#dark gwayne hightower

[venusbyline]

Gwayne Hightower — Merciful Gods (2/3)

chapter two

(previous chapter)

(next chapter)

— summary: Gwayne Hightower is back in King's Landing. Just as you are willing to try to avoid your uncle at all costs, he is more than eager to finally show you the price for his silence.

— pairing: Gwayne Hightower x niece!reader

— type: dark

— word count: 4.2k

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, dark!Gwayne, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Hightower Incest (uncle/niece), dubcon, non-con touching, sexual tension, pre-smut, blood licking, blood and injury, finger sucking, violence, choking, asphyxiation, dacryphilia, degradation, sexism, religious conflict, religious guilt, corruption kink, age gap (older man/younger woman), referenced non-con voyeurism, referenced oral sex (male receiving), past underage dubcon, argument, face-slapping, hair-pulling, fingering, gaslighting, manipulation, curse words, referenced character death, prince regent!Aemond mentioned, dark content, abusive and toxic relationship, obsessive behaviour, minor Gwayne Hightower/random lady, sub!reader, dom!Gwayne, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: Merciful Gods is a threeshot series. It involves dark content about religiosity (The Faith of the Seven), incest relationship and women's repressed carnal desires.

— author's notes²: Each chapter will have its own trigger warnings.

— crossposting: AO3

❥ about me • Gwayne masterlist • HOTD masterlist • main masterlist

❥ Merciful Gods masterlist

You were sitting in an armchair in the chambers where your oldest brother Aegon was bedridden, the smell of burning flesh making the daily visit there almost unbearable. Your fingers tapped the cup of milk of the poppy that Larys Strong had demanded you deliver to the King when he woke up.

The sight of the liquid was quite disheartening to watch, the fate's irony aching your chest every time you thought about the whole situation. You had seen your mother handing it to your father to drink too, without any success. Viserys died anyway and now your brother seemed destined for the same tragic end. Or at least a part of it.

When Aegon began to blink his eyes slightly, you wiped away the single tear running down your cheek, moving yourself closer to the bed. You quickly approached him to carefully place the edge of the cup on his injured and swollen lips. "Here..."

Aegon drank the milk with a frown, the discomfort inside his throat persisting even after weeks since he was brutally attacked. His groan of pain resounded and made you immediately step back, setting the small container aside and placing it on top of the bed table.

"Why are not you at Sept again?" His voice was so hoarse and you almost jumped with surprise. After a few seconds trying to understand what your brother was asking about, you shifted uncomfortably on the free part of the mattress, right next to him.

"I am not going there as often anymore. Our Mother asked me to focus on your health during some weeks."

Aegon scoffed at the whispered words and the guilty look on your face. "Of course she ordered that..." He changed the words.

Alicent had asked you? Ordered? You did not know... She looked worried when she came to tell you to stop accompanying her and Helaena in their prayers. At first, you did not understand the reasons and tried to search her for answers, only receiving a quick and somewhat stuttered argument that you should focus on your King for a while. That made sense, you thought.

Helaena preferred not to even go near Aegon's chambers, going there twice at most, once when he arrived all burned and almost dead, and again a few days later. Alicent also did not usually visit her firstborn, claiming that she could not watch his deplorable state for too long without wanting to cry. Aemond had also only been there twice during all that time, but you doubted that the current Prince Regent's visits had been friendly.

There was only you left. Born in 112 AC, two years after Aemond's birth and two years before Daeron's. Being King Viserys's youngest daughter came with very few perks. Unlike Daeron, who liked to be forgotten by the family and live as just a knight in Oldtown, there was an incessant search in your heart for belonging. The desire to be seen. To be useful. It did not take long for you to accept the duty of taking care of Aegon for an indefinite period of time, even if it meant that you would be away from your religious responsibilities.

The Gods would not be so angry if you left them aside so you could take care of the remaining health of your older brother and your King... Right?

"Well... then you are not lighting candles for the sake of my life anymore. I suppose that is why I am not getting better."

The King's joke dried your throat with guilt and embarrassment, but you immediately shook your head, refusing to think something like that. "That is not true. The Seven know I am just not going to the Great Sept for now because I need to be useful to you."

Aegon raised an eyebrow, a frown deepening on his face due to the pain that hit him after trying to change his expression. "If the Gods understood your reasons, then why am I not cured yet?"

Aegon's words were bitter but true at the same time. Even though you are sitting, your body flinched and you sighed, staring at the empty part of the chambers, thinking about what would be better to say so you could refute what he was suggesting. The Seven knew what was happening. They should have known that you continued to beg for mercy every day in your thoughts, despite you were not present in the Sept.

Perhaps your prayers were no longer being answered because Aegon had never been a religious man and had committed countless sins throughout those twenty-two years of his life.

Or perhaps it was your own fault, sealing your family's fate two years ago, when you did not care about the Faith's value and had let your rebellious and dark desires take over your mind, fingerfucking yourself at the middle of the Great Sept, ignoring the knowledge about the Gods seeing your sinful act.

"The pleas of the sinners are not answered with the same speed as those of good and devout people."

Your point was not just about Aegon, and he probably knew this when he stared at your shrunken and pensive form with those big eyes that had once been full of energy and fun, and that were now nothing more than two dull irises even in the midst of the fire.

"And what are the sins of a little child?"

The King's rhetorical question froze his body. What had been Jaehaerys' sins, your little nephew? Just a innocent child brutally decapitated in front of his mother and his twin sister, suffering such a violent and tragic end due to the actions of his family's ambition and impulsiveness...

How could the Seven have no mercy and allow such suffering to a pure being like him? Why would they punish Jaehaerys instead of Aemond? How could they allow Daemon and Rhaenyra to remain alive out there, even after planning such a monstrosity?

During dinner, you found yourself lonely in the dining room, the table practically empty, just you and your mother occupying two opposite ends of the large, luxurious furniture. The only sounds the walls had the displeasure of witnessing were the servants passing back and forth with the dishes, even though neither you nor Alicent seemed interested in the meal.

As Alicent tore into a piece of steak with her knife and fork, you could not help but break the silence with a barely audible murmur. "Before the war, you never told me what your plans were for my future."

