the phone away and throwing it behind him, you watch him, your jaw slacked, your eyes wide. His face is still blank, you don't see any signs of agitation from him, and you hate it, because calm men don't throw away their partner's phone. You need to him to act out, to react in a way that shows his madness, you fucking hate this unruffled facade of his.

There's only one way to get his insanity forward, and you knew you couldn't do it with your words, so you did a horrible, horrible thing, and considering the fact Aerion Targaryen won't ever redeem himself to be just, this will be the first of many times. The sudden slap turns his left cheek red, and he turns his head, looking deep into your eyes with the promise of death in his.

Finally, something.

You should have feared it, feared him, instead you could feel your heart racing, anticipation filling your veins. His fingers find your hair, pulling at the strands without a care, and you whine from the sharp, stinging pain at your roots. He comes forward, pressing your body to the car, trapping you.

"I hope-" the words were clipped, measured and his voice ice cold but it burns you, "you're ready for the consequences."

Your lips twist, it looks wrong on your face and it's nothing like the usual small smile you love to flash at him. You leap forward, closing the small gap between the both of you, your lips clash with his with the intention of violence. Your teeth nipping his flesh, his lower lip bleeding in your mouth and you taste the iron on your tongue and moans into his mouth, the sound muffled with his tongue tangling with yours. Spit makes a mess of your chin, dripping down as the kiss gets messier.

The blood coating both of your tongues takes over your senses, it wasn't just his either, Aerion's teeth kept digging into your lips, the sharpness cutting the flesh. The pain you makes you moan louder, the sound fading away in the dark of the night, the air was chilly, and his body a furnace, you tried to get closer to him even if it was impossible, and felt how tight his trousers were, his hard cock pressed against your thigh. He moves back, breaking the kiss, but a string of saliva keeps you both connected to each other.

A needy loud noise breaks away from you without your permission, your hands taking a handful of his shirt to drag him closer to you again. "Aerion," you cry out, your strength failing you as he doesn't, the dragon won't budge.

"Get in the back, princess." He echoes his earlier words, soft and slow like he was trying to get a stupid girl to obey.

He gives you the space to move but you step forward instead, your lips touching the cheek you had just slapped, your tongue slipping out to lick him, tasting the salt of his skin. You move your head to kiss the pulse below his jaw, it was the closest apology you could give him right now. His hand grips your arm, he squeezed it in warning.

'Your lovely impatient boy,' you think. "I love you," you whisper, you can't help yourself, your heart aches for him even when your head is clouded with ire, the words won't calm him down, it won't lessen your punishment, but you just wanted to remind him of it. You love him and he does too in a way only he can. A stupid fight, your rage and his madness won't change the indisputable fact.

He growls your name. Pushing you to the car, metal hitting your back and you wince as pain blooms on your shoulder. His tongue is poking the inside of his injured cheek, his lips swollen and bloody from the kiss you shared. Aerion looked beautiful like this.

Your cunt aching between your legs wasn't comfortable, you know your panties are drenched with want. You bit your tongue so you don't call him out, hoping he doesn't find out how needy you are now.

He steps in front of you. His grip on your hair returns with a voracious force. "Do you think your ears are mere accessory?" He mocks, the grip tightens and you whimper against your will, he is waiting for an answer and you shake your head in reply. The pain on your scalp distracts you from the detached amusement sweeping into his eyes.

"Are you sure, princess? Because I didn't see you listen to a single word I said today. Don't go out of my sight. Don't smile too much. Don't laugh with others. Don't mingle. Such simple instructions and yet you failed at each one marvelously. You never cease to surprise me, you stupid bitch." His words stabs into you like a dragger would. Aerion would have liked to see you bleed, too bad he doesn't have an actual knife to cut your delicate skin with, an oversight he will fix soon.

His free hand is on your thigh, you had worn a short dress, shorter than you would have liked but Aerion had picked it out and it gave him the easy access he needed right now. His hand raises up, leaving a trail of fire on your skin. He pulls your underwear down, his fingers press into the heat between your legs, and you gasp softly, your eyes flicker shut as you feel him grind his palm against you.

"Eyes on me," he demands, pulling your hair tighter. A high pitched whine comes out of you. "Aerion," you nearly chide but shut yourself up quickly when you see him raising an eyebrow in question. He moves hand against you in slow motions, back and forth, his fingers getting coated in your juices.

"I wanted to be nice to you tonight," he whispered, his teeth nipping your ear lobe, tugging the earring you had worn tonight. His tongue licks upward, tasting your wants and needs, his breath hot on your skin, a contrast to the coldness of the metal behind you. His lips softly, gently grazes your temple.

"Wanted to fuck you out on our bed tonight while you wore this pretty dress I picked out," he continues, "but no you had to be a whore, smiling at others, forgetting who you belong too, hitting your owner." His fingers are inside you, all wet and thick. It's slow, the way he pumps these three fingers inside of you, each thrust perfectly timed with his words as he carefully avoided the sweet spot inside of you.

"You slut, you have forgotten your place." He takes out his fingers, and you whimper, your knees weak and legs jelly. "This will remind you." He steps back, popping the fingers covered in your juices in his mouth, he makes an entire show of cleaning the digits, the space between his knuckles, his palm and you can't take your eyes off of him, you never want too.

After he's done, he looks at his watch leisurely, "I'll fuck you however I want, either you cum on my cock or don't, I don't care, I'll fill you up with my dragonseed and we'll go home, and you'll think about your actions while I decide a more suitable punishment, is that understood?"

He waits for the nod to come and you give him one hastily, you want him inside you, you want him to destroy you and ravage you. You want him to take you and ruin you. It won't be the first time and it won't be the last, and you know it will feel just as good as before, if not more.

Your eyes follow his hand as he frees himself from his confines, stepping forward to cage you again. His other hand is on your throat, a finger dancing to the rhythm of your pulse as he guides himself to your entrance, his cockhead popping itself inside without a fight. You cry out when he pushes in completely with a single thrust, filling you up without any hesitation, next thing you know he's fucking into you, not caring about how rough he is. It burns in all the best ways possible. His hand around your throat tightens, and his right hand guides your leg around his waist, making it easier for him to push through you. Aerion ruts into you, his grunts louder than anything on this empty road. The car is shaking behind you from the force of it, if it weren't for vehicle you would have lose your balance a long time ago.

You're breathless, he was stealing your air, you couldn't form a coherent thought. Only Aerion, Aerion, Aerion, Aerion. Moans escape from you, mixing with his groans when he hits the secret spot inside you oh so perfectly. Your pussy fluttering around him, pulling him into the temptation of you even more. He lets your neck go free, and you gasp, taking the cold air back into your lungs. He cups your jaw, before holding your face roughly, his nails digging into your cheeks, forcing your mouth open into a 'o' shape.

Your body knows what's he about to do before you can even think about it. It's instinctual, and oh, oh my fucking God, you're so into it, you're so ready for it, you want it. His tongue swirls around his mouth, and soon he leans in close, his lips a mere thread away from yours, he doesn't hesitate. He spits inside your mouth, before using his palm to seal your lips, you're given no choice expect to swallow. You do it without any hesitation. He moans louder when he sees your throat bob, his thrusts turning frantic and shallow, his pace erratic, speeding up more than it should be humanly possible.

He keeps your mouth covered, your sounds getting eaten up by the blockage. Only his pleasure is clear, and he pressed his lips on the hand that was on your face, and you pray to the seven stars above that he will push his tongue inside your mouth for a proper kiss.

They don't listen to your wish. His forehead is pressed against yours, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him close. He is on the edge and he knows it, and Aerion forces himself to slow down, to let himself enjoy your warm, tight pussy for a bit longer. It doesn't last long because the next minute, you can feel his dick twitch inside of you and you're so close yourself, you know it will only take a thrust or two for you to cum as well.

Please, please, please, you beg in your head.

He removes his hand from your mouth and his teeth crashes into yours. The kiss is everything. It's love. It's madness. It's the way his tongue twirls around yours, spelling violence and need, his sharp teeth reopening the cut on your bottom lip. He grunts into the kiss, and you eat it up, your fingers finding his white locks to grip and tug at, making sure he doesn't break the kiss until you're both desperate for air.

