whole house hot idccc

Valarr is not an easily jealous man. 

In fact, Valarr would say he is not jealous at all. Jealousy is for lesser men—insecure men. Men who fear losing what is theirs because, somewhere deep down, they know it was never truly theirs to begin with. Valarr has never counted himself among them. He is a prince of the blood, second in line to the Iron Throne after his father. He has had the world in his hands since the moment he was born. There has never been much that could be taken from him. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, there has never been much he cared enough about to fear losing.

So, when his wife spends an afternoon hawking with the twins and returns bright and smiling in a way that Valarr has hardly ever seen from her, he does not care.

When Aerion lingers around her, keeping her so engrossed in conversation that she does not even notice Valarr entering the room, he does not care.

When she laughs at Daeron’s jokes during a feast while Valarr is forced to entertain a balding marcher lord, Valarr does not care.

He notices, certainly, because Valarr notices everything, but noticing is not jealousy. 

In fact, it makes Valarr happy. It does. He knows that you have been struggling to adjust to life in Westeros. He knows that you are lonely. He is happy that his family is welcoming you, that they are making efforts so that you might feel comfortable. He is happy that the court is starting to warm up to you.

He is.

He really is.

He is glad that you come back to your shared chambers smiling more often than not now, because his heart ached every time he returned to find you sitting by the window in silence, staring east toward a sea that would never carry you home. There had been nights when he woke to find your side of the bed empty, mornings where your eyes were red, days where you smiled, strained at the corners, forcing yourself because courtesy demanded it. 

It had haunted him—truly haunted him. When he joined his father at meetings, he would find his mind drifting to you, wondering what you were doing, if you were alone, if he would have time to stop at the kitchens to have them make a Qartheen dessert to bring up to you. When the two of you were in the same room but separated, his eyes always followed you, searching for the cause of every frown and distant look, because maybe if he could identify who was upsetting you, he might be able to fix everything.

Valarr could win jousts and navigate court politics, but he had spent months watching you wither beneath loneliness and homesickness, and there had been little he could do about it. So, yes—he is happy that you are enjoying time with his family, and you return to your shared chambers with stories and smiles instead of tears.

He is. 

Mostly. 

The trouble is that sometimes he gets a little—well, peeved when he realizes you might enjoy spending time with his cousins considerably more than you enjoy spending time with him. Not that Valarr is keeping track of who you seem to enjoy spending time with the most and who you don't, because he isn’t, that would be absurd. He notices things. 

For example, he notices that you are quick to seek out Aelor and Aelora during events. He likes to believe that it’s because you know that he’s frequently occupied with princely duties and do not wish to burden him when the twins are more readily available company. It is a much more pleasant explanation than acknowledging that the twins care little for keeping up appearances, so you might feel more comfortable around them. They are quick to jump down someone's throat if they look at you the wrong way, whereas Valarr is bound by his duty and his future to keep the peace, so he is forced to take more civil approaches, even when every instinct is telling him to be considerably less diplomatic.

He notices how Aerion listens whenever you speak of home as though the subject genuinely interests him, asking questions and remembering details that Valarr himself sometimes struggles to keep straight, and he finds the realization oddly aggravating, especially because Aerion has never been known for his patience. His cousin is sharp-tongued and capricious, and he possesses a sort of cruelty that occasionally borders on artistry, yet somehow all of that seems to vanish whenever you are involved. 

And he especially notices how Daeron somehow always manages to appear wherever you are. If you are in the garden, Daeron is in the garden. If you are in the library, Daeron is in the library. If you are attending some unbearably dull feast that neither of you particularly wished to attend, Daeron will inevitably materialize at your side before the first course is served. 

Worse, you always seem pleased to see him. Valarr will look across a room, hoping to find your eyes on him, but will find Daeron leaning against your chair, saying something undoubtedly idiotic, and you will be smiling, and then comes the laughter—the real laughter, bright and unrestrained, not the polite courtly ones Valarr has become used to—and Daeron, naturally behaves as though drawing the sound from you is his life’s greatest achievement, and it—

It is irritating. It is deeply irritating. 

Not because Valarr dislikes seeing you happy—quite the opposite, really. For months, he would have given anything to hear you laugh like that. The aggravating part is that Daeron accomplishes it so effortlessly. Valarr spends hours carefully choosing gifts from home, remembering passing comments, searching for ways to ease your loneliness, while Daeron simply appears, says something absurd, and suddenly you are laughing so hard you can barely breathe.

Valarr thinks about it far more often than he’ll ever admit, but it is not jealousy.

If anything, Valarr is grateful, because Daeron is succeeding where he has failed. When you first arrived in Westeros, Valarr spent months trying to draw you out of your shell. He took you riding, and he brought musicians from Essos to court; he commissioned cooks to learn Qartheen dishes and listened patiently whenever you wished to speak of home.

Yet, it is Aelor and Aelora who convince you to leave your chambers when homesickness threatens to swallow you whole.

It is Aerion who can keep you talking about Qarth for hours without ever looking bored.

It is Daeron who manages to make you laugh until tears run down your face.

His eye twitches, knuckles whitening around the goblet in his hand as he stands at the window of the chambers he shares with you, staring out over the Blackwater. You have still not retired for the night; you left the feast early to join Aelor and Aelora in wandering the gardens, and Valarr had assumed you would be in your shared chambers waiting for him by the time he finished entertaining the Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower with his father, so he’d brought up a Qartheen spiced liquor, hoping to share it and spend some time with you before bed.

Rationally, he knows you have done nothing wrong. 

You had smiled at him when you entered the hall earlier. You had kissed his cheek before taking your seat. You had even sought him out briefly between courses to tell him where you were going and who you would be with. He had just—he had hoped to spend time with you. That is all. 

Unfortunately, jealousy is not a particularly rational emotion.

Not that Valarr is jealous.

He straightens when the door finally creaks open, turning to look just as you slip into the room. It is awful, truly, the combination of fondness and bitterness that washes over him at the sight of the breathless smile on your lips as you enter the room.