It was not a question, it was a statement. A statement that did not seem to catch Alicent off guard, even if that was a part of your true intention. Why has everything in your life always seemed so... monotonous?

Alicent and Otto decided the future of almost all of the Queen's children since their childhood, and all of your siblings were failing in crucial parts of the plans that had been laid out for them years before.

Aegon was supposed to be the King, but he had always been an irresponsible drunk, without expectation of a bright future and being content about anything as long as there was wine and beautiful women to satisfy his emptiness and lust. Now, he was nothing more than a broken person. A burned and bedridden king, following in his father's footsteps.

Helaena was supposed to be the Queen Consort and carry Aegon's heirs, ensuring the Hightower bloodline on the Iron Throne. Now, her fertile womb and also her submissive personality were of no use after her son's death. A ghost of a traumatized mother. A traumatized little girl, losing her firstborn just as Alicent feared losing hers.

Aemond was supposed to be a loyal brother, a dragonrider with great sword skills, ensuring protection for his family and using his intelligence for the prosperity of Aegon's reign. He had the potential to become the Hand of the King as the years passed. Now, the smart boy was nothing more than a callous tyrant who had led everyone to ruin by starting an entire war out of pure impulsivity and rage. Like an imitation of his grandfather, Otto, always blinded by the desire for power. Always wishing more than was within his reach.

Daeron was supposed to be the free knight, daring and focused on his responsibilities with the kingsguard and raised far from King's Landing, an attempt to keep him immune to the family chaos. Now, he was being summoned by Aemond to return to the place where he was born and fight for the Greens, thus ending his days as a carefree soul. Like your uncle Gwayne, being forced to sacrifice his peace and spill more blood around.

And then there was you. No great future waiting for you nor causing your end either. There was no heavy crown. There were no children inside your wombs. There were no bloody swords with the blood of your own family members and no horseback riding into battle too.

There was simply nothing.

Nothing like Viserys. Nothing like Alicent. Nothing like Otto and nothing like Gwayne...

An empty crumpled parchment and ignored in the corner of a room, longing for the day when somebody would pick up a fountain pen and write each step of your story until there was no more space left and they were forced to put a spot on the final page.

"Years ago, I considered sending you to Oldtown along with Daeron."

You were surprised by Alicent's confession, not because your mother had given up on that idea for some unknown reason, but because she had at least considered that. It was something curious. Otto and she could have tried to betroth you to Aemond before the Dance of the Dragons, as they had done with Helaena and Aegon, or they could have used you to form a political marriage with a lord from other powerful house even now, acquiring more allies. Unless...

"What would I do in Oldtown back then?" Alicent snorted when she listened to your whispered insistence, stopping chewing the meal and staring at you with a look that indicated that matter was not the most appropriate at the dinner time.

"I did not know. Becoming a Septa, I guess."

You felt sick to your stomach, your heart racing as thoughts about serving the female clergy of the Faith of the Seven left you somewhat stunned. You knew that in the end, your mother's previous plan had been set aside with the unfolding of the Dance of the Dragons.

The problem was not about your mother wishing such a simple fate for her second and youngest daughter. No... You understood her, despite everything. Faith had always been valuable to her, to most of the Hightowers' ancestors and also for Alicent's mother's side of the family.

The biggest problem was about your mother considering a religious life for you, and you disappointed both her and the Gods, the memory of you pleasuring yourself at the Sept remaining vivid inside your mind, tormenting you with guilt during the last few moons.

You mumbled and looked at the porcelain plate in front of you. "I do not think I would deserve to serve the Gods in this way."

Your words were met with Alicent humming an agreement, followed by a low scoff. "That is why I was forced to discard my initial idea." Eyes immediately widened, you watched your mother with confusion and curiosity, a chill running down your spine while Alicent returned your gaze, her face serious and her jaw clenched. "Two years ago, your grandfather was informed about your immoral and perverted act within the Great Sept."

By the time dinner was over and the tears were running down your face like a torrent, you headed to your uncle's chambers, not caring about the presence of the guards patrolling there. You ignored everyone's confused looks and opened the doors like a dragon about to breathe fire on all the walls.

"YOU LIED TO ME!"

Gwayne was not even worried about the sudden visit, unlike the random lady lying naked on his bed, covering her own breasts in a failed attempt to spare her dignity, unaware that you were not focused on her identity at all.

It did not matter if your uncle was fucking with court ladies in the midst of the few minutes of peace during the war. That was irrelevant at that moment, your mind was driven only by purest anger, the feeling of betrayal burning in your chest.

The girl, who looked almost as young as you, started to get dressed when Gwayne whispered something in her ear. However, you did not wait for her to finish, continuing to talk — or yell — with the red-haired man. "You are a fucking liar!"

Your uncle frowned at your accusation, and despite the heavy atmosphere, he did not even bother to deny it. He shrugged, gazing at his niece with an expression that indicated his only frustration was at being interrupted at the particular moment with the other lady. "May I know what is motivating your fury this time?"

You let out a low growl after his presumptuous tone, giving one last look at the girl who was leaving the chambers, turning to Gwayne again. "You promised me you would not tell anyone about what you saw two years ago!"

The shouting caused a chuckle from Gwayne, who got up from the bed without any sheets around his waist, his rosy and still mid-aroused cock catching your attention against your will. You felt your cheeks blushing with shame and frustration as you remembered those curly pubic red hairs so close to your mouth and almost making you choke.

Memories increasing your anger like a erupting volcano. "You... You bought my silence! You made me beg and cry for you mercy... You made me—" Words died in your mouth and you sobbed again, placing the palm of the hand on your face to stifle the panic that was setting in. How could he do something like that?

How could you done something like that?

The Seven would never forgive any of you.

"Is this why our family is suffering too much, uncle? Is this why the Gods no longer forgive us? Is everyone suffering because we sinned twice that night?"

Gwayne's amused look changed when the questions came, his eyes that were previously mocking your tantrum were now as dark as the last time you interacted alone with him, hands clenched into fists to try to control the whirlwind of emotions.

Weeks ago, your uncle had said that you would pay for slapping him after he insulted you in the Great Sept and reminded you about your own sins... You thought he might say something to Alicent, tell her about your old dirty little secret. Or even invent lies that would ruin your reputation.