He fucks into you once, twice, thrice, and the groan he lets out is loud, the sound torn out of his soul. He lets himself go, his cum filling you up as your cunt milks him for all he's worth. You're twitching around him uncontrollably, your own climax washing over you. Your eyes roll back, and you swear your heart had stopped beating for a second before you come back to your senses.

Aerion is remains pressed against you, holding you close. He whispers, his lips touching yours as he speaks, "Never disobey me again."

But you think you ought to do it more if it gets fucked like this.

do not repost my work without permission.

It was a chilly November afternoon. There was about a month before school let out  Winter Break, and from where you sat in a dusty school office, you could see tiny flakes falling outside the window. The school counselor, as well as your English teacher, had called you into a meeting with nonother than Jess Mariano.

You knew who he was - everyone did - but had never spoken to him. You sat side by side across from the counselor's desk, stiff and unsure of what would happen. You knew that the reason for this meeting was because Jess was underperforming in class; teacher’s words, not yours. They wanted to assign you to help him catch up, and in turn you would receive extra credit in the class.

You didn’t need the extra credit, really. It would be extra work just so that your A+ would transform into an A++. That wasn’t even a real thing. Tutoring Jess Mariano would probably just be a big pain in your ass, too. So the reason you agreed was truly pure boredom.

“Mr. Mariano, do you know why we called this meeting?” The counselor asked, flipping through a stack of papers.

“Does it matter?” He shrugged, arms folded loosely across his chest.

The counselor chuckled at this. “Well, at Stars Hollow High School, we try to support all students at different levels of need. You are clearly a bright young man, but your grades are not reflecting this at all.”

You turned your head slightly to look at Jess, just in time to see him roll his eyes. This conversation felt intimate, like you were prying into his transcripts and looking at every report card.

You probably could have sat this meeting out. The boy sitting beside you looked like he wanted to leave as well. 

Your English teacher continued this with a sigh. “Jess, you’ve failed to turn in almost every single assignment and paper that we’ve had for the semester. I know it’s not close enough to the end of the year to tell what your final grades will be, but if you don’t start improving now then I’m afraid that you won’t be able to do enough to pass by Spring. That is why (Y/N) is here!” She smiled, gesturing to you.

“(Y/N) is an incredibly talented writer, and we believe that you could benefit greatly from her help! By accepting this tutoring, I will even allow you to make up all of the assignments you missed for full credit,” she continued. 

Jess turned his head to look at you, the unexpected eye contact causing your heart to race despite his indifferent expression. God, the guy was kind of a weirdo. At first, you figured he wouldn’t be receptive to tutoring at all, but now if he agreed then you would be forced to deal with him and his unusual behavior. You wondered what he was thinking as he took in your face, then your outfit, then your hands fidgeting in your lap.

“Really? You would really do that for me?” He asked in mock enthusiasm.

You ignored the sarcasm, and turned in your chair to look at him. “You know, I think if we worked together we could get a lot done. I… don’t mind helping you.”

 The teachers looked between the two of you expectantly. Jess stared at you for a few more seconds, then looked at the adults in front of him with his mouth in a tight line. He rolled his eyes again and slumped in his seat. “Ok, fine,” he sighed. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It was going to be an interesting next few months.

The first few sessions of tutoring were… awkward. You and Jess would meet every Tuesday and Wednesday after school in the library. You’d have to catch him before he left the building, as you soon realized that if you didn’t make sure he attended the tutoring sessions, he would bail and go home, leaving you to sit in the library alone. While you didn’t care much about if he failed or not, you didn’t want it to reflect badly on you. The tutoring itself was pretty boring. You had the same teacher, so you were familiar with all of the assignments that had to be made up.

“Wow,” you remarked, looking at the list of everything he was missing, “This isn’t gonna be easy. You need to get these done and keep up with the readings we have right now. It’ll be a lot to manage.”

“So I heard,” he replied, “Probably why it didn’t get done in the first place.”

You furrowed your brows at him, but were determined to get him on the right track. No need to prod and figure out how it had gotten this bad in the first place; you didn’t think it was appropriate to ask about his personal life. 

From there on, the two of you spent hours in the library working on essay after essay. Jess was far from interested in doing any actual work, so it was up to you to wrangle him and make sure he stayed focused, instead of playing around with your pencils or reading his book or napping. There was little conversation between the two of you, and while you didn’t mind, you did think things would be easier if you were at least amicable. After a few days of working stiffly next to each other, you decided to take a leap of faith.

It was right after your 45 minutes of bi-weekly tutoring ended, and the two of you silently got up and gathered your things to go home. Jess never brought a backpack, you noticed, just a paperback book and a jacket. No wonder he never got work done. You packed your pencil case and notebook into your bag, before pausing and turning to the teen beside you. 

“Hey, what are you doing right now?” You asked, wrapping your scarf around your neck. 

“Uh, I think I’m standing in the middle of the library,” he smirked, adjusting the collar of his brown corduroy jacket.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay smartass, what are you gonna do after that?”

He paused, meeting your eyes. “Why do you wanna know?”

Maybe you were making a mistake by trying to get closer to him. You were still going to try. “I don’t know, do you wanna take a walk with me?”

“Well it’s dark out, you’re a stranger and I’m unfamiliar with the area. How do I know you’re not trying to kill me?”

This roused a genuine smile out of you, and you pulled your bag over your shoulder. “You don’t know! That’s what makes it so fun.”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were walking silently to the park behind the highschool, snow crunching underfoot and only lamplights and the moon to guide your way. Finally, you came to a bench near the lake, where you brushed a light layer of snow off your seats. “Here, come sit down with me,” you said, patting the spot to your left.

Jess raised his eyebrows. “If you insist, m’lady.”

You pulled off your backpack and began to dig through it. “You smoke?”

Jess’s eyes widened, and he let out a breathy laugh while you pulled a lighter out. “What, and you do? Now this is surprising.”

“What’s so surprising about it?”

“Well, you’re the goody two-shoes who agreed to tutor me. You’re wearing mary janes, that doesn’t exactly scream Avril Lavinge.”

“These are platform mary janes, so they’re cool,” you grinned, before revealing a joint between your fingers. “Also I know that wasn’t a pun, but you have great comedic timing.”

Jess matched your smile, sitting up slightly at the sight of the spliff. “Alright, looks like there is something fun to do in this town.”  

You lit up, inhaled, and passed it to the teen beside you. “Can’t say I disagree with you about how boring it is here. Small town like this leaves very little room for anything fun. I mean, you can’t even hook up with someone without half the school knowing about it.” 

“Wow, drugs and premarital sex? I’m beginning to reconsider our English arrangement. You’re becoming a bad influence on me,” he said, brows furrowed in mock concern, before inhaling the smoke for himself.

“Ha! Like you’re not the devil reincarnate to most of our towns residents. Besides, I’m doing a good thing here!”

Jess passed the joint back to you, and you tried to ignore the tingle that ran through you as your fingers brushed together. “Oh really? And what would that be?”

You stared at him as you puffed, taking in the messy tousle of his wavy hair, the intense gaze of his dark eyes, how his cheeks flushed slightly in the cold. “I’m keeping you warm,” you finally replied, giving him a smile. “Maybe you could use a friend, too. Unless you think being seen with me will ruin your street cred.”

He held your gaze, biting his lip with a smirk. “Looks like you have more street cred than I do.”

And just like that, you knew you were screwed. Jess Mariano wouldn’t be leaving your life anytime soon.

You and Jess quickly became closer since that day at the park. Tutoring sessions were more lighthearted, and time passed quickly together. You were proud of Jess for getting his grade up in English, even though it still wasn’t where it needed to be. It turned out that Jess had a real talent for literary analysis, and could write an incredible essay when he wanted to. He was constantly reading, so it wasn’t a surprise that he had many thoughts about the works of F. Scott Fitzgerald and William Golding, but he crafted prose that was far beyond his grade level; he just needed the push to actually do his work. In turn he was rewarded with more time in your company. The two of you would often lay around in your room listening to music or discussing the latest books you read. It was fun to talk to someone who shared so many of your interests; things that your other friends didn’t care about.