“I hope Aelor and Aelora walked you back,” Valarr murmurs as he places his goblet down and makes his way over to you. He relishes the way your expression softens when you turn your attention to him. It’s almost enough to overwhelm the greenness eating away at his chest. Almost. “You should not be wandering the halls alone at this time of night, wife.”

You tilt your face up as soon as he draws near, and he dips his head down to brush his lips against yours. You make a soft noise into his mouth, curious, and he fights a flush when he feels your tongue dart out to lap at his lower lip.

You pull back, eyes alight as you ask, “Is that Qartheen?”

Valarr hums in agreement, hands sliding down to your hips as he looks down at you, thumbs smoothing easy circles over the fabric of your dress. 

“It is,” he says simply, and then he raises his eyebrows, beckoning a response to his initial unspoken question.

“Oh. Aelor and Aelora retired to their chambers early,” you tell him. Valarr’s brows immediately furrow, incensed by the idea of his cousins leaving you to make your way back alone. “Daeron walked me back.”

In Valarr’s defense, he truly does not mean to scoff. He doesn’t even realize he has until he sees your face change. You blink once before your brows raise questioningly, beckoning an explanation for the reaction.

“Is that a problem?” you ask after a moment, bemused. 

“No,” he says immediately, and he also does not mean for his voice to come across so strained, but from the way you raise your brows further, he fails miserably. He clears his throat and repeats more carefully, “Of course not.”

You study him for a moment too long. Valarr can hardly hold your gaze, so he resigns to looking at the painting to your left as though it’s the most interesting thing in the room. From the corner of his eye, he sees the moment your face smooths out in realization, and a pit forms in his stomach.

But all you say is, “I missed you today.” 

Valarr exhales through his nose, sinking into you when he feels your arms wind around his waist. What little fight remains drains from him immediately; for all of the time he spends stewing in his own thoughts, for all of the ridiculous conclusions he manages to draw from a few hours apart, it is remarkably difficult to maintain any sense of grievance when you are standing in front of him looking at him like this. 

“I missed you too,” he admits quietly, one hand lifting to cradle the back of your head as you prop your chin on his chest to look up at him. He dips down to brush his lips against the crown of your head, eyes sliding shut. “Lord Tyrell and Lord Hightower kept me occupied for the better part of the evening. I am beginning to suspect it was deliberate.”

“There was a conspiracy against you, was there?”

“There usually is,” Valarr agrees mournfully.

“My poor prince,” you coo, lifting your hand up to brush your fingers against his cheek. 

Valarr leans his face into your touch. “Your poor prince indeed. I am suffering terribly. You should do something to fix it.”

You laugh prettily, and Valarr feels the last of his irritation dissolve into something much uglier: guilt. Because here you are, smiling up at him, arms wrapped around his waist, telling him that you missed him, and all evening he had been sitting at the high table feeling resentful because you’d spent time with his cousins. 

You have spent months lonely in a foreign kingdom, struggling to find your place and navigate a court that had viewed you with disdain from the moment you arrived. Now, you finally have people who seek you out and make you laugh, people who make Westeros feel a little less cold, and Valarr, instead of being grateful for it, spent half of the evening sulking like a child over it.

The realization is profoundly embarrassing, and he cannot help the sigh that escapes his lips. 

“What is it?” you ask him, thumb stroking over his cheekbone in a way that only serves to make him feel worse, but he takes advantage of the comfort you offer him anyway, because he is greedy for anything and everything you deign to give him. “Valarr?”

“I was unfair to you,” he says after a moment, voice quiet. 

Your brows furrow, and you tell him, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I have,” he insists, fingers tangling gently into your hair, nails scratching your scalp lightly in the way that always makes your lashes flutter shut, because he knows that you know what was bothering him when you entered the room, and he would prefer for you not to think you might be doing something wrong just because he is petty. “I am happy that you have my brother and cousins. Aelor and Aelora… Aerion and Daeron. I am, truly. I desperately wanted you to have friends here—wanted you to feel welcome. I spent months worrying about you; every time I saw you upset, I felt as though I was failing you somehow. I am glad.”

He hates that he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

There is a terribly knowing expression on your face as you search his face, and then you press closer to him, arms tightening around his waist, face burying into his chest. Valarr sinks into the warmth of your embrace, pressing his face into the top of your hair and inhaling the saffron hair oil he’s become intimately accustom to. 

“You know I would always prefer to spend time with you than them,” you murmur after a few moments pass. “You need not be jealous.”

Valarr closes his eyes, mortification washing through him instantly.

Apparently, he is not nearly as subtle as he thought. 

“I am not jealous,” he mutters petulantly into your hair. “I only—”

What exactly is his defense here?

I only spent the entire evening staring across the feast whenever Aelor and Aelora made you laugh?

I only felt irrationally irritated when Aerion remembered some insignificant detail about Quarth that you mentioned months ago?

I only had a distinct urge to throw my own cousin into the Blackwater when you said he walked you back to your chambers?

I only wish it could be me with you instead of them? 

None of those sound particularly persuasive. 

“I am a little jealous,” he admits at last, shoulders slumping in defeat. Valarr grimaces when your shoulders begin to shake, face heating up again. He says, affronted, “You are laughing at me.”

“I am not,” you disagree, but he can hear the laugh in your voice.

“You are,” he accuses, pulling back to look down at you with a scowl that lacks heat, considering he cannot help the way his lips curve up at the sight of the smile on your face.

“I would never.”

The blatant lie is so outrageous that Valarr actually huffs. 

You lean up on your tiptoes to ghost your lips against his, and he sighs lightly into your mouth, one hand sliding to the small of your back as though drawn there by instinct. The annoyance that had been simmering beneath his skin all evening dissipates a little further when he feels you smile against his lips. 

He follows when you begin to pull away, stealing one more kiss before finally relenting. Even then, he cannot quite bring himself to put any real distance between the two of you, pulling you so that you’re flush to him, walking backward slowly until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

He sinks onto the mattress with a quiet exhale, drawing you with him until you’re comfortably settled on his lap. 

Impossible woman, he thinks fondly.