Everything you imagined before was like a mere joke, like a child's prank compared to what Gwayne really done. The revelation that he ratted you out right after buying your silence with a sexual way made you feel sick. You had been deceived. You had been used. You had been eternally tainted in the eyes of the Seven.

And you could not put all the blame on your uncle shoulders. Yes, Gwayne sworn to keep your secret and deceived you then. But he would not have done that if you had not given in to immorality either way. Gwayne would not have needed to put you on your knees and force you to give him a head if you had not pleasured yourself at a sacred place. Gwayne would not treated you like a cheap whore if you had not acted like one.

You caused all of this, allowing yourself to be deceived, used and stained.

You angered the Gods, with no expectation of divine forgiveness.

"I am dirty." The whisper caught Gwayne off guard, one eyebrow raised and waiting for the next words. Your eyes glazing over the chambers floor as you followed saying. "When we met again at the Sept a few moons ago... You said I was dirty."

Gwayne nodded. "Yes, I did." He waited for you to continue, huffing as the silence progressed. "And now you are going to admit that I was right?"

You did not respond him at first, tears aching the violet irises and throat feeling raw, nothing but light sobs coming out. Realization hit you with such violence that you felt like you were going to pass out, your eyesight becoming blurred and the food you ate during the dinner rolling around in your stomach. The waves of the Narrow Sea during winter nights would be gentle compared to the thoughts that drowned your mind.

"Fuck, little niece. Do not be so dramatic..." The man growled, moving until he was in front of you, his two strong calloused hands grabbing your forearms and pulling you until you sat carelessly on his large bed. There was no resistance, your head aching so much that for a moment the brief pain he caused was an anchor keeping you sane to the real world, an anchor keeping you a sinner alive. "Look at me, girl." He ordered, noticing how the violet color of your irises became opaque every second you thought about those manners. When you did not obey him immediately, Gwayne grabbed your chin, refusing to let you stare into space like a complete insane.

"Did you know? Did you know that my mother wanted to make me a Septa?" It was the first thing you allowed yourself to question him — the first thing you had the courage to question to him.

Gwayne's silence lasted for seconds, staring at you and clenching his jaw, biting his lower lip for a few seconds. "Yes." You already knew what was coming. "I did. That is why I told my father about your sinful act."

You could not help but scoff. "So you wanted to take away my opportunity to have any future other than being a maiden in the middle of a war, unable to do anything to help my family? No use or—"

His free hand grabbed your neck and the other kept your chin turned towards him. "You think I am the villain here and you are my victim? You are acting like I forced you to suck my cock and then stabbed you in the back."

"It is because you actually did it!" You returned his growl. The fingers around your throat were nothing more than an extra grip, but you knew Gwayne could choke you at any second if he wanted to. "Two years ago I was crying with shame at being seen in my sinful moment, and you took advantage of that. You said that every silence requires a price, and you demanded that I give you pleasure. You used my throat like I was a whore and soon after went to tell my grandfather about my sin!"

Gwayne was silent for a while, his big brown eyes returning your gaze, finally letting go of your face and neck. Before you could think, Gwayne pulled you out of bed, pushing you against the floor, his hand on top of your head to prevent you from reaching up. "Stop fighting!" He shouted, his fingers now tangling in your hair, pulling at the silver strands and making you cry out due to ache in your scalp. "I saved your miserable life!"

Your nails dug into his bare thigh to fight against his dark side, pulling out blood drops that ran like honey. However, the sudden violence increased the intensity of the darkness inside Gwayne's soul, his palm hitting your face twice until you were seeing stars, your head now stretched out towards him, kneeling on the ground like a religious and devout girl. No longer for the Gods. Just for him.

There was blood on your lips, caused by the hard slap so close to your mouth. The tears flowed desperately, the sobs echoed low as if it were the cries of an innocent child, your nails were red-stained after hurting Gwayne and trying to feel less pathetic and fragile.

"I saved you." Your uncle said again, watching you crying as if it were a spectacle. "That is why I told my father about your secret. Because I know you better than anyone, sweet niece. I know the sins in your mind, your desires..."

Shaking the head, you sniveled. "You do not know me, uncle. You are insane, dirty... Wicked."

Such accusations had a bitter taste, like holy whispers and mockery. Oh... He was all of that. All of that and much more, he already knew that. You already knew that too.

"We are both the same, dear. The difference between me and you, is that I do not regret my sins. However, you forced yourself to be devoted to the Seven because you are afraid of their punishment." Your cheekbone was caressed by Gwayne's hand. He wiped away some of the tears that flowed there, and then ran his fingertips over his own injured thigh, spreading the blood onto the skin and pushing his digits into your half-open mouth. "You are fucking stupid, niece. Believing that the Gods are merciful..."

Gwayne rambled and fucked your throat with his fingers at the same time, thrusting them so deep that spit began to drip from your mouth, the churning sensation inside your stomach returning and almost causing you vomit in front of him, to make the humiliating sight worse. As much as you wanted to keep fighting or just run away from him, you remained still, crying and kneeling on the ground, feeling the taste of his blood on your tongue.

Your eyelids were tightened, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to think about what he was saying, even if it was impossible. "Do you think I messed up your reputation? Do you think I forced you to taste sin and then used it against you? I SAVED YOUR LIFE, YOU UNGRATEFUL SLUT!" His yelling was followed by your muffled cry as you felt like you were going to throw up, his fingers bruising the back of your throat until your uvula was too sore. Gwayne removed his hand from inside your lips, your dripping spit running down his skin and dripping onto the floor, as did the tears, your body lowered and shaking to collect yourself.

"I saved you..." Gwayne repeated, softer this time, letting go of your hair and placing a few inches of distance between the two of you, your pitiful form curled up on the floor. "You had such a potential. You did not deserve to spend years serving Gods who do not care about our suffering." He did not even order you to look at him, but you did anyway, reddish and swollen lips, stained with his blood along with yours. "Gods are not merciful, sweetheart. If they were, Jaehaerys would not be dead. Helaena would not be broken-minded..."

"This is my fault..." You managed to mutter, voice hoarse due to the wound on your throat and on the roof of your mouth. "If I had understood the importance of the Faith of the Seven sooner... If I had not pleasure myself at the Great Sept, perhaps our family..."