The first time Jess came to your house was a few days before Winter Break ended. He had inspected the contents of your bookshelves and walls closely, making sure to comment wittily on everything he saw. “Clinique Happy, huh? Does it make you feel happier?”

“Shut up! I just got that for Christmas,” you laughed, giving him a playful shove.

“Okay, what about this? You have the worst CD collection I’ve even seen. Christie Front Drive? American Football? Cap’n Jazz? Did you buy these at the store with your eyes closed?”

“Hey! I like Midwest Emo! You can’t talk; you listen to The Stokes. They’re like, the fakest indie band there is.”

“At least they make music that’s actually audible. This was recorded in someone’s basement and you’re one of the 30 people across the U.S who actually bought a CD.”

“Actually, my cousin bought it and burned it for me, so ha! And I know you like Coldplay, so let’s stop before this gets ugly,” you retorted.

“All right Jimmy Eat World fangirl,” he smirked, and sang quietly to one of their songs. “ It just takes some time, little girl you’re in the middle of the ride. ”

You laughed and shoved him again, “Okay stop, I hate that song! I’ll kick you out and you can buy your own weed.”

Jess’s friendship had come as a shock to many, even to yourself, but it was a welcome addition to your life. He would join you and your friends for lunch occasionally, laughing at the dumb antics you would all get into and cringing at the disgusting mixtures of school lunch they would combine in their trays. Sometimes he would skip and visit you in P.E, where the two of you would sneak away from whatever horrible game you were trying to avoid that day. He whisked you away from every school event you were desperate to skip, and made the dull moments of your boring everyday life brighter.

The two of you talked about everything. Books of course, but also your pasts. You told him about moving to Stars Hollow when you were 10, your first crushes, your relationship with your parents. He listened to you talk about your plans for the future, how you wanted to go to the city and actually experience something. He even listened to the wild, nonsensical dreams you had as you relayed them over the phone, pretending to complain but laughing the whole time.

 In turn, he opened up to you, ever so slowly, about his life before Stars Hollow. The teen was never as open about his life as you were, but trusted you with stories about his mother and the many boyfriends she had that he had to tolerate. You knew that he still didn’t want to stay in Stars Hollow, that he loved his uncle even though they drove eachother crazy, and that he had no idea what he’d do after he graduated.

Everyday spent with him made your heart grow fonder and fonder, until you couldn’t deny any more that you had a crush on him. You loved his crooked smile, his quick wit, how focused he became when he read, annotating the margins. The only problem was that you weren’t sure what to do with your feelings. Crushes came and went; maybe it would be the same way with Jess. There wouldn’t be any reason to tell him how you felt if it was fleeting; besides, your friendship was amazing. You didn’t want to ruin it because you were confused and hormonal.

Luke was happy with your friendship with Jess. He wanted nothing more than for his nephew to make some friends that actually cared about their future, and thus you were more than welcome to spend time together in his apartment. The two of you sat together on the couch, and after some conversation and the finishing of a roach you had saved the other day, your attention was turned to school work. You were catching up on some chapters for your history class, and Jess flipping through a worn copy of A Farewell to Arms, which he had read 40 times before. 

Instead of focusing on his own book, he gently pulled one of your arms away. You simply glanced over, before returning to your textbook, but you felt the sudden slight pressure of a ballpoint pen against your wrist. Suddenly you couldn’t focus on the words in front of you, and you briefly thought that smoking beforehand was a mistake. Your palms were sweaty and your mind was foggy and your face was hot. When you were finally done with your chapter, you looked at what Jess had been doodling on you. 

It wasn’t a very sophisticated drawing, but you could make out the outline of a book, and a stick figure holding onto it. There were words further up on your warm where your sweater sleeve had been pushed up, and you could make out quotes from Hemmingway and a few sentences such as “I’m bored!” and “(Y/N) is ignoring me.”

Your heart swelled looking at it. “Wow, isn’t that something? I think I may have discovered the identity of Banksy.”

“Yup, just one of my many hidden talents,” Jess shrugged, putting the pen back in his pocket. 

“Oh really? What are the other talents you have? Other than being a sarcastic ass all the time,” you chuckled. 

“Dunno, you’ll just have to find out.” Jess just stared at you, crooked smile on display, lip slightly caught between his teeth.

Holy shit. Your chest pounded as your eyes flickered across his face. His eyes, slightly red around the edges. His hair was getting longer, pieces beginning to swoop softly across his forehead. The tiniest bite of his lip. You didn’t even realize how close you had gotten before you felt yourself lean forward to close the gap between you. Your lips brushed against his gently, until he pulled lightly at your sleeve  and brought you closer. He was so warm despite the cool temperature of the room, and you melted into his touch, daring to cup the back of his neck for leverage. His tongue swept over your lip, and you opened your mouth to deepen the kiss. Soon you pulled away for air, eyes and lips glossy. Jess looked at you with half-lidded eyes, corners of his lips quirked up. 

“Okay, that might be one of them,” was your breathy response.

Your relationship with Jess had changed since that day. The two of you still sat together during lunch, traded books and CD’s, and hung out at each other’s houses. Except now Luke being gone meant that the two of you could fool around on Jess’s tiny floor bed, straddling each other and touching messily beneath shirts and jeans. It was better at your house, since you had your own room and an actual mattress. Without the worry of suddenly being walked in on, you could take your time together. Your new routine included Jess holding his weight on top of you, making out slow and messy, your hands in his hair and his knee between your legs. You grinded on his leg, moaning into his mouth quietly, music playing in the background to drown out any noise. Jess nibbled on your bottom lip, one hand in yours and the other on the small of your back, pushing into him. 

You loved it, you loved the new benefits that came with him. There was no formal conversation about what these changes meant for your relationship, but you didn’t bother to ask. You didn’t want to scare him away with conversations of dating and exclusivity. Was he seeing other people? What did he do in the hours you two weren’t together, or weekends you didn’t make plans to hang out? Did he share any of the feelings you had for him?

Right now, questions like that didn’t matter, not when he was making you feel so good. Jess pushed himself up, and you instinctively followed him, your mouth chasing his.

“We’re awfully eager, aren’t we?” He remarked, a taunting smile gracing his features.

Your cheeks flushed, pushing his chest lightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about sir; I was just trying to stretch my back a little. You get stiff lying down like that for so long.”

Jess leaned forward to meet your lips again. “Yeah, I bet. I’ll find a more comfortable position for you, don’t worry,” he said, hands slipping under your sweater. He massaged at your breasts, pleased to find that you weren’t wearing a bra. 

“Wow, thank you, Mr. Mariano. You should look into chiropractic care,” You laughed as you pulled away. The boy in front of you simply smirked, looping a finger through your belt loops and gently tugging. 

“C’mon, help me take this off of you,” he muttered.

Your fingers worked quickly to undo the button on your bottoms, looking at him slyly. “Why can't you do it yourself? I thought this was your special skill.”

He helped you pull the jeans off the rest of the way. “Well I figure I’ll be doing the rest of the work anyway,” he smirked.

“Hey, I resent that! I’m doing a lot of hard work right now. Like, a lot of hard work,” you replied, palming him through his own pants, imagining the spot of precum that would be dampening his underwear right now. 

Jess let out a quiet moan, before pushing you onto the bed and pressing his mouth against yours in another hot, passionate kiss. Your arms wrapped around his neck while the pads of thumb began to lightly rub against you through your underwear. You held him closer and tried to suppress your moans as the digit traced back and forth between your folds. He pulled away slightly to bring two fingers to his mouth, covering them with his saliva. “God, you're so wet for me already and I just started touching you,” he teased, making his way down to your neck where he began to lick and kiss. His fingers came back to your entrance and skillfully pushed your underwear to the side, slowly sticking a finger inside, experimentally moving back and forth. 

“Oh my God, Jess,” you moaned, a hand making its way into his hair and pulling lightly.

 “Saying my name twice; really into emphasis and repetition, huh?”

“Shut… up. Fuck, please go faster,” you whined.