He can never get enough of you. He has known since he was young that his grandfather or father would arrange a marriage for him. It was simply the reality of being born who he was. Princes did not marry for love; they married for alliances, and for peace, and for duty. As a boy, he prayed that if he could not find love in whatever match he was assigned, he would find the same type of friendship his parents had found in one another. He would have ocnsidered that enough—more than enough.

Valarr knew the moment he laid eyes on you descending from your ship that he was doomed. The memory remains painfully clear—the harbor had been crowded that day, warm and sunny, and he was filled with dread and anxiety as he waited for the Qartheen ships to dock. Lords, ladies, gold cloaks, servants gathered nat the docks—all eager to catch a glimpse of the Qartheen daughter who had crossed half the world to marry into House Targaryen. 

Valarr remembers very little of them, but he remembers you. The sea wind had caught at your silks as you descended the gangplank. Gold and sapphire glimmered at your wrists and throat; chin lifted high despite the hundreds of unfamiliar eyes fixed upon you. You had looked terrified—you had hidden it beautifully, but he had seen the tension in your shoulders and the way your gaze swept over the crowd, searching for something familiar and finding nothing.

He rehearsed his introduction to you a thousand times before that day, and he still fumbled over his words the moment you were finally in front of him. He remembers the brief look of confusion that crossed your face, and the way he wanted the ground to open to swallow him hole.

Then you smiled, wide and bright, a laugh bubbling from your lips, and he lost whatever hope he had of approaching this marriage sensibly, because he has spent every day since chasing the memory of it, hoping to draw that sound from you a second, a third, a fourth time, hundreds of times, thousands. 

It became more difficult as court life weighed on you. He would seek out trinkets from Qarth in the market and commissioned a musician who knew songs from your homeland, but nothing ever seemed to be enough to wash away the morose expression on your face at the day's end. Every difficult day that ended with you smiling at him instead of staring silently out at Blackwater Bay felt like a battle hardwon.

Perhaps that’s why the jealousy cuts so deeply. It is not because he begrudges his cousins for making you happy; it is because they are enjoying something he spent months fighting for. But looking at you now, in his lap, eyes bright and lips curved up into a smile that exists solely because of him, Valarr finds that he cannot bring himself to resent any of them for long. 

“Perhaps I will join you next time then,” you muse, looping your arms around his neck. Valarr lets his eyes slide shut again when he feels you peck his jaw, trailing kisses along his flushed skin. “I can spend the entire day listening to Lord Tyrell discuss harvest, and Lord Hightower complain about tariffs from Braavos. Then we can be miserable together.”

“A compelling proposition,” Valarr replies, lips curving up into an easy, lidded smile as he looks up at you. “Though I fear you might start dozing off mid-conversation, wife.”

“I would never!” you gasp, faux-offended, and Valarr laughs, arms tightening around your waist, and he smiles when he hears the yelp that spills from your lips when he lays you back gently against the mattress, following you down until he is hovering above you, forearms braced on either side of your head. 

For a moment, he can only look at you. His wife, in his arms, in your shared bed, smiling and happy, looking at him as though he’s the only thing in the room worth seeing, and Valarr loves you. He loves you more than he knows how to articulate, so much that it scares him sometimes, because you awaken instincts in him that he scarcely recgonizes in himself.

Protectiveness, of course. Possessiveness, maybe. 

But also something much darker. 

Valarr has always considered himself a rational man, but that composure seems to evaporate whenever you’re involved. Every time he sees you upset, every time your smile falters because of some careless remark, something ugly stirs inside him. He wants to know who caused it; he wants names and answers. The urge is immediate and irrational, a vicious thing that he’s not particularly proud of, but it makes him understand why men have started wars for the woman they love. 

But you are smiling now, warm and happy beneath him, and for the moment, that is enough.

Valarr dips down to press his lips against yours again. He kisses you slower this time, savoring in the faint taste of lemon on your lips; when he pulls back slightly to take a breath, you chase his lips, nipping at his bottom lip before you pout and lay back against the mattress, looking up at him with big eyes that make Valarr’s heart jump. 

He lifts one hand to your face, cradling your cheek gently in one hand, thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. 

“I mean it,” you say after a moment, nosing into his palm briefly before looking up at him again. “The court probably expects it of me anyway—to be at your side while you handle all of your princely duties, I cannot keep running off with your cousins to socialize.”

Valarr’s expression softens. “No,” he says immediately. “Do not martyr yourself for my sake. I spend enough time trapped in those conversations for the both of us. You should enjoy yourself. The Seven know you’ve spent enough time miserable in this Keep already.”

You look unconvinced, and Valarr feels ashamed, because this is his fault, his pettiness, his jealousy that got you to this point. You are finally at a place where you are starting to feel comfortable; he has spent months wanting nothing more than to see you smile, and now that you finally are, he has somehow managed to make you question whether you should.

“I do not care what the court expects, and I certainly do not care what some lord thinks my wife should be doing during a feast,” he tells you. “I want you happy, and if that means spending an evening with my cousins while I suffer through discussions of grain yields, then so be it.” 

The court might slowly be warming up to you, but they still love to get their snide comments in just to see how you react. He would sooner carve out his own heart than watch that careful, guarded expression return to your face because he had been selfish enough to keep you at his side, forced around people who seek to remind you that you do not belong instead of the few people in this keep willing to bare their teeth on your behalf the moment someone forgets their manners.

He sighs lightly as he leans down to press his lips against yours again, hand sliding from the side of your face to rest at your throat. His thumb presses lightly into your skin, and he swallows thickly when you flutter your lashes up at him. 

“Will you come with me to the gardens tomorrow then?” you ask after a moment, lips curved up as you look up at him, and how is Valarr ever supposed to deny you when you look at him like this? “I saw a flower tonight. It reminded me of your eyes. I wanted to bring it up here to show you, but I didn’t want to kill it.”

A lump forms in his throat, because yes, you had spent the evening with his cousins, but you had still seen something beautiful and thought of him.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation, and your smile widens, bright and full of light in a way that Valarr will spend his life guarding. 