"Do not be pathetic." Gwayne interrupted his niece roughly, despite his pious face. "Merciful Gods would not cause so much chaos and destruction in an entire family just because a little girl fingered her own cunt at a sacred place instead of being lighting candles and praying."

Suddenly, choking and almost throwing up on his fingers seemed like the least shameful thing during that entire night. "That... That was a blasphemy."

Gwayne smiled after your self-critical argument, a wistful smile. His imposing figure finally relaxed the tense shoulders, ignoring his own nakedness and carefully lifting you off the ground. He made a mental note to never forget how beautiful you looked there on the floor, as if he was your favorite God, or the only one, and you were begging for his mercy. As if he were your savior, the only one capable of freeing you from that torment and cruel fate that awaited you.

He wanted to be yours. He wanted you to be his. Gwayne wanted all of the Seven Gods to see him taking your maidenhead, fucking you until you were dripping with his seed. He wanted everyone to know that you were devoted to him, not to a stupid faith that condemned you to unnecessary purity.

All of the Hightowers already had their fates sealed. Gwayne knew that he could die fighting during the Dance of the Dragons, just as he knew that you could also die due to the wrong actions that your family and the other Targaryens had taken over all those years. Every manipulation, every fight, every cruel decision, every exaggerated and impulsive reaction...

Gwayne did not care if what he was doing was wrong before the Seven or not. He did not care if his sister found out about this or not. He understood what you wanted. He understood what you needed. He was already aware of the potential you had in favoring your own carnal desires instead of surrendering to divine forgiveness.

Gwayne would not let you surrender again. He would not let you be like his own mother or Alicent, always lighting candles and begging for the mercy and kindness of the Gods.

And when Gwayne's hand finally touched your throbbing neglected clit covered by the dress, both of you knew there was no going back. The Seven would never forgive those sins.

[venusbyline]

Rewriting the second chapter of Merciful Gods exactly like this hahahah

But in my defense... yesterday the weather was 86 °F (i'm #01 summer hater) and I was having a lot of period pains 😭😭

it’s not “procrastination” if you’re thinking about your characters while doomscrolling. that’s called brainstorming.

[saltywritings]

Unsworn Protector ( Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Niece! Reader )

Summary: The reader is sent to Old Town with Daeron, however, is left in an uncomfortable situation when her uncle finds her with a pillow.

Warnings: explicit smut under the cut minors do not interact, incest, age gap, reader has a pillow princess moment, oral (female receiving), penetration, Gwayne is giving sub vibes.

Word count: 3,728

The journey to Old Town was arduous and slow, a monotonous trek that seemed designed to drain one's spirit. Few things could be more disheartening than being sent to Old Town, a place that felt like exile. Your mother, the queen, insisted that sending you and your younger brother Daeron there was for the best, claiming it would build character—whatever that meant. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that she simply preferred not to deal with you. Sending you and Daeron away made it easier for her to focus on Aegon. Despite her intentions, you were frustrated by being uprooted from your home, all in the name of this so-called character building.

When the carriage finally arrived in Old Town, your eyes took in the sights as you traveled swiftly through the city. Having spent your entire life in King's Landing, Old Town seemed exceptionally small. You noticed the tall walls surrounding the castle, some sections near the gate clad in ivy.

"Finally, we're here," Daeron exclaimed as he rushed to the carriage door, eager to free himself from its confines.

With a mix of frustration and disgust, you pushed at your brother’s back as he deliberately blocked the carriage door, trapping you inside. "Daeron!" you shouted, your hands shoving at the coarse fabric of his shirt. "Let me out, you fool!" You struggled against him as he laughed, his mirth only heightening your irritation.

Suddenly, another voice cut through the commotion. "Come now, my prince. Let your sister out," it urged. Reluctantly, Daeron relented and stepped down the few stairs, finally freeing you from the confined space of the carriage.

As you finally freed yourself from the carriage, you realized the voice belonged to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower. Though many years had passed since you last saw him, you recognized him instantly. Stepping forward, your feet now firmly planted on the ground, you shot a sharp glare at Daeron, resisting the urge to shove him, before turning back to your uncle.

"Thank you, Uncle," you said with a small nod.

Daeron, looking bewildered, finally noticed Gwayne. "Oh—Uncle Gwayne. I didn’t recognize you," he replied, prompting you to narrow your eyes.

"I’m not surprised," you said. "You were but a babe the last time he visited."

"Indeed you were," Gwayne said with a warm smile. "I'm surprised you recognize me, Princess. You've grown as much as your brother."

He stepped forward, extending his hand toward you. You raised yours to meet his, and he took it gently, bringing it to his lips with a delicate kiss that conveyed a soft, caring warmth. Your eyes fluttered slightly as you looked at him, appreciating the affectionate gesture.

"You've grown so much," he remarked, turning his attention to Daeron.

"I'm certain I haven't grown that much," you insisted with a modest smile.

Daeron glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and snorted. "Oh, trust me, you’ve grown—just not in height, sister," he mocked. Unable to restrain yourself, you gave him a small shove in response.

Your uncle watched the exchange, a faint smile playing on his lips, and shook his head with a soft chuckle at your sibling rivalry.

Gwayne shook his head with a gentle sigh, his gaze shifting to Daeron. "Now, nephew, I understand why your mother insisted on sending you here. One day, you'll realize the value of your sister's presence. Treat her with the respect she deserves," he urged, his tone firm yet compassionate. You cast a sidelong glance at your brother, a small smile playing on your lips now that your uncle had come to your defense.

Daeron responded with an eye roll, his demeanor defiant. Gwayne cleared his throat, his expression turning more serious. "I'll have your cousin show you to your room, Daeron," he declared, nodding towards him. "As for you, Princess," Gwayne continued, extending his arm toward you. "I will personally escort you to your chambers." You took his arm promptly, grateful for his support and guidance in this unfamiliar place.

Gwayne escorted you up the stairs and down a hallway to your assigned room. As the door swung open, you couldn't shake the feeling of entering a stranger's room. Though the space was well-appointed and fair, it lacked the personal touch of home. Sensing your unease, Gwayne spoke up as the two of you entered.