“If you insist,” he cooed, and gently slipped another finger in before rapidly pumping his hand. The hand not tangled in Jess’s hair came to cover your own mouth, stifling the noises coming out of your mouth despite the fact that you were home alone. Jess noticed and instantly pulled the hand away. “C’mon, lemme hear you. Who’s making you feel this good?”

“You, ah, you are Jess,” you moaned wantonly, eyes watery and face flushed. “It’s always you.”

The words went straight to his cock, still straining in his buttoned jeans. “That’s what I like to hear. My favorite words from my favorite girl,” he grinned.

Those were your favorite words from him. It played over and over in your head, my favorite girl, my girl. You used the newly freed hand to pull at his shirt. “Please, please fuck me for real. ‘M ready.”

“Well how can I say no to that?” Jess smirked. He sat up and reached for your bedside drawer, where you had started keeping packets of condoms weeks ago. While we worked at undoing and removing his pants, you quickly tossed aside your underwear and shirt. Then, you turned to rip open the condom package, and slowly rolled it over his length, watching as he hissed from the contact. Once it was on, you were flipped over, balancing on your hands and knees. Jess was behind you, hands running over your back, then your hips and ass. Your pussy was fully exposed to him, and he spread the lips apart, watching strings of your wetness stretch and dissipate. 

You wiggled yourself at him, wordlessly attempting him to get a move on. He took the hint, and positioned himself behind you. A brief thought crossed your mind of how thankful you were for the invention of curtains as you faced your bedroom window, before you felt him breaching your entrance. No matter how many times you had done this, you had never gotten used to the stretch, and moaned loudly as he pushed through. He went slowly, as not to hurt you, pulling your hips closer and closer to him until he bottomed out. “Fuuuuck.”

Hands placed on both sides of your hips, he began to thrust rhythmically. You fell from your hands and knees so that your face and chest were squished against your pillow. Your back arched dramatically against Jess, who moaned at the sight of your ass being pushed against him. A hand moved from your hip to your ass, grabbing and shaking the fat. “God, (Y/N), you’re so perfect.” Jess pounded faster, and you moaned loudly into your pillow, trying to ground yourself. You felt his hands move to grab your waist, and you moved up to your elbows, giving you space to turn your head and look at Jess. His eyes were shut in concentration, mouth slightly agape and moaning softly. It turned you on even more to know that you were the one making him feel this good, and you began to shift your body back and forth to meet his thrusts.

This elicited a sharp inhale from the boy, who opened locked eyes with you, brown irises dark with lust. “Shit, keep doing that. Fuck, you’re so sexy.” You huffed a laugh at that, continuing to push back, until Jess lowered his body so that his chest was flush with you back. A hand moved to rub circles into your clit, and you yelped in surprise. 

“Ah, wait Jess, I’m…” you whimpered, before he cut you off. 

“C’mon, come for me. I know you’re close,” his said, voice deep and raspy.

His thrusts began to grow more and more erratic, and he leaned down to kiss your back. The act was so intimate, and you felt yourself tightening around him, the two of your groaning in sync. With a few more messy thrusts, Jess pulled out, removing the condom and coming on your back with a few quick jerks of his cock. Your knees and elbows gave out, collapsing completely on the bed. Jess followed suit, lying beside you on his back, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling. The room was silent, before you lightly shoved his side. “Hey, get something to clean this off of me dickhead.”

The boy just looked at you and burst into laughter, before you shoved him again. “Hey, I’m serious! Why’d you bother with the condom if you were just gonna do this.”

He leaned over and gave you a quick kiss on your forehead. “I thought it’d be funny. Besides, it was hot as fuck seeing you all bent over with my come on you.” You rolled your eyes as he got up and gathered tissues, but you loved the praise.

You sat at the counter at Luke’s, occasionally taking a sip of hot tea and flipping through the pages of your book. Luke had never let you take up seats when you didn’t order any actual food, but he had been extremely lenient with you as of late. You could take a seat at the counter, request a single item, and sit there for an hour without him yelling at you to leave like he had done with you and your friends in the past. It was probably because you had been tutoring Jess; Luke was most likely showing his gratitude by letting you loiter in his diner.

“Hey, (Y/N).” You looked up from your book to see Luke wiping off the counter where someone had just left.

You gave him a small smile and a nod, before directing your attention back to your book. Only a few seconds later, you looked back up to find Luke still looking at you.

“Uh… Hey Luke. What’s up?”

“Oh nothing much, I just wanted to let you know Jess will be down in a bit. I think he’s showering or something,” he said, and threw the towel over his shoulder.

You nodded. “Okay, sounds good. Thanks for letting me know!” You wanted to go back to reading, but there was a lingering feeling that this conversation wasn’t over yet. Luke’s mouth was in a tight line, as though he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m really grateful for you helping Jess out in school. You’re a good influence on him.”

Despite the fact that this was something the man had told you multiple times in the past, you smiled and nodded. “Jess is smart! I’m happy to help him just catch up on missing stuff.”

Luke smiled at that, and you knew that it comforted him to know that Jess wasn’t a complete loss. “Yeah, he’s no Mister Rogers but he can be a good kid,” he paused. “You guys aren’t… going out, are you?”

Your face flushed instantly, and your mouth hung agape. “Oh, no! I, uh…” At that moment, Jess appeared from the makeshift doorway, and you stood up immediately. “Jess is here! Yup, we gotta go.” 

Said boy looked between the two of two with an eyebrow raised, aware that he had just walked into something. “(Y/N) is right, better get out before Big Boss over here realizes he needs me to do something.”

Luke looked a little remorseful, or at least awkward, about assuming your relationship with Jess, and let you go with a wave. 

“So what social faux pas did you pull in there?” Jess asked as you exited into the cool February air.

“Me? Your presence ruined a very heartfelt moment between your uncle and I.”

The two of you continued to tease each other all the way to the bookstore, a trail of laughter and hushed conversation trailing behind you. 

Winter was officially over, and you managed to raise Jess’s English grade from a measly 22% to 73%.

“Hey, that’s great!” You had said when he told you, “That's a C right there, that’s passing! Now you just need to make sure that you don’t miss anything major for the rest of the year.”

“Yeaaah, no guarantee though,” he shrugged.

Tutoring sessions between the two of you were officially over, but you were still spending plenty of time together. You’d rent the worst movies you could find and make fun of them all night over slices of pizza or Chinese takeout. Other days you guys would play card games like low stakes poker, yelling and laughing, accusing each other of cheating. Sometimes you guys would take the bus to New York City and he would show you the spots he knew, reading your books on the way there and back. And of course, there was the occasional make out session or quickie at Luke’s. It was all perfect. You still had feelings for him, but as time passed you began to feel more and more confident Jess would reciprocate. Why else would he spend so much time with you, or look at you so deeply, or brush stray hairs behind your ear? 

The day that sealed the deal was when your mom invited him to stay for dinner. She didn’t always approve of Jess, but she saw you as a good role model for him, and was sympathetic to the struggles he had had before Stars Hollow. You beamed at how he entertained your younger siblings' nonsense conversations at the dinner table, and made your mom laugh at jokes with outdated references. And when she brought out a dinner that was traditional to your family’s culture, he made no joke or comments about the smell or appearance of the food. Even afterwards, he assured your mom that he loved the meal. Maybe that was a low standard to have, but after years of experiencing classmates teasing you about lunches you brought, it meant the world to you.

The picnic-basket auction swerved your progress from the seemingly clear path it was on. You enjoyed participating in the town’s activities but you sat this year out, busy with school and your new job working at Doose’s Market. You figured Jess would check out the event but would show no interest in what was happening. You were apparently very wrong. You didn’t see what happened, as Dean wasn’t scheduled so you were working in his place. But news got back to you that Jess had outbid Dean for Rory’s basket, and after a fight between the couple, Rory went off to have lunch with your friend. It was surprising; Jess had never really mentioned Rory to you before, but you assumed that they knew each other. Everyone in town knew Rory, the golden girl of Stars Hollow. The two of you didn’t speak often, other than a run-in or two at the bookstore, but you thought well of her. What Jess thought of her, you had no idea. After your shift ended, you went home and waited for a call from the boy to update you on what happened. But the call never came, and you didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

The next time he came to your house you decided to bring it up. The two of you were home alone, sitting in the living room, eating, and watching episodes of Sex and The City . Jess always complained about how stupid he thought the show was, but you could tell he was secretly invested in Carrie’s affair with Big, and made quips about how dumb Aiden was for not being able to tell he was being cheated on. You just laughed at his comments and grabbed another slice of pizza.