For a moment, he simply watches you—the way your eyes shine and the way your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of his tunic. You are his, and Valarr was never really a possessive man until he met you, but now there is no denying it, because the sight of your tears ruins his day, and a careless remark from a lord leaves him imagining increasingly creative ways to make someone regret opening their mouth. Because seeing you hurt awakens something so violent in him that he almost forgets that he is meant to be his father’s son. 

There is concerningly little that Valarr would not do for you if it meant making you happy.

So he will join you in the gardens tomorrow, because he cannot deny you at all, much less when you are laying beneath him with wide eyes and a small smile. Because you are his wife, and he loves you.

Tomorrow, he will abandon the small council meeting he’s supposed to attend with his father, and he will endure whatever disapproval is directed his way, because his wife found a flower in the garden and wants to show him it, and that is infinitely more important than whatever trivial issues that are going to be discussed in the Tower of the Hand.

Valarr is a prince of the blood, a dragon, a knight, but before anything else, he is a husband who is deeply and desperately devoted to his wife. 

“I am sorry if I kept you waiting tonight,” you say quietly after a moment, reaching up to tuck a dark lock behind his ear before absently running your fingers through the silver streak that runs through his hair. “I hope I didn’t ruin any plans you had for the evening.”

Valarr’s expression softens. He ducks his head down to press his lips against your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he replies, “You could never ruin anything, ñuha jorrāelagon. My only plan for the night was to spend it with you.”

My love.

“Well, you’ve got me all to yourself, husband,” you say with a teasing smile. “What do you plan to do with me?”

Valarr gives you a sharp, boyish grin. “Oh, I’m sure you have an idea, wife.”

“Tell me anyway please?”

You pressed your palms against your eyes. Sleep would not come. It had not come properly in days, not since the rumors of battle had begun circulating through the castle like smoke from a damp fire. Servants whispered in corridors. Soldiers sharpened blades in the courtyard below, the grinding sound carrying up through the walls and into your bones.

The shift you wore to bed, white cotton with a ribbon at the neckline, had twisted around your waist. You straightened it with sharp, irritated movements, then reached for the robe draped over the chair.

The corridor outside your door was black. You stood for a moment until your eyes adjusted. Nothing. The sconces along the wall had been extinguished hours ago, part of the conservation measures implemented since the siege preparations began. Oil could not be wasted. You placed your hand against the rough stone wall and began to walk. The robe billowed slightly around your ankles as you moved, the shift underneath fluttering against your calves. You knew these corridors, you had walked them since childhood, had played hide-and-seek in the corners with your siblings, the group of you running laughing through the halls. Your feet remembered the way even when your eyes could not see.

The door to your old chamber stood open. Not particularly wide. A hand's width of amber light spilled from the gap, cutting across the dark corridor. Your heart quickened and you told yourself you should turn back. But if you were to die tomorrow, you wanted to see the view of your city from your bedchamber window one last time. You pushed the door wider. It swung silently on hinges that had evidently recently been oiled. The room felt warm, candles flickered gently in the breeze, the scent of lavender clung to the air.

Gwayne did not hear you enter. His attention was fixed on the view beyond, auburn hair catching the light from the candles behind him, burnishing it to copper. His hands rested on the stone windowsill, shoulders holding the tension of a man expecting the morning to bring an end to things.

You cleared your throat softly. He turned. His eyes found you in the doorway and his expression shifted, the surprise giving way to recognition, then something a bit softer. "My lady, you should be abed." He was still in his doublet, the collar loosened, unclasped at his throat. "As should you," you responded. You hesitated at the threshold. "May I join you?" "Of course." He stepped aside at the window, making room.

You stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind you. Tumbleton lay below like a scattered collection of shapes, the angular roofs, the square bulk of the market hall, and beyond the walls, stretching to the dark horizon, the fields held their secret burden of soldiers and campfires, an army waiting for dawn.

"These were my rooms once," you said. Your voice sounded strange in the space, too intimate for the size of the chamber. "Before all this. I just wished to see the view once more." Gwayne's gaze returned to the window. "It is a magnificent view." 

"There will be a battle tomorrow it seems." Ypur voice was quiet. He nodded. "Yes, it would appear so." The silence between you filled with the distant sounds of the castle settling in on itself. You watched a campfire flicker on the horizon and thought of the men gathered around it, sharpening swords, writing letters, praying.

"I am sorry," Gwayne said, "for the chaos brought to your home. The destruction done to your people." You turned to look at him. His profile was stark against the window's frame, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. He meant it. "It is not your fault," you said, offering a reassuring smile. He exhaled. "If it is any consolation to you, my lady, the men will all surely die tomorrow." His voice carried no self-pity. You found no comfort in the idea of anyone's death, certainly not in his. "What a shame, for something so terrible to happen to such a gallant knight."

He smiled. It transformed his face, the tension in his jaw eased, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a moment he looked less like a man facing his end and more like the kind of knight from the stories you had read as a girl. The kind who rode in on white horses and saved maidens and lived forever.

You looked away. The campfires on the horizon blurred slightly and you blinked, refusing the moisture that threatened. You would not weep. Gwayne had been kind to you over the past weeks, kinder than anyone else in this castle full of strangers. He had spoken to you in corridors, asked after your comfort, behaved as a guest in your home rather than a conqueror.

The impulse moved through you before you could consider any consequence. You turned toward him, rose onto your toes, and pressed your lips to his. It was brief, a heartbeat of contact. You pulled back immediately, your face burning, hands trembling at your sides.

"I apologize." The words tumbled out too fast. "I was bold, I know, I should not have. I just, if this is to be my last day on earth, I—" You swallowed. "I did not want to die without having ever kissed a man."

Gwayne's brows lowered. He looked at you again, his blue eyes searching your face, and you saw warmth there, deep and steady. His fingers came to your chin, tilting your face toward his. "Then you should at least have a proper kiss."

His mouth found yours, his lips moving against yours slowly, with tenderness. His hand slid from your chin to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you leaned into him. Your hands found the front of his doublet, fingers curling into the emerald fabric as you kissed him back. He tasted of wine and honey. His other hand settled on your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your robe, as he drew you closer. Your bodies met, your chest against his, and you made a small sound into his mouth, a whimper that surprised you both.

