𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑎ℎ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” you inquired. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I must atone,” he protested. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think me wicked?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated.

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

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