“You know, the Gilmore’s do this too. They always order food when they watch movies and stuff, but it’s like ten times as much as you do,” he remarked, eyes still focused on the screen. 

The comment caught you off guard. It was unlike anything he had said to you before. “Huh… is that so?” You asked, turning to look at him. “Since when do you go to the Gilmore's place?”

“Mmm, not that often, but Luke sends me over there sometimes.”

“Huh, okay… Actually I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

He turned to look at you, a slice hanging limply in his hand. “Ok, shoot.”

You put your slice back into the box, only a bite taken out of it. “I heard you bid on Rory’s basket the other day, and Dean was pissed about it.”

Jess laughed and shook his head at the memory. “Yeah, that guy is unbelievably funny when he’s mad. I can’t help messing with him.”

“Yeah I know, but he’s dating Rory. Shouldn’t you be more considerate of both of their feelings? You probably put her in an uncomfortable position.”

“She was hardly uncomfortable. Besides, I paid 90 bucks for it and she just can’t help but follow the rules. It was hilarious how angry he got when she agreed to go with me,” he chuckled.

You stared at his form, a pit growing in your stomach. “Okay, I get it, you don’t like Dean. What happened for the rest of the day? You returned the princess?”

“Nah, her food was disgusting so we got lunch and walked around for a bit. Went to the bookstore; nothing special,” he turned to look at you with a smirk, “Why do you wanna know? Feeling left out?”

You faked a gag, grabbing your slice again. “Ugh, no. I’m glad someone took you off my hands for a day. You’re like an untrained puppy: I gotta watch you everywhere you go or else you’ll piss all over the floor. I just… didn’t realize you guys were friends.”

His lips quirked up at that. “Yeah, something like that.”

Jess could have more friends than you, even girl friends. It was healthy to branch out; you knew this. But you couldn’t stop the churning feeling of jealousy in your stomach. You just hoped it would go back to normal soon.

Jess and Rory only seemed to grow closer and closer as time went on. You tried to reason with yourself on why this was happening. You were working now, so Jess couldn’t see you as often as before. Of course he needs to make other friends. And it was better for your relationship to spend time apart! Being with each other constantly would drive you insane. You tried not to feel hurt when you heard stories of them spending time together, or when you caught a glimpse of them talking to each other at Luke’s, both of them leaning over the counter and laughing. That was all okay, you told yourself, as long as he didn’t forget about you. You’d even heard that Luke had asked Rory to tutor Jess as he began to fail in another class.

It was only after you sat at lunch with your friend group that you got the most important piece of gossip all week.

“They’re saying Rory broke her arm because Jess wasn’t paying attention while driving! It was dark and he just lost control and swerved!” One friend said, waving her arms enthusiastically.

“Wow, that’s insane!” You said, eyes wide. “I wonder why he crashed?”

Another friend scoffed and looked at you. “Oh please. Why do you think? One hand on the wheel, one hand on Rory’s leg, going higher and higher until he’s in her - OW!” He yelped, holding the back of his head where you just smacked him.

“Shut the hell up! That’s disgusting,” you groaned. But you began to wonder if it was true. What had happened that he crashed the car?

That night, you were sitting at your desk, reading from the light of a lamp when you heard a sudden thud at your bedroom window. You looked up just in time to see Jess shimmying inside, landing on your bed with a plop.

“Hey! Shoes off the bed!” You whisper-yelled, not wanting to alert your parents. “What are you doing here?” You got up from your seat and went over to where he was currently sitting. 

“Hey, this isn't my house. What am I doing here?” He asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“I think that you dropped by to bug me,” you sighed. “It’s fine, I’m not busy anyway.”

“Even if you were, it wouldn't matter. You always make time for me,” he smirked, pulling a carton of cigarettes out of his jacket. “Want one?” 

You shook your head, and he shrugged again, turning back to your window as he lit the cigarette.

“Wait Jess, what happened the other day? I heard you totaled a car and Rory was there? They said she broke her arm or something.” You asked, tugging on his shirt to get his attention.

He sighed, and blew his smoke out of the window. “It’s not important.”

You looked at him, mouth agape. “It’s not important that you crashed a car and injured the people’s princess and that everyone is talking about it?” When Jess didn’t respond, you pushed further. “What is going on? You can tell me anything; you’re my best friend.”

Finally, he turned to look at you, face tense and jaw set. You feel your breath catch at his unexpected seriousness. He snuffed the cigarette on your windowsill before suddenly turning to kiss you. You could taste the nicotine on his tongue: smokey and nauseating. He guided you down onto your bed, hand cupping the side of your face and kissing you fervently. 

“W-wait,” you said, completely caught off guard, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. Jess cut you off by licking and sucking at your neck and collarbone, rutting into you through your clothes. You couldn't suppress your moan, hands tangling in his hair. 

“I missed you,” he muttered into your neck; he sounded so quiet and unlike himself. Maybe it was for selfish reasons, but you missed Jess too, so you let him continue to mark up your throat.

His hands pushed the hem of your shirt over your chest, mouth moving to take in the swell of your breast while one hand played with your nipple. You squirmed underneath him, sensitive to the feeling of his tongue circling your nipple and sucking the mound. Hands tugged at his hair, and he continued to move downward, a line of kisses trailing his mouth until he reached your navel. You shuddered as he pulled your pajama bottoms down, looking up at you in silent permission. Jess tossed the bottoms to your floor, leaving only your underwear to hang loosely from one leg. It’s almost too much just to watch him lower himself to your nether region, hot breath grazing your opening. 

“God, it’s so perfect,” he said, turning his head to kiss and suck at the soft flesh of your thighs. You sighed at the feeling, anxiously anticipating what will come next. Jess sucked purple little bruises all along your skin, before finally licking a slow strip along your slit. You bit your lip, trying to stifle a moan, but it only encouraged him more. He suddenly pushed open your legs and dove into your pussy, tongue flicking at your clit. Your hands tangled into his messy hair again, pushing him further into you. Jess licked circles around your clit, before moving to tease your soft opening. He looked up to see you watching him, breathing heavily and eyes hazy with lust.

“You taste so fucking good, I could do this all day,” he groaned, hands moving to hold you in place as your hips bucked up into him. 

“J-just fuck me already,” you moaned, trying not to feel embarrassed by what you were saying. “I want you to fuck me so bad.”

Jess’s lips quirked up into his classic smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know exactly how to drive me crazy, don’t you? I don’t have to ask you to beg,” he smacked his hand gently against your fluttering pussy, and you gasped. “And I don’t need to get the lube because you’re already so fucking wet for me.”

“You’re pretty cocky, aren’t you?” You asked, defiant despite the fact that your core was throbbing, the slick coming from you undeniable.

Jess unbuckled and discarded his belt before leaning over you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I prefer ‘confident’. Who else is gonna make you feel this good?” He pulled himself out of his pants, erection flushed and precum leaking from the tip.

You hated that he was right; there’s no one else who could fuck you like Jess. No one else could make your heart race with just a look. It’s only him. You decided not to respond, but pull him in for a quick yet deep kiss, tongue feeling the inside of his mouth. Jess pulled away and took the opportunity to position himself at your opening, not bothering to put on a condom. You knew that Future-You would be cursing yourself for not being careful, but there was too much happening and not enough reason to care. 

He teased you, rubbing himself between your slick folds, occasionally bumping against your sensitive clit. You moaned at the stimulation, hips moving in tandem with his, taking in Jess’s face as he watched the erotic view of you rubbing against each other. He stared at the sight, bottom lip caught in his teeth. You reached a hand between your legs to pull the lips of your pussy apart, silently beckoning Jess to push himself inside. He cursed quietly at the sight, before holding your hips and pushing himself inside of you, groaning as he bottomed out.