Your fingers found the clasps of his doublet, already loosened, and you pulled. The ties came undone, your palms sliding over the linen shirt beneath, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric. He pulled back just long enough to shrug the doublet off entirely. It fell to the floor in a rustle of green. His hands went to the belt of your robe and untied it with efficient fingers. It fell open, revealing the white shift beneath. His gaze dropped, taking in the thin cotton clinging to your body, the shape of your breasts visible through the fabric.

"Are you certain?" Gwayne's voice was rougher now. "Is this what you want?" You nodded. The word yes seemed inadequate, too small for the enormity of what you were asking, what you were offering. You reached for the hem of your shift and pulled it over your head in one motion, letting it fall beside the robe. The cool air touched your skin and you fought the urge to cover yourself from embarrassment and chill. You stood before him in nothing but your slippers, his eyes tracing the length of your body.

"You are beautiful." The words were simple, unadorned. He pulled off his own undershirt, and your breath caught. He was slender, sculpted by years in armor. A thin scar ran along his left side, pale against his fair skin, and you reached out and touched it before you could stop yourself. His muscles jumped beneath your fingertips. He caught your hand, pressed his lips to your knuckles, and then bent and scooped you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, and he laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours, and carried you across the room to the bed.

Gwayne lowered himself beside you. His hand came up to your face, brushing a curl back from your temple, tucking it behind your ear. "Tell me if anything is wrong," he said. "Tell me if I should stop." "I will tell you nothing of the sort."

His mouth found yours again, and his hands began to explore. They wandered the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip. He touched you as if he were memorizing the geography of your body. His mouth followed his hands, kissing the same path down from your throat. You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned against your skin. The vibration traveled through you, settling low in your belly.

He took your breast in his hand, weighing it, his thumb brushing the nipple. You gasped, your back arching off the mattress. His tongue circled the tightened peak, wet and warm, and then he sucked it into his mouth. You felt his mouth curve into a smile. "Sensitive," he murmured against your skin. He released your breast with a soft pop and turned his attention to the other, his hand taking over where his mouth had been, rolling the wet nipple between his fingers. You were making sounds, breathless little noises that you barely recognized as your own.

His free hand traveled down your stomach, his fingers tracing the line of your hip, and you tensed. He paused, his mouth still at your breast, and looked up at you. "Relax," he murmured against your skin. "Let me." You forced your thighs to unclench, and his hand slid between them. His fingers found the wetness there, the evidence of your arousal slicking your inner thighs. "You are so wet," he breathed. "Gods, you are perfect."

His fingers parted your folds, and the cool air touched the wet heat of your cunt. You shuddered. His fingers explored, finding the swollen bud at the top, circling it with a featherlight touch that made your hips buck off the bed. He rubbed in slow, tight circles, and you cried out, your hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound. "No, let me hear you.""Please," you heard yourself say, the word coming out ragged, unlike any word you had ever produced. "Please, I—"

His finger slipped inside. Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more as you moaned, and he gave it, a second finger joining the first, the stretch of it foreign and welcome. He curled them, pressing upward against a spot inside you that made your vision blur. He kissed his way down your stomach while his hand worked between your legs. His tongue traced the line of your hip, dipped into the hollow of your navel, and then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue across your clit shattered something in you. Your hips jerked off the bed and his free hand pressed down on your stomach, holding you in place while his mouth worked. His tongue was hot and wet and relentless, circling that swollen bud, lapping at it with broad flat strokes that made your thighs shake on either side of his head. "Ahh, ahhh, Gwayne, I, oh gods—"

His fingers inside you curled again, found that spot, pressed it, while his mouth sucked gently. The coil in your belly snapped. You came with a sound you had never made before, a high keening cry that echoed off the stone walls. Your body seized, every muscle clenching, your cunt clamping down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses while wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you. His mouth stayed on you through it, his tongue gentle now, lapping softly as you rode the aftershocks, and his fingers slowed inside you, easing you down.

When you opened your eyes Gwayne was above you, propped on one elbow, his blue eyes soft and dark. His chin was glistening. "You are beautiful when you come."

You reached for him. Your hands found the laces of his breeches and he let you fumble with them, watching your face with that same soft dark expression. When you freed him, you gasped. His cock was hard and flushed, the head of it slick with his own arousal. You had never seen a man in this state before, so you had nothing to compare it to, but his was beautiful. "Does it please you?" he asked, a flash of arrogance, confidence, beneath the warmth. You would have laughed if you were not so desperately, overwhelmingly ready. "I'm sure it will," you murmured. He gave you a wolfish grin and kissed you, positioning himself between your legs. His forehead rested against yours. "This will hurt, but only for a moment," he whispered. "You will let me know if it grows to be too much?" "Yes," you whispered. "I do not care. I want you. Please, Gwayne."

The pressure was immense. The stretch of him, broad, insistent, splitting you open around his girth, was unlike anything you had imagined. There was sharp pain, a brief tearing sensation that made you cry out against his shoulder. He froze, his entire body rigid above you, every muscle locked. "I am sorry," his voice was ragged, barely controlled. "I am sorry. Are you—" "I am fine," your voice shook, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he slid the rest of the way inside you.

You both moaned. He was so deep, impossibly deep, hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the root inside your tight slick channel. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, pressing your hand into the mattress beside your head. "Breathe. Let your body adjust." You breathed. In and out, shuddering, your cunt fluttering around him in involuntary pulses. The pain faded, replaced by a deep aching fullness. Then he shifted his hips, just slightly, a small roll, and the head of his cock pressed against that spot inside you and pleasure blazed through the discomfort. "Oh," you moaned. "Please, move."