"This will be your chambers. My quarters are just next door," he explained, his voice reassuring. "Consider me your protector, close at hand." His words were accompanied by a small, comforting smile.

In that moment, you realized Gwayne's striking presence: his piercing blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and eloquent speech. His demeanor offered a sense of security that eased your nerves, prompting you to return his smile warmly.

"You are to be your sworn protector then?" you questioned, eyebrows knitting together as you stood somewhat puzzled. Gwayne couldn't help but chuckle softly as he shook his head.

"No, sweet niece. There's no need for that here," he reassured you gently, "but I promise to watch over you." His words carried a comforting assurance.

You nodded in understanding, your hand still linked with his arm. "Did my mother explain why she sent me here?" you asked, recalling her vague answers and insistence that leaving the Red Keep was in your best interest. Gwayne sensed your unease and took your hands in his with tender care.

"Niece," he spoke softly, "Your mother didn't want to send you away, but you're soon to be married—or at least betrothed. She thought it would be easier for you not to be uprooted from your home like many maidens are." His explanation caused you to look away, a mixture of emotions stirring within you.

"I don't want to be betrothed to a stranger," you confessed to your uncle, your hands still held in his. "The thought of belonging to a man I don't know, who doesn't know me—it frightens me."

Gwayne's expression softened at your confession. He released one of your hands and gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes held a depth of understanding as he listened intently to your words.

"Your feelings are valid, my dear. Many women share your apprehensions—I know your mother did," Gwayne said soothingly, hoping to bring you comfort. "Besides, not every lady finds herself betrothed to a stranger. Try not to let fear cloud your judgment until you've had the chance to know your intended," he urged gently, sensing he had eased your nerves.

"I'll leave you to rest now," Gwayne added, seeing your nod of approval. With that, he quietly exited your chambers.

As night descended upon Old Town, you tossed and turned in your sleep, consumed by an unrelenting yearning. The unfamiliar blankets and sheets, devoid of your scent, offered no comfort. Frustrated, you reached for a plush pillow, sitting up and clutching it tightly between your thighs. Slowly, you would rock your hips back and forth, pushing down your core with some friction to alleviate this frustration that burned between your thighs. Your eyes fluttered closed, your night gown slipping from your shoulder as your hips desperately humped the pillow beneath you. You thought of your uncle, you knew you shouldn't, and yet- you could not help but to think of how kissed your hand, the blue of his eyes, how he smelled of sage.

On the other side of the door, Gwayne awoke to a plaintive sound that he initially mistook for a cry. Even through the stone walls, the soft echo of his niece's distress reached him. With concern driving him, Gwayne rose from his bed, the urgency of his duty as her uncle compelling him. He slipped into a pair of pants and quietly left his room.

It was his responsibility to care for and protect her in this unfamiliar place, in the absence of their family. Moving with cautious steps, Gwayne approached her door. Normally, he would have knocked, but in his haste and concern, he bypassed this customary courtesy. He gently pushed the door open, making as little noise as possible.

What Gwayne had come face to face with made him freeze, his entire body tensing up as he looked to the figure of you, the princess, feverously humping a pillow. Your shoulder exposed and hard nipples showing through the sheer of the night gown. Your eyes were still closed as your hips rocked against the pillow. Eyebrows pushed together as soft cries left your lips. Gwayne was more than aware that he should not be there, that he should not be witnessing this, and yet he could not tear his eyes away.

Then you said it, "Gwayne." His name left your lips like a melody and it took one hush of his name to make him impossibly hard. To the point in stung and bulged from his trousers. It was then your eyes fluttered open, and in a few blinks they widened realizing that your uncle stood in the doorway. In a panic your hands grasped the pillow and brought it up to cover yourself.

"Oh, Gods. Princess, I'm -I'm sorry -" Gwayne barely managed to gush an apology as he had went fleeing the room, closing the door behind him as he went rushing back to his room. In the midst of his embarrassment he had been sweating, his heart racing as he stayed in the confides of his room.

He was still hard. Gwayne tried not to think about you. He tried not to think about how you cried as you humped your pillow or how sweetly you spoke his name but he could not.

Gwayne would wrestle with himself for nearly an hour, but at the agony of his own groin he could not contain himself. Gwayne would still be standing as he pulled his pants down, freeing his length as he took it in one hand.

This was wrong, this was so wrong.

And still, he began to pump himself to the thought of you pleasing yourself with a pillow.

I shouldn't be doing this.

He wondered how it would feel to be between your soft thighs, to have you be humping him.

He was almost there.

To have you scream his name instead of whisper it.

Gwayne would soon spill his seed onto the ground as his hand feverishly pumped himself to the thought of you. Gwayne would attempt to find sleep that night but had been unable to do so.

When the next day dawned, you anticipated a conversation with your uncle about the events of the previous night. However, it soon became apparent that Gwayne was actively avoiding you. He didn't join you for breakfast or supper, and your cousin took it upon themselves to entertain you with a tour of Old Town, while another cousin kept you occupied with needlepoint throughout the day. Despite your efforts, the entire day passed without a glimpse of him.

Returning to your chambers in the evening, a growing discomfort settled within you. You couldn't shake the feeling that Gwayne's absence was deliberate. Did he feel embarrassed for having found you in distress? Was he ashamed of you? These thoughts churned in your mind as you lay on your bed, staring up at the canopy for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, unable to endure the uncertainty any longer, you threw off the blankets and stormed out of your chambers. Determined, you strode purposefully to his door, bypassing the courtesy of knocking—after all, he hadn't extended the same courtesy to you last night. You entered his chambers with your face flushed with agitation.

Inside, Gwayne was not asleep. He sat up in bed, bare-chested with the blankets draped over his hips, revealing that he wore nothing underneath either.

"Princess, what are you doing?" Gwayne asked abruptly, his gaze flickering to the sheerness of your nightgown, which left little to the imagination. It was evident that your attire was not quite appropriate for a princess, but after what Gwayne had witnessed the previous night, your choice of clothing was the least of your concerns.

"You walked in on me last night and now you avoid me all day?" you questioned boldly, lifting your chin as you approached his bedside. Gwayne's hands tightened on the blanket, his discomfort palpable as you drew nearer.

"You should go," he insisted, attempting to avert his eyes from you.