Jess wasted no time; he immediately lifted  your legs to rest on his shoulders and pistoled inside you. You covered your mouth tightly with your hand to quiet your moans, trying not to alert the entire block of what was happening. Jess’s eyes were screwed shut in determined concentration, biting his lip even harder. You reached up to cup his cheek gently, and he turned slightly into your hand to kiss your palm, before leaning down to fuck you even deeper. 

“Oh fuck,” you moaned, hands moving to desperately grip his shirt. “Just like that, please, please don’t stop.”

Jess followed your request, hitting the spots inside you exactly, one hand gripping your thigh tightly and the other moving to rub circles into your clit. It was almost too much, and you moaned his name over and over again in quiet prayer. When he could tell you were about to come, he took your mouth into his, fucking you as your body shudders with orgasim. He gave a few more jerky thrusts before pulling you and spilling over your stomach, cock loosely held in his sweaty hand. As soon as he did, he fell over to lay beside you in bed, the room filled with uneven breathing.

Once you were both sufficiently calmed down, and the come was carefully wiped off your stomach, you turn to look at Jess. He wasn’t looking at you, but rather observing the contents of your room. He had been there a million times before, so you weren’t sure what he was looking at. Maybe the order of the books on your bookshelf was different, or the knick knacks on your dresser were slightly out of place, but that was it. You wondered what he was looking for. 

“So, I’m guessing you don’t want to continue our conversation from earlier,” you said.

“Nope,” he replied, popping the P with exaggeration.

You sighed. “Okay… that’s fine. I’m not gonna make you talk about something you don’t want to talk about.” No response. “Do you… wanna sleep over maybe?”

Jess turned to look at you, arms behind his head. “Yeah, maybe.”

You nodded. “That’s cool. Just give me a few minutes; I’ll get the lights.”

After shuffling around your room, getting new underwear and cracking open the window slightly to clear out the smell and heat of sex, you got into bed beside Jess, the two of you under the covers, inches apart and not touching. You didn’t even say goodnight, just listened to the silence of the night before you quietly drifted off to sleep. It was no surprise when you woke up the next morning and Jess wasn’t there. He didn’t leave a note, but politely closed your window before he left. You could appreciate the small gestures.

It was hard when Jess went back to New York, and you weren’t sure how to feel. He wasn’t gone for very long, but you had to take a hard and honest look at your friendship with him. Jess was clearly going through something that was beyond your understanding; something that you were unequipped to deal with. He was your best friend, but the months of friendship between you could only withstand so much, and you worried that something would happen.

Summer came, and you and your friends began to go out more and more. You always invited Jess to whatever house party you guys were at, in town or out of town, but he rarely showed up.

“God, you’re so lame, just come out with us! Everyone misses you, even though you’re annoying and you think you’re too cool to hang,” you laughed to him over the phone. It was getting dark, and you were about to head to a party with your friends. 

“Well, I am cooler than you guys; especially you, but that’s not the reason I don’t want to go,” he replied.

“Okay, then please grace me with what reasonable explanation you have to stay in on a Friday night in July , other than because you’re a total freak.”

“Don’t need to. Mind your own business, L. B. Jefferies.”

“Rear Window is a great movie, and if I could use binoculars to spy on you from my house I would,” you retorted. “Wait, I think I can see you moving around in there now! Get your hand out of your pants, pervert.”

Jess chuckled from the other side, “Fine, I’ll go. You better bring bud though, make this worth my time.”

You made a mental note to pack some weed in your bag, and smiled. “I’m always worth your time. See ya!"

The party was nothing special; you had been to a hundred of these since coming to Stars Hollow. Even out of town parties were the same: drunk assholes dancing and yelling at each other over the top hits of the month. At least this family was pretty loaded and had a pool in the backyard to take advantage of.. You and Jess settle on a bench swing in the backyard a few yards from everyone at the pool. You lit up and passed it to Jess, coughing.

“Jesus, been a while, huh?” Jess asked, taking the joint from you.

You covered your mouth and tried to suppress the scratchy feeling in your throat. “Yeah, it has. My mom found out I was smoking at home so I have to be sneaky about it. Somehow I didn’t get grounded or anything! It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“Wow, kind of early for a Christmas miracle. You might have a shitty Christmas year using Santa’s magic right now,” he said, eyebrows raised.

“Well that’s on Santa; I didn’t ask him to do this for me. He’s kinda like Jesus,” you retorted, looking out to the brightly lit home which would probably be reported within the next hour. “So, you’re hiding something from me.”

He looked up at you with surprise, passing the spliff. “Oh yeah? Mind telling me what that is?”

You grinned mischievously. “Yeah, you’re hooking up with someone else. I hope you’re using protection with her, too. If I get herpes I’ll kill you.”

“You’re such an idiot when you’re high. What makes you think I’m sleeping with other people?”

You exhaled steadily, still looking away from him. There was a growing pit in your stomach about what you were about to say, but you inhaled again before passing to Jess, and tried to calm your nerves. “You were at my house the other night, and you had a hickey under your collar. I never give you hickeys so I know it wasn’t me. Unless you were enthusiastically bit by a large mosquito.”

He smirked, fingers brushing against yours as he took the joint. “Alright, you got me. It’s that chick Shane from your physics class last year.”

You furrowed your brows at him. “Shane? Shane with the blonde hair, works at the beauty supply?” He nodded at you. “She’s an idiot! You can do better than that.”

“Is that so? Who did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know... Me, for example,” you said with a sudden air of confidence. Being high was a surefire way to make you say something with no prior thought. 

“Well, I’m already doing you,” he teased. “Besides, we’re not really sleeping together. She asked to go out with me and we’re keeping it casual.”

You frowned, grabbing for the spliff he was holding, before he suddenly pulled it away from and out of your reach, the bench swinging slightly at the sudden motion. “Hey!” you protested.

Jess grinned. “Hold on, shouldn’t you be giving me something for this?”

“I brought the weed, cheapskate. You should be giving me something,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“Alright, I will,” he replied, taking a puff and leaning in close. Still holding the smoke, he held your chin gently, bringing his face close to yours. You opened your mouth and allowed him to exhale the smoke as you sucked it in. You exhaled the rest and pressed your lips to his. Jess moved his hand to hold the side of your face, and you sighed into his mouth.

You pulled away, eyes half lidded from the high. Jess looked the same, mouth slightly agape and eyes shiny. He was so handsome, you couldn’t believe it.

“You’re so confusing, you know that?” You asked him.

“‘M not that hard to read. Maybe you just haven’t caught on yet,” he smiled.

You weren’t sure what he meant, but hopefully it was a sign everything would work out soon. The two of you returned back to the party to laugh at the other guests and raid their pantry. Even though you weren’t quite where you wanted, it was still the perfect night.

There shouldn’t have been any surprise when Jess and Rory started dating. Shane was big into PDA, which was effective in making Rory jealous, and everyone knew about her big breakup with Dean at the dance marathon. It would’ve been something that you and your friends gossiped and laughed about at a sleepover, but you gained no pleasure from the social scandal. You knew what their breakup meant, and when Jess and Rory appeared together on the town, there was nothing to do but accept it.

The night you found out they were dating, Jess had called you after his shift and told you. He assured you that nothing between the two of you would change, but there obviously would be no more intimacy. You applauded his loyalty to his girlfriend, and promised that you would be just as respectful to her. 

The phone clicked as the call ended, and you held the receiver, looking blankly ahead. You made your way to your room silently, breaking down as soon as your door closed behind you. You curled up on your bed and cried, sobbing into the sheets until your head began to hurt. Why wasn’t it you? What had happened when the two of you weren’t together that Jess had chosen Rory? Was it her sparkling blue eyes and flawless skin? Was her taste in books more similar to his? Maybe her jokes were funnier than yours? You had never felt so small, and so terrible about yourself. All the things you liked about yourself were now just reasons that he didn’t want you. A charming grin was just a display of your imperfect teeth, the clothes you loved were just a frumpy outfit, and the way you teased and joked with others was just annoying. Maybe Jess wasn’t just uninterested in you romantically, maybe he was just putting up with you until he found someone new.