He did. Slow at first, drawing back until only the tip of him remained inside you, then pressing forward in a long stroke that seated him fully. His hips met yours with a soft fleshy smack and you gasped, your fingers tightening on his. "That is it," he murmured, his voice hot against your ear. "That is it. You take me so well. So tight, so wet. Gods, you feel—"He picked up the pace. The slap of skin on skin grew louder, your hips began to move with his, an instinct you did not know you possessed, meeting each thrust with a roll of your own that drove him deeper. "Yes," you gasped. "Yes, yes, right there, Gwayne—" "Here?" He adjusted the angle and the head of his cock dragged across that spot inside you with every stroke and your vision went white. "There, please don't stop—"

He did not stop. His thrusts grew harder, faster, the control fraying at the edges. His hand released yours and gripped your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking against the stone wall in a rhythm that would have been mortifying if you had the capacity for mortification. You were lost to the sensation of him inside you, the fullness, the friction, the obscene wet heat of your cunt swallowing his cock with every thrust.

"You are perfect," his voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and that was the end. The coil in your belly, which had been winding tighter with every thrust, every stroke, every wet slap of his hips against yours, snapped. You came with a wail, your back arching off the bed, your cunt clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that pulled him deeper. He followed you over the edge with a groan that was almost a growl. His hips stuttered, lost their rhythm. The warmth of his release flooded you, hot and thick, until you were shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, your nails raking down his back.

He collapsed beside you, his cock slipping free with a wet obscene sound that made you both exhale shakily. His arm came around you, drew you against his chest, as you lay there in the aftermath, your sweat-slicked body pressed against his, his heart hammering against your ear.

One sennight had passed since they’d arrived at Summerhall, and Dunk had finally been assigned duties – real, actual guard duties. 

He was to stand at the end of the corridor for the first shift of the night – hardly a glamorous task, but he vowed to give it his all just the same. Prince Baelor had trusted him enough to take him under his employ following the Trial of Seven – Dunk would not do anything to jeopardise that trust now that the maester had finally declared him recovered enough from his injuries. 

Wine, not oil. Oil will kill him.

The Crown Prince had saved Dunk twice over, thinking of the well-being of a simple hedge-knight even before his own – his brother’s mace had given the prince a serious concussion, though they had not known it then. It had been only when Steely Pate had lifted Prince Baelor’s helm that the man collapsed, falling unconscious. 

Dunk had caught him before his body could even touch the ground, and for a single horrible moment his stomach had plummeted, certain Prince Baelor was dead. 

He had not been, thank the Gods. Though he had given everyone an awfully big fright. Later, Dunk had been told that he had whispered Up, up, ser, rise with the prince in his arms, though he could not remember. 

Prince Baelor had not risen then. It had, in fact, taken three days for the Crown Prince to awaken, and three more for him to be steady enough to depart Ashford.

As part of the prince’s household, Dunk had followed, and Aegon – who insisted on staying on as his squire – in turn followed him.

Summerhall was to be a stop on their path to King’s Landing – they would stay for a fortnight, let the horses rest and stock up on food and rations for the Kingsroad. 

Prince Maekar, Egg had mentioned, would join them instead of staying in Summerhall as had been originally planned – the King had summoned them all to explain why a Trial of Seven had taken place at a girl’s nameday tourney.

It was daunting to think that in a moon’s turn, Dunk might be standing in front of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk just hoped he would not embarrass himself. 

He shifted on his feet, trying not to think too hard on it – there was no sense, Ser Arlan had always said, in worrying about things you could not change.

Still…Dunk had put his foot in his mouth already – at least once that he knew for certain. 

It had been upon their arrival in Summerhall, where he had discovered that the keep – contrary to what he’d believed – did have a Lady.

When Aegon had told him his mother was dead, he had just assumed…well, that Prince Maekar was unwed. He was not. 

In Dunk’s defense, he had only remarried recently, barely six moons ago. 

Though nothing could have saved him from his blunder.

When Aegon had spoken of having two sisters, he had always just mentioned that one of them was older than him, the other younger. Never their ages.

Daeron was a man grown, and he was Aegon’s brother. When he’d seen a young, noble woman in a black and red dress, Dunk had naturally assumed her to be the elder of Aegon’s sisters. Had assumed you to be another Targaryen.

Of an age with Daeron, his twin perhaps. Dunk knew that twins need not always look much alike.

You’d greeted the silver-haired prince with affection, a lingering kiss on his cheek. Dunk had not thought anything of it – you had surely only dearly missed your father.

He had mentioned as such – how nice it was for a daughter to be so concerned – only to be faced with Aegon’s laughter, a small, bemused smile on Prince Baelor’s face and a glare that had been so venomous that Dunk still awoke during some nights, sweating, remembering Prince Maekar’s hatred. 

Confusing Prince Maekar’s young wife for his daughter – it hadn’t done much to endear himself to the gruff man. In fact, Dunk rather thought Prince Maekar despised him, blaming him for the whole mess in Ashford and now feeling insulted by his innocent remark.

Dunk wished he knew how to convince the prince that his older brother had not made a mistake taking him on as a knight.

He sighed, hoping Egg would know of something, when suddenly a noise broke through the silence. 

It was quiet and muffled, but Dunk had a keen ear and Flea Bottom had taught him to pay attention to even the slightest of sounds.

For a moment, he hesitated. Investigating the noise meant leaving his post – though surely he would be forgiven, should it turn out that someone was in need of aid. 

He heard it again, and this time he identified it as a woman’s voice. Calling out, though Dunk could not make out the words.

As he tracked the noise, striding further into the corridor, his countenance darkened. Dunk clutched his sword scabbard nervously, praying to the Gods that his grip would not slip.

Whatever it was, it sounded like–

Like a woman in pain. He had not been able to make out words because they were none, only gasps and whimpers. Then, he heard something else.

A sound that made him cringe, an instinctive flinch overtaking his body. It was the sound of a palm hitting flesh.

Someone is hurting this woman, Dunk thought, first in a panic and then with growing determination as he remembered that he was no longer a boy, helpless Dunk from Flea Bottom. He was Ser Duncan the Tall.

Upon his honour as a knight, he knew he had to intervene.

He knew that the castellan had told him who each of the chambers in this corridor belonged to, but Dunk, for the life of him, could not recall it clearly. It was not important. He could get names later – first, he needed to assist whatever lady was in distress. 

He was proud to say he did not hesitate as he threw open the door, his sword in hand, raised and ready. “Unhand the lady at once!” he roared, putting all his strength into his voice, relieved that it did not shake.