"Why?" You questioned sharply as he approached. "Are you ashamed of me now?"

Gwayne shook his head, you had not yet noticed, and he had hoped you hadn't as he looked away.

"It's not that." he insisted quietly.

Your eyes looked down the look of anger seeming to melt from your face as your eyes noticed the bulge beneath the blankets. He was hard, trying to hide it, but failing to do so.

"Please leave." He was begging with all restraint he had. Gwayne could not even look you in the eye as he kept the blankets around him.

You stood there for a moment unsure how to approach but desire beginning to burn between your legs as you looked to him.

"Do you desire me, uncle?" You questioned moving closer to him as a hand gently touched his thigh grabbing a handful of the sheets he was using to cover himself.

"It is wrong- I should not." He said, answering your question without actually answering your question. It was enough for you, his grip tightening to hold the sheets in place as you carefully slid one leg up on the bed, allowing it to rest on one side of him. Gwayne showed restraint, but only little.

"Who says?" you questioned, eyes staring into his as he finally had enough gull to look at you.

"The Gods." he declared. "Common law-" he tried to say with some reason, the one thread of restraint still holding on within him.

"Fuck the Gods," You declared as your hand gave a gentle pull at the sheets. "Fuck Common Law-" He continued to hold on as you pulled. "And fuck me." you said nearly pleading.

Gwayne held the blankets for a moment longer as his eyes looked to you. "You are a maiden, are you not?" He questioned unsure in this moment based on your behavior.

"I am." you declared honestly as you looked to him.

"I can not deflower my own niece." He said allowing a moment of pride to shield him.

"I do not want my first time to be with some lord that I am married off to as a bargaining chip." You insisted nearly pleading. "I desire you, uncle and you desire me." You declared, his grip on the sheet loosening.

Gwayne battled with himself for a moment, but only for a moment, for his strong hands would reach for your face, pulling you gently to meet his lips. Your body pulled onto him as your lips met his. Gwayne kissed your lips with the hunger of a starved man, his hands moved to your night gown and pulled it up, parting his lips to discard it from your body leaving you exposed to him.

He wasted little time in pushing you down onto the mattress, allowing himself to rest above you. In the moon light he took in your bare figure, soon peppering kisses between the valley of your breast and down your body to your cunt. His lips would kiss down to your bud before he grabbed onto your hips. Pulling your thighs to rest on his shoulders as his face pushed into your cunt in a way a pillow never could. It was by this that you were already squirming, back arching at his touch.

Gwayne would not hesitate to allow his tongue to lay flat against your flushed sensitive bud, your hips pushing down slightly as he tried to keep you in place with his grip. Gwayne would lick slowly, tasting your virgin cunt as if it was a delicacy, something he was determine to savor.

Soft moans left your lips as his tongue continued to work against your dripping cunt. Gwayne was carefully when he inserted a finger inside of you. He did not dare to put more than one for with just one finger he could feel how incredibly tight you were. a realization that caused his cock to ache.

Gwayne would slowly pump his finger in and out of you as you moaned loudly, your hands becoming entangled in his long locks, and your thighs pushing shut against him. Gwayne wanted to question you, to ask how you were so sensitive, why you tasted so sweet- but he could not bring himself to remove his tongue if the king himself demanded it.

There would be a hot coil inside of you that would form, growing tighter, as your wet cunt clenched around his finger, and within a moment the coil snapped. A warm orgasm flushing over you as your thighs squeezed his head without mercy, soft tears fell from your eyes as you came down from your high. You were panting as your thighs loosened, Gwayne would pull his finger from you before sticking it in his mouth to suck in clean of your sweet juices.

The two of you locked eyes as you stared at one another for a moment. His hard cock pushed against the inside of your thigh as he debated if he should go through with this.

"We shouldn't." Gwayne gave a small fight once more for the sake of his honor and your own.

"Who would know?" You offered a simple excuse, hoping he would not declare the gods again.

"Who would know . . ." he repeated before he nodded. "You're right. Who would know." Gwayne reasoned as he grabbed his cock as he had carefully begun to move it against the wet folds of your cunt.

"You could drink moon tea after." he suggested again as you nodded in response.

"You're sure?" he asked again his blue eyes looking to you with tender concern but also the last bit of restraint he had in him.

"I am." You said as you pushed yourself down on him slightly causing him to groan.

Gwayne could wait no longer and therefore he lined himself up at your entrance and gently he begun to penetrate you, sliding into your wet cunt slowly.

Your back arched at the feeling of him filling you, he stilled, with only part of himself in you.

"More." You whined out in a demand as you waited for him to fill you completely.

"Patient, princess. Please- I do not wish to be spent so soon." Gwayne insisted, he had slowly begun to push into you. Your legs would soon tighten around his waist, forcing him to put the rest of himself in. A moan came from the both of you as he would soon begin to move slowly.

"Gods, you're so tight." He groaned as he slowly thrusted in and out of you at a slow rate, doing his best not to spill himself inside of you this early.

Gwayne would allow his thumb to return to your swollen bulb, rubbing it softly as he continued to fuck you at a slow and passionate rate. Despite the slow thrust he pushed deep into your warm velvet walls each time, enjoying the feeling of you squeezing his entire length.

Gwayne would continue at this slow rate as you cried out, soon lewd sounds of your wetness would fill the room mixed with your moans.

"I want to be on top." You pleaded, his hips stilled with hesitation. "Please." you begged.

Gwayne hesitated, but even he could not resist. He pulled out of you slowly before allowing his body to fall onto the bed. You wasted no time climbing on top of him and taking his length in your hand. Carefully you lowered your hips onto him.

"Fuck." Gwayne would groan at the sight of you above him. The vision of a Targaryen princess nude above him, as your hips begun to feverishly bounce on his cock. It took everything in him to not spill himself in you at this very moment.

"Princess, please." He pleaded his hands grabbing on your waist to try and slow you down but it was no use, you used him. Moving your hips quickly as you looked to him.

"Hold on, uncle. I'm almost there." You would insisted in a moan as you continued, the feeling of him throbbing inside of you as you fucked yourself on him was enough to let out a cry of pleasure.