Despite his promise that nothing had to change, the terrible feeling in your stomach continued to grow. You were further than ever from being able to tell him how you felt now, and you didn’t want to make things complicated for everyone. The only option was to accept the hurt, and hide it all as best as you could.

As the months passed, it began to hurt less. You didn’t see Jess nearly as much as you had before, but you knew that in a new relationship a couple wanted to spend as much time as they could together. How could you be upset about that? And there was much more to life than someone you had a crush on, or a boy you’d slept with before.

Senior year rolled around, and your days were filled with new tasks and responsibilities; you were still working at Doose’s Market and saving as much money as you could for college. In the fall you joined the girl’s basketball team and in the spring you joined the track team, and you bonded with your teammates, hanging out with your new friends constantly. When homecoming rolled around, you danced with someone you didn’t know, tipsy on a flask someone snuck in.

Jess became the only problem in your life. He rarely asked to hang out with you anymore, or call and ask about your day. But when there was a girl problem with Rory he couldn’t seem to fix, he immediately came to you for advice. 

You sat on your bed, listening to him explain the newest thing he fucked up that week. It was interesting at first to hear stories about what was happening between the two of them, but you soon got tired of listening to every minute issue, while hardly being asked about how your own day was going. Today he was stewing in jealousy over Rory and Dean’s relationship, and you listened in boredom with a single leg swinging off the edge of your bed. 

“God, I just - hate this. It’s so stupid. I should be telling Rory how I feel,” he muttered. It infuriated you.

“Yes, Jess, that is exactly what you should be doing. You should be telling Rory how you feel instead of wasting my time,” you groaned.

“Uh, sorry?” he asked with angry confusion. “I thought you wanted me to tell you about this kind of stuff. Didn’t you say ‘keep in contact, let me know what I can do!’”

“Yeah, I meant like ‘don’t completely abandon me when you start dating Rory’! I meant ‘don’t be scared to open up to me’! Not completely take advantage of my time and only talk to me when you need something! I mean, you’re always telling me about your relationship, but not once have you ever asked me to meet her, or had us all hang out.” You could hear Jess begin to respond, but you cut him off immediately. “Oh, Rory wants this, she and Dean did that; I don’t care! What happened to talking to me just because you wanted to?”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I just thought-”

“Whatever, Mariano. Go to Hell. I seriously don’t want to talk about this again,” you spat, hanging up before you heard another word.

You sighed, staring at the phone before getting up to sit on your front porch for some fresh air. You threw on a hoodie and grabbed a carton of cigarettes Jess had left at your house months ago on the way out.

You walked and walked until you came back to the park behind the school. It was a cool Spring night, and you began to regret not wearing something warmer. You sat on the bench by the lake, and pulled one of the cigarettes out. Jess was the nicotine addict, you only smoked the few times he had offered it to you. This felt like a good time to smoke one again. You wondered if you could feel the imprint of his fingers on the box, the phantom feel of his touch, or the memory of his hand cupping your cheek, the hot breath against your lips as his mouth left yours. Suddenly, with your legs crossed and leaned into the bench and fingers coming to pull the cig away, you felt very much like you wanted to cry. 

You could feel a presence coming up behind you, and turned to see Jess approaching your bench, hands tucked into the pockets of your jeans. You turned forward quickly, and tried to control your racing heart. Why did he have to be here? How embarrassing was it to be caught over here with your messy hair and eye bags and slippers? Maybe you shouldn’t have exploded on him.

He took the seat next to you, looking expectantly, while you took another drag and continued to look straight ahead. Maybe if you ignored him, he would take the hint and leave. Of course, he did not. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he started. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you so much. I’m not really a mind reader, y’know. Why didn’t you say something? It’s like you said; we’re friends.”

You sighed and put the cigarette out. “Jess, you don’t have to do this.”

“No, I do, I should fix this.” He reached a hand out, brushing it against yours. His touch sent a shock through you, and you pulled away as though you had been burned. Your vision began to blur with tears. Jess looked at you, face screwed in confusion and concern. “(Y/N), what’s going on?”

You brought the sleeves of your hoodie up to wipe at your tears, pressing firmly against your eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, I just can’t,” you hiccuped. 

“Do what? You’re being all cryptic. I don't get it.”

You turned to look at him, his body fully turned to look at you. His hair had been growing out, you noticed, dark waves curling around his neck. The urge to reach out and run your hands through it was numbing, and you knew that you had to tell him the truth.

“Jess, I… I have liked you for as long as I’ve known you. I can’t help it and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or make things weird between you and Rory but I like you and when I think about you my heart literally pounds like I’m going into cardiac arrest and it hurts and I know that I’m rambling but I can’t be your friend anymore. Not when I feel like this, and not when it hurts so much knowing you don’t feel the same way. I’m… I’m sorry,” you rushed, breaths short and shallow.

“Woah, okay, okay, just calm down,” Jess said, brows furrowed with worry. He reached for your shoulders to control their heaving. “We can figure this out, it’s okay.”

You stood up suddenly, pushing him away from you, hands raised and staring frantically at the ground. “No, Jess, it’s not okay. I am so stupid; I thought we could just spend all of our time together and have sex and still be normal friends? I mean - how does that even work?” You turned to look at him; he looked bewildered at your confession. “Do you even like me as a person? Are we still friends? Did you ever… I mean was any of this just using me for sex? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“(Y/N), just sit down. I don’t know, either, so… let’s just talk about it,” he insisted, reaching for your hand again.

“Please, just leave me alone. For both of our sakes.” You didn’t feel the carton of cigarettes fall from the pocket of your hoodie and you walked quickly back to your house, nor did you see Jess pick the carton up, as he stared at your fleeting form until you were completely gone from sight.

Jess had respected your wishes, and you didn’t speak to him for the rest of the school year. It wasn’t hard; he barely came to school anymore. There were fleeting feelings of worry that he was failing his classes, but you tried not to concern yourself with what he was doing. The two of you weren’t friends anymore, and Rory could take care of his emotional needs. You tried not to think of the two of them watching movies and eating Chinese food, or bonding over books, or making out on the real bed he finally had. You really hated the idea they could be having sex; that he could be touching her the way he touched you. Despite trying your best not to think of him at all, Jess still seemed to wander in your mind. He was like a ghost in your life; you could feel him in everything you did, but he was nowhere to be found. Why was it so hard to let him go?

It wasn’t like you were lonely, either. You had the track team, and the friends who were always there for you. They went to the thrift store with you to find the perfect prom dress, and you all danced the night away to 90’s R’n’B songs. You had gotten accepted into a handful of schools on the East Coast - far from your family but not too far for semi-regular visits. Everything was in its perfect place, but something was still missing. You hated the power he seemed to have over you. Sometimes you considered giving him a call; just to break the ice and patch over the awkwardness when you passed by him in the hallway. But you never had the strength to pick up the phone, or even go to Luke’s Diner and see him on his break. That time was probably reserved for Rory anyway. 

After months without a word from him at all, you heard that Jess escaped to California. It hurt you to know that he didn’t want to see you before he left, and that he didn’t care enough to say goodbye, but you had to move on. Maybe he would be happy there. You wanted to be happier, too.

University proved to be a tough four years, but you made it through. You were living in New York with two roommates from college while you went to graduate school, and were slowly working on your Master’s Degree, all while working part time waitressing at a fancy restaurant in Manhattan. It was hard work, and the grind seemed to be never ending. 

You barely had time to meet new people, and the last time you dated was a fling your junior year of college. It had been since you really tried to get back out there, more for lack of time than trying. That’s why you eagerly accepted a night out with your roommates when they suggested it to you. It was Friday, and you were driving yourself crazy with assignments. The plan was to meet up with a few other friends at a bar, when one roommate suggested a detour. The three of you were already in the taxi when she gave the driver a new address to drive to. 

“Hey! We’re gonna be late if we make any stops! Where the hell are we going?” your friend asked, pausing from adjusting her hair in the reflection of the taxi window. 

“I know a guy who’s hosting an open house nearby! It’s not too far, we’ll be fine. I promised him I’d go, but I need you guys to tag along unless it’s a bust,” she explained.

“What kind of open house is it?” You asked, turning to look out the car window. You were in Williamsburg, an up-and-coming area. It looked pretty hip, from what you could tell.