But the accomplishment quickly soured. Everything curdled in his stomach as he beheld the scene he had stumbled into.

There was no maiden in distress – only a lady. A princess by marriage. Prince Maekar’s wife, a lady around Dunk’s age. You.

And you were not in distress, even Dunk could see it. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, your bottom bare and reddened by your husband’s hand. He had been spanking you, Dunk thought, and you were enjoying it. 

A furious, dark blush spread from the tips of his ears to the tip of his toes as two pairs of eyes found him, one widened in alarm, the other alight with anger.

His sword dropped to the floor with a clatter, and he quickly averted his eyes from the sight of your nude body. “I–” he started, “I thought–”

The prince’s voice cut through his stutter. “Fucking imbecile!”

There was movement, though Dunk did not see it. The ceiling was his refuge; he was afraid to look down again.

“I should have you flogged,” Prince Maekar continued, sounding closer than before. Just once, Dunk’s eyes flicked down again, and he saw the prince’s form striding over to him, a pair of breeches hastily covering his lower body. Beyond his shoulder, you had sat up, the sheets wrapped around you. You looked alarmed. 

“My love–” you began. 

Prince Maekar shushed you. “Do not,” he interrupted flatly, “defend him.”

Softer, he added, “He saw you.”

I wish I didn’t, Dunk thought, then wavered, because that sounded like the sight of you had been unpleasant and it had certainly not been, you were quite comely, beautiful even, and–

He cleared his throat. Ser Arlan was right. I’m an idiot.

When the prince was almost upon him, Dunk realised he ought to do something. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped to a knee, his head bowed. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, not sure if he made any sense, “I meant no harm. I merely heard… I thought–” 

“That I was mistreating my wife?” the Targaryen prince asked, brows raised. 

“No!” Dunk yelled all too quickly, fear coursing through him at the thought of what Prince Maekar might do to him, “I couldn’t recall that these were the Lady’s chambers, I swear. I merely– I am a knight,” he said, as though it was an explanation. 

“A fool is what you are,” Prince Baelor’s brother countered, his expression stern. Dunk wished the floor would just swallow him up. He was glad that at least he had not been struck yet. A clout in the ear, Ser Arlan had always called it.

“Maekar,” you said softly, “he did not know any better. He heard a woman cry out behind a closed door. He did what he thought a knight ought to do.” 

Dunk was astonished that your words seemed to be working, placating the dragon that seemed only moments from spewing fire. The prince’s shoulders lost some of their tension, your husband swaying towards you as though drawn by a siren song. 

“He ought have better discernment,” Prince Maekar grumbled, his jaw clenched.

“I am sure he will learn.” Your eyes brushed past the prince’s, locking with Dunk’s. “Won’t you?”

He nodded so fast he was almost dizzy with it. “Yes, of course, m’lady, I will, I won’t make this mistake again, I swear it upon my life–”

“I believe you,” you interrupted him with a giggle. “See, my love? He is as earnest as they come. Baelor chose well.”

Prince Maekar did not look impressed. “He still saw you naked.”

You sighed, drawing the sheets tighter around yourself and stepping up to them. Dunk tried not to look at the shape of your legs. He was still kneeling, his line of sight rather unfortunate – for his well-being at least.

“He did not do it on purpose,” you told your husband, one hand curling around his bicep. 

For a moment Dunk thought Prince Maekar might shake it off, but he did not deny you.

Instead, the harsh prince allowed you to all but wrap yourself around him, and Dunk felt as though you were a wall, protecting him from the Anvil’s wrath.

But the Prince of Summerhall was not quite ready to give up. “That does not change anything,” he snapped. “He had no rights to your body.”

“The maester has seen me naked, are you going to punish him?” you asked with a small smile. 

“That is different.” 

You chuckled, your right hand cradling your husband’s cheek, turning his head your way. 

“I fail to see how,” you commented. “I am not married to Maester Creyle.”

“Do not test me, wife.” It was phrased as a warning, but Dunk could see the prince’s mouth twitching, and he could detect no venom in the older man’s tone.

“But I do so love testing you,” you lilted. You traipsed back towards the bed, sitting down. Even Dunk could notice how charged the air had become – differently than before. Not with anger.

Prince Maekar immediately began following you like a hound on a leash, following its master. Halfway there, he remembered Dunk.

“Leave,” he ordered, not even bothering to look back at the kneeling knight. It was but one word. 

Dunk had never gotten up faster in his life. He scrambled for his sword, sheathing it with clammy hands as he stumbled through the door, quickly closing it behind himself. He pretended he had not heard your squeal, the creak of the mattress. 

By the time he retook his post, his face burned anew. He did not want to listen. Truly, he did not. But without beeswax to plug his ears, it was impossible to ignore what he now knew were the sounds your husband drew from your body. 

When it was time for a change of guards, he did not say a word. He did not need to. Your pleasure was still clear for all to hear. 

Dunk’s eyes met the other knight’s. “You just learn to disregard it,” the man said, a pained grimace on his face. “But it is astonishing, is it not?” Upon seeing Dunk’s puzzled face, he elaborated. “A man his age with a wife that young?” He whistled quietly.

“Dragon blood sure burns hot. Be glad you weren’t here for their honeymoon.”

My eyes averted to the man in front of me—between my legs—as he dug his fingers deeper into the flesh of my hips. A small moan tried to escape me, but I bit my lip, trying to suppress it.

His scowl only deepened at my reaction. With a growl, he slammed himself inside me—his thrusts relentless, almost too desperate for even him.

 "Are you gonna be mad the whole time?" Maekar exhaled sharply, eyes locked onto mine. My glare only hardened—more annoyed by the second—and I made sure he saw it. I was furious at him, and my face screamed it without words. He rolled his eyes when he caught that stubborn look—I wasn’t backing down.

"You’re acting like a fucking child," he growled before yanking me closer by my hips with those big hands of his. A moan slipped out despite myself—but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. So I turned my head to hide it… but his hand snapped up instantly—rough fingers gripping my chin—and forced me back to face him.