"Please get off . . . "He begged, "I shouldn't . . . not inside of you." He insisted more as he tried to steady your hips, though as you moved he relented.

Gwayne could not hold himself back any longer, his fingers dug into your flesh as he came deep inside you. You continued as he filled you with his warm seed. Allowing yourself to fuck every last drop inside of you, peeking your own orgasm that caused Gwayne to grit his teeth. You would roll your hips over him, riding out your high before falling helplessly on the bed next to him. His seed spilling onto your plush thighs.

Gwayne panted as he had looked over to you with soft affection. "I'll have the maester make you moon tea in the morning." he insisted as you looked over to him with a small smile.

"Perhaps if you seed me with your child mother would be forced to marry me to you." You offered looking to him next to you in the bed.

"Or she would have my head." he offered back.

When morning came you were nearly limping as you joined Daeron at the breakfast table, he seemed somewhat restless as he picked at the eggs on his plate.

"There you are." He declared looking to you with dark shadows surrounding his eyes.

"You look like shit." You declared to him with no one else around, he looked to you with somewhat of a resenting look.

"Yeah, well if you're going to fuck our uncle again could you at least keep it down." Daeron declared.

You froze at his comment, you were going to muster up some kind of denial but Daeron spoke again.

"My chambers are on the other side of Uncle Gwaynes." He informed you.

[luv-lock]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴛ ʏ ʀ ᴀ ɴ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere HOTD x Targaryen Reader Part 1

Summary: Everything was fine. You were happy. Your mother was expecting a child, and soon enough, you would have another one to call family, to call your own. Everything was perfect. What could possibly go wrong?

˚꒰notes꒱‧ Reader is Rhaenyra's twin. Criston is already reader personal gourd. Dark reader. English is not my first language. Gifs don't belong to me credit to the owner. Hope you enjoy!

The chamber was warm, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light that streamed through the narrow windows, casting golden patterns on the stone floor. Y/n stood by her mother’s bedside, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Aemma’s face. Her mother was always beautiful, but now, heavy with child, there was a fragility to her that made Y/n’s heart stir in ways she wasn’t used to. A strange protectiveness, an almost suffocating need to keep her safe from all the sharp, ugly things in the world.

Aemma’s hand, delicate and pale, rested atop her swollen belly. Her breathing was slow, rhythmic, and tired. Y/n could see it, the weariness that clung to her mother’s every movement. She had been sick often lately, and though no one spoke of it, Y/n could feel something dark looming over them. Something inevitable.

"You must be kind, Y/n," Aemma said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, but still full of that soft warmth that made her sound so motherly. "Be careful… be kind. To people… to the babe."

Her mother’s words hung in the air, and Y/n felt a smile tug at her lips—soft, gentle. Kind. I have always been kind, she thought, her mind drifting to the moments where she had shown her love, in the ways only she knew how.

“I am kind,” she replied softly, kneeling beside her mother’s bed and taking Aemma’s hand. It was cool to the touch, but still, her mother’s fingers closed weakly around hers. “I’ve always been kind to you, Mother. To Father, to Rhaenyra... I will be kind to my brother too.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a secret shared between them. “I’ve already chosen a dragon egg for him. Dreamfyre's, and he will be great. He will be a king, Mother.”

Aemma smiled, but it was tired, worn. “You sound so certain it’s a boy,” she said with a faint laugh, but there was no real joy behind it—just exhaustion.

“It’s just a feeling,” Y/n said, her smile deepening as she leaned down to kiss her mother’s cheek, lingering just a little too long. Her skin is soft, she thought, and cold. Like a candle that’s been left to burn too long. But that’s alright. Y/n had warmth enough for both of them. She could give that to her. She would always take care of her mother.

Her lips brushed her mother’s cheek one last time before she pulled away, straightening her posture. "Rest, Mother," she whispered, her fingers trailing lightly over Aemma’s arm as she withdrew. “I’ll be back soon.”

As she left the chamber, Y/n's mind wandered. A king. My little brother will be a king, and he will love me more than anyone else. More than Rhaenyra ever could. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought. Her brother, with silver hair like hers, riding a dragon she had chosen for him. She could already see it—the two of them, bounding, and nothing would ever come between them. This time there would be no rats like that cunt, Alicent.

But now... now she had other needs to attend to. A different kind of satisfaction.

She made her way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, her mind already drifting to him. Her favorite. He’s always so eager for me, she thought with a smirk. So desperate to please, so desperate to be needed. She liked that about him—his submission, his willingness to do whatever she asked without question. And his hair... gods, his silver hair. It always reminded her of home.

She reached the brothels and paused at the door, her hand resting on the cold wood. Do I want him soft tonight? Or do I want to see him cry? She wasn’t sure yet. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Pushing open the door, she stepped inside, her eyes immediately finding him. He was kneeling, waiting, as she had taught him to. His head bowed, silver hair falling into his eyes. The sight sent a flicker of warmth through her—something like affection, but sharper. He’s beautiful, she thought. Perfect.

"Look at me," she commanded softly, and he obeyed, lifting his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were wide, nervous. Good. She liked him that way.

"I’ve missed you," she purred, moving closer, her fingers already itching to thread through his hair. Yes, he’ll do well tonight. Maybe I’ll let him cum.

The smile that spread across her lips was soft, almost tender. I am always kind.

The room was dark, the air thick with the remnants of sleep. Y/n stirred under the silk sheets, her body warm, still damp from the night’s indulgences. Her skin glowed faintly in the low light, the satisfaction of her desires lingering like an aftertaste. She let out a sigh, stretching lazily, the weight of Aelor’s body no longer pressed against hers.

Then she heard it. A faint sound—something off. Her eyes snapped open, sharp, awake.

Aelor stood at the foot of the bed, naked but trembling, a dagger held to his throat. His silver hair was messy, his chest rising and falling quickly, eyes wild with panic.

She sat up slowly, letting the sheets fall from her body, completely unbothered by her nakedness. Her gaze locked onto the dagger, her voice calm, almost disinterested. "Aelor," she said softly, “put that away.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he shook harder, his knuckles white around the handle of the blade. “I can’t,” he whispered, his voice shaking. "I can’t do this anymore."