“It’s a book thing; they’re opening a new location for the publishing house they’re part of. I don’t really know, I think it’s attached to a bookstore. You’ll see when we get there.”

You arrived at the bookstore, streamers and balloons decorating the place, and the words “Truncheon Books” neatly painted on a banner hanging from the loft of the second floor. The first floor hosted large displays of new books, certain ones being highlighted with a note from the bookstore. A staircase by the entrance led to the second floor, where a much larger group of people stood around and made conversation with each other. Your friend spotted her acquaintance in the crowd, and pulled you over to greet him. 

“Hey, David! Great turnout. This is my friend (Y/N)! She loves books and reading so…” she led off, smiling at you.

David shook your hand, a beer held in the other. “Hey, nice to meet you! I like books too; I’m kinda running this shindig so it makes sense. Can I get you guys one of these?” He asked, gesturing to his beer.

“Oh, sure! Thanks, that would be great,” you replied. As he turned away, you elbowed your friend lightly and whispered, “Hey! What’s the big deal here?”

She grinned at you mischievously. “You haven’t gotten out there in so long! David is a good guy; the two of you would be good together.”

You looked at her in disbelief, before the two of you quickly turned back to receive the drinks from David. You engaged in some polite conversation, talking about work and grad school and your hobbies, but your mind wandered. The bookstore on the first floor was honestly seeming more interesting, and you wondered where your friends were. Wasn’t this supposed to be a short walk from the bar? Maybe they left you behind to talk with David. You excused yourself to use the washroom, and quickly sneaked away back to the first floor, finishing your beer and tossing it in a trashcan. But you couldn’t leave without looking at the staff recommendations highlighted in the middle of the floor, so you decided to swing by and look at the displays. It was mostly contemporary fiction, but a smaller display caught your eye. You approached the carefully constructed pile of books, and picked up one of the top copies. The Subsect by - 

“(Y/N)?”

You whipped around, the voice was so familiar but it couldn’t be - 

“Jess?”

It was him. It was really him; older, but unmistakable. There was a hint of stubble, eyes slightly darker, face a bit more chiseled, and the fit of his button-down shirt allowed you to tell that his chest and arms were larger. But there was still the same smooth voice and head of thick waves.

“That’s my name,” he replied with a soft smile.

You couldn’t help but beam back at him. “Oh my god, it’s really you! I haven’t seen you since, like, 2003! What are you doing here?”

“That’s my book you’re holding, isn’t it?”

You looked down to the slim, black copy you were holding. “Yeah, I didn’t know that you started writing!”

“It came out last year. I’m a part of the publishing company that’s holding this thing, so they made the mistake of displaying it,” he shrugged, but looked pretty pleased.

“No, I bet it’s amazing! I’ll buy a copy right now,” you said, turning to the checkout counter just to remember that the store was closed for the night.

“Just take it; I know the guy who runs the place,” Jess joked.

The two of you stood staring at each other and at a loss for words. There was so much to say, where could you even start?

“So… are you free right now? Maybe we can catch up,” he said, breaking the silence.

You smiled. “Yeah, I would like that.”

The two of you grabbed a few beers from the party, wandering around until you found a small park. It was dim, but street lamps guided you to the safety of a park bench overlooking the New York skyline. You were struck by how beautiful it was, how different it was from your upbringing in Stars Hollow. It felt like centuries since the last time you were sat like that with Jess; just a couple of wide-eyed teenagers bonding over an affinity for literature and breaking the rules.

You sipped your beer and listening intently as he explained what had happened your senior year: leaving to be with his father in California for six months, dropping out of highschool, moving to New York, where he eventually got his GED, and then moving to Philadelphia where he joined the publishing house he currently worked for. You laughed at his stories, trying to imagine him studying for his GED, or moving boxes into a tiny shithole apartment in the city. You also took notice of the fact that he hadn’t mentioned Rory at all, or anyone who may seem like a romantic partner, but he was always a little closed off that way. After his stories, you caught him up on the adventures you’d been on since highschool.

“Grad school, huh? How’s that going?” He asked, taking a swig of his own bottle.

“I’m studying sociocultural anthropology at Columbia! It’s uh… it’s not easy, that’s for sure. I’m on the edge of a complete meltdown, but it’ll all be worth it when I finish!”

“Sociocultural anthropology?” Jess laughed, “I always knew you were smart, I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”

“It’s amazing! My life is great, I feel so lucky to be able to pursue my passions. Nothing is easy but…” You sighed with contentment, and turned to look at him. “Y’know, I kinda missed you. Not like, a lot. But just a little.”

Jess took in your features. He wasn’t the only one who was different; you had changed too, you knew. You wondered what he was looking for in your face. He stared for a few seconds, before he sighed, and sat the beer bottle on the ground. A look of remorse crossed his face.

“(Y/N), I am so sorry for what happened all these years. And don’t tell me not to apologize, because I know you’re gonna say it and I’m still gonna say this. We were kids and I was an idiot but there’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about how much I hurt you. I mean, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing back then. I had to go through all this bullshit with my dad and Luke and Rory but… I get it now.”

You stared at him with wide eyes and released a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. That was… unexpected, and you tried to look unfazed, releasing the tight grip on your beer. Setting it down as well, you asked, “What do you get?”

“That you’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. I mean, it’s been a while, but you used to be, at least. I don’t know if you’re actually a scammer or a murderer now.” he joked, and it managed to rouse a smile out of you. “But I thought about you all the time since you’ve been gone, and wondering what you’re doing, and I don’t want to wonder anymore.”

“Wonder… about how I’m doing.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to imagine all these scenarios happening in your life. Let me be in it, let me go through these things with you.”

There was no controlling the shock that graced your features. Was he saying what you thought he was saying? “Jess, it’s been so long. What if we’re not the same anymore, and we’re not the people we’ve been thinking of all this time? And you’re in Philadelphia; it wouldn’t be too far for you?”

Jess smirked, and you realized how much you missed his mischievous, crooked smile. “It’s an hour and a half drive, and an hour and a half on the train. I dunno about you, but I’m not too much of a snob that I won’t take the Amtrak. I mean, I’m 23; I can’t really afford to be haughty right now.”

“Ha! Me neither; I’ve been dragging myself through service industry hell just to stay alive,” you laughed.

“Besides, I haven’t changed my mind about how beautiful and funny you are. I still want to kiss you just as much as I did five years ago. I saw you upstairs at the open house and I didn’t think I should say anything, but as soon as I saw you talking to David I knew I couldn’t let you go. The guy is seriously an idiot, and you’re way too good for him. Probably for me, too,” he chuckled. 

Your gaze softened, and you reached out impulsively to touch his hair. You always loved fixing the soft waves that stuck up wildly, fingers running through to push his hair back. He took the wrist brushing a stray curl from his forehead and pulled you gently into him, sealing your lips in a soft, passionate kiss. His hand came up to cup your jaw, and you used your other hand to grip the side of his jacket to desperately ground you. 

The two of you pulled away, faces inches apart and looking into each other's eyes. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?” Jess asked, brows furrowed.

“I don’t know, I might be in shock,” you smiled. “I guess I still like you.”

He kissed you again, and pulled away with, “I guess I like you too.”

You looked into his eyes, trying to discern how serious he was. “So… this for real, right? You want us to be… exclusive?”

He chuckled, and suddenly shook your hair around with one hand, messing it up and making you yelp with surprise. “Yeah, I do. I’m not gonna fuck it up like I did last time.”

The statement made you a little sad, and you reached for the wrist messing with your hair. “Don’t say that. We were just kids. I think it was inevitable that things would get fucked up.”

Jess smirked, shaking his head. “That, I can agree on. Teenagers are basically idiots.”

“Yeah, especially when they’re you,” you laughed, standing up and smoothing out your hair. “We should get back to the bookstore. Or at least the bar where my friends are! They’re probably wondering where I am.” To this, Jess nodded his head, standing and grabbing his forgotten beer. “So when we meet back with my friends, how should I introduce you?”

He chuckled, and took your hand in his. “You can say whatever you want. Doesn’t matter; I’ve always been yours.”