"Look at me… you don’t get to look away while I’m fucking you," he murmured into my ear, his lips brushing my skin like a whisper. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver through me. My eyes flicked up instinctively—meeting his.

"You’re impossible," I finally snapped through clenched teeth. He didn’t argue. Just gave the tiniest shake of his head—like I was the impossible one. 

He wasn’t giving in. I could see it—the frustration etched on his face. It wasn’t helping… not at all. My patience snapped.

With a low groan, I shoved him off me and pushed him down onto the mattress hard enough that his back hit the sheets with a thud—the bed creaking loudly under us.

Straddling his lap without hesitation, I gripped one of his shoulders for balance—my nails digging deep into skin on instinct; I didn’t care for marking his skin.

Then slowly—I adjusted my hips until he was fully inside me once more—a quiet moan escaping despite myself. But this time, I kept eye contact. 

Something shifted in his gaze—his eyes darkening, hands sliding back to my hips like they owned me. I set a slow rhythm—deliberate, controlled—and he responded instantly: breath hitching, chest vibrating under me as a muffled groan escaped.

"You don’t get to be mad at me," I breathed out between movements—my voice laced with defiance. The contrast was obvious: his earlier aggression now muted beneath my pace.

"Acting like a jealous child," I accused softly—the words almost teasing if not for the edge underneath.

He scoffed through clenched teeth—a disbelieving grunt—but didn’t argue back. No agreement either… just silent resistance simmering beneath us both.

"So fucking jealous," I whispered—then attacked. My lips crashed onto the sensitive skin of his neck—kissing first, then biting gently before sealing my mouth over a pulse point.

Maekar couldn’t hold it in—a loud moan tore through the quiet room as I sucked hard. A hickey bloomed instantly: dark red against his pale throat.

Pulling back just enough to admire my work? Worth it. Childish? Maybe… but that smirk on my face said otherwise.

Leaning down again, I took him all in—the sweat-damp hair stuck to his forehead; those faint pink cheeks from exertion; eyes glazed over like he was drowning in sensation.

"I could see it on his face… he wanted to fuck you," he finally said—voice low, edged with something possessive.

"He was greeting me, like all the other lords and ladies," I scoffed in annoyance. He shook his head again.  

"I saw the look on his face…" His hands traveled upward, roaming all over my body. "...he looked at your breasts." His hand immediately cupped one of my breasts—I threw my head back when his thumb brushed against my nipple.

"You’re projecting," I moaned, his touch making it hard to breathe. "Just admit you're jealous without a reason—" Another moan cut me off as he arched up, meeting my hips halfway.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath before locking eyes with him again. "You just wanted an excuse to fuck me."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You're actually insane." But the tight grip on my hips? The way his jaw clenched? It all screamed guilt—even if shame wasn’t something he usually showed.

My hand snapped up—and smack—my palm connected with his cheek. His head turned sharply to the side from the force… but shock didn’t flash across his face.

No. Instead, a low moan spilled from him—deep and involuntary.

"Why won’t you just admit it?" I demanded through gritted teeth, hips never stopping their rhythm against him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"  

Each word punched out of me as my hips slammed down harder, skin slapping loud in the quiet room. He groaned—then suddenly his hands framed my face, yanking me forward.

The kiss was all heat and chaos: lips crashing, teeth clashing before his tongue shoved past mine. Still burning with frustration, I bit his bottom lip hard—the metallic tang of blood flooding our mouths instantly.

He moaned into it… but I swallowed that sound whole, humming like it tasted good despite everything.

My hips stilled abruptly—no more movement. I stayed suspended above him, breathing hard.  

"I’m not moving again until you admit it," I said flatly, arms crossed over his chest like a barricade. The room fell dead silent—just our ragged breaths between us.

For a long second? Nothing. No sound from him… no shift of muscles under me.

Then—a barely-there mumble escaped his lips: "...You were right."

It was so quiet I almost missed it.

So without blinking: "Louder." My voice didn’t waver this time—demanding clarity before any action resumed at all. "You were right."  

His voice came out stiff—forced, like the words physically pained him. His eyes flashed with something raw: frustration, surrender? Maybe both.

I didn’t move. Not yet.  

"Again," I demanded, holding his gaze as my hips stayed frozen above him.

A beat passed—then another low grumble escaped through clenched teeth: "...You were right."

That did it.

"Fuck...yes," I breathed before finally rolling my hips down hard again—the fire in my stomach erupting all over again as we hurtled toward that edge together.

The tension snapped—both of us hurtling toward the edge at once. His hands gripped my hips hard, fingers digging in as his breath came in ragged bursts against my lips. There was no teasing left—just pure urgency.

Then it hit: that white-hot second where everything crystallized. My body tensed first—a gasp tearing from me before I could stifle it—as pleasure ripped through every nerve ending like lightning.

Maekar arched beneath me with a choked groan; his entire frame locking up for one suspended moment before crashing down into release right alongside me—the two peaks colliding perfectly without words needed.

The room settled into a hush. No sounds now except our slowing breaths and the faint creak of cooling bodies.

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”

The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite. 

So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”

“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.

Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.” 

He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.

“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.

The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.

There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.

“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”

The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”

“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"

“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.

“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.” 

“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”

“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”

He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat.  The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.

“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.” 

Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.

“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…” 

Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either. 

“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”

You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.

You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”

You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.

“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.

“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”

Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.

You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”

“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.

“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”

You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder. 

“Alright.” 

Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.

“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”

It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.

He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.

“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”

Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”

“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.

Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”

You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”

You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”

The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.

The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot. 

You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.

No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be. 

He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.

“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”

“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.” 

Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…” 

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.

“No?” 

“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”

Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.

Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.

Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.

Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden. 

You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway.  And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.

“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…” 

“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…” 

Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down. 

“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window. 

Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.

Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.

“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”

Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.

He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”

“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”

“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…” 

“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”

You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble. 

Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.

You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.

“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan. 

But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.

“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.

“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”

“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…” 

Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…” 

“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.

“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.” 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”

“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”

You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.

Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest. 

It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.

“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary. 

You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here. 

His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine. 

Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer. 

You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.

His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.

“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”