Y/n frowned, her brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

Aelor let out a sob, his knees buckling as he stumbled backward, pressing the dagger harder against his skin. “You—you’ve made me miserable! Every time I’m with you, I feel like I’m dying. You’re cruel, you’re wicked, and you’ve taken everything from me! I hate you!”

Y/n blinked, her head tilting slightly, almost like she was confused. “You hate me?” she repeated, the words foreign to her. No one hated her. How could they? She was perfect. Is this a joke? She didn’t like it.

“Yes!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “You’ve ruined me! I want to die! I want to end it, right here, right now!”

For a moment, she just stared at him, her mind racing. This is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous.

"Aelor," she said, her voice low, almost soothing. "Stop this nonsense. I can give you anything you want. Do you want gold? A dragon egg? A house by the sea? Just put the dagger down and tell me what you want."

But he shook his head violently, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t want any of that! I want to die! I want to be free of you!”

Die? The word was distant to her. Why would he want that? He has everything. She shifted, the furs slipping from her as she regarded him coolly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Aelor. You have a good life. You’re mine. What could be so bad about that?”

But he wasn’t listening. His breaths were coming out in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he teetered on the edge of some terrible decision. “I can’t... I can’t... I want this to stop. I want—”

And then she heard it. A whisper. Faint, from the other side of the door.

“The queen… she’s gone.”

Her heart stopped.

Everything froze. The room, Aelor, the very air around her seemed to still as the words sank in.

"The queen is dead," came another hushed voice from outside the door. "Died in the birthing bed."

The words hit Y/n like a physical blow, sinking deep into her chest. Dead? No. Not Mother.

The room spun, and suddenly her world collapsed in on itself, like a dying star pulling everything into its cold, black heart. Her breathing quickened. She blinked fast, too fast. Her mother was gone. Her mother was gone.

No.

She felt her throat tighten, the air in the room thick and heavy, pressing against her skin. Her vision blurred, the walls seeming to warp and bend. She could hear something—an incessant buzzing in her ears, like bees trapped inside her skull, buzzing louder and louder until it drowned out everything else.

Y/n’s world collapsed inward. The sound of blood rushing in her ears, louder and louder, a deafening buzz. Her vision blurred, the room swimming, spinning. Mother. Mother is dead. She’s gone.

She tried to shake her head, tried to clear the sound, but it wouldn’t stop. The room was too bright. Too small. Too loud.

Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the edges of her world shrank, leaving only the endless ringing in her ears and the hollow, aching emptiness that stretched out before her.

Gone.

Blinking rapidly, she shook her head, trying to clear it, but the buzzing only grew louder, drowning out everything else. She wanted to scream, wanted to tear the walls apart, to make everything stop, but her body wouldn’t move. Her hands twitched, her fingers curling into the sheets, the fabric slipping through her grasp as if it wasn’t even there.

And then, through the haze, she saw Aelor again, standing there, still holding the dagger to his throat, still crying, still screaming for a release that didn’t matter anymore.

For a moment, she just looked at him. Her mind was blank, her heart hollow. Then, like ice breaking through, her lips twisted into something resembling a smile, cold and sharp.

“You know what?” she said softly, her voice almost sweet. “You should do it.”

Aelor blinked, his tears stopping momentarily as confusion washed over his face. “W-what?”

“Go on,” she urged, her voice a low, deadly whisper now. “Slide it across your throat. End it, like you said.”

His face paled, and the dagger in his hand shook. “No… I don’t—”

“I’m not asking.” Her voice was like steel, cold and unyielding, her eyes dark and focused on him with terrifying intensity. “I’m telling you. Do it.”

“Y/n, please—”

“Do it!” Her voice cracked, sharp and vicious. “You want to die, don’t you? You hate me, don’t you? Well, go ahead, Aelor. Do it. Kill yourself. Right here, right now.”

He stumbling back, eyes wide with terror. “No… I don’t want to—”

Y/n stood, the sheet slipping from her naked body as she stepped forward, her eyes locked on his. “Oh, but you were so sure a moment ago. You were so brave.” Her voice was mocking now, cruel and sadistic. “What happened, Aelor? Where did all that courage go?”

He whimpered, pressing himself against the wall as if he could disappear into it, his eyes wide with horror.

And Y/n’s smile widened, her gaze never leaving his. "Do it," she whispered again, her voice now laced with something dark, something cold. Like Mother’s skin. Cold like her.

Criston stood outside the king’s chamber, listening to the muffled sobs of the king as he grieved for his dead wife. It was a sound that shook him—a king reduced to tears, broken by a loss so profound that even Criston, found himself feeling an unfamiliar weight in his chest.

Rhaenyra sat silently beside her father, pale and stiff, like a statue carved from stone. But Y/n was nowhere to be found.

"Where is she?" the king whispered, his voice hoarse. "Where is Y/n?"

Rhaenyra lifted her eyes, but said nothing, her gaze distant, lost. She was mourning too.

Criston stepped forward, his hand instinctively tightening around the pommel of his sword. He knew where the princess was. He always knew. She had a… pattern.

Viserys looked up, his eyes red and swollen. "Find her. Bring her back."

Criston nodded, his expression calm but his insides twisting. "Yes, my king." He turned swiftly, leaving the room with heavy steps, his mind already racing. The brothel. She's at the brothel.

He moved with purpose, the corridors of the Red Keep passing in a blur as he descended into the streets of King's Landing. The brothel was well know, a place where she often disappeared when the weight of her world became too much. The place where she would indulge in the pleasures that soothed her disturbed soul. Criston had been there many times—always to fetch her, to drag her back to the world she so desperately wanted to escape.

The madam greeted him at the door, her face a practiced mask of indifference. She knew why he was here. She always knew.

"The princess?" he asked, his voice low and urgent.

The madam didn’t even blink. "Upstairs. First room on the left."

Criston didn’t wait for more. He strode through the dimly lit hall, the stench of sweat, wine, and sex thick in the air. His heart pounded harder with each step, the weight of dread settling in his gut. He knew Y/n's moods—her recklessness—but something felt different this time. Something was wrong.

He reached the door, pushing it open without hesitation. The sight before him made his breath catch in his throat.

The man, her lover, lay sprawled on the floor, his throat slit from ear to ear, blood pooling beneath him like a dark, crimson lake. The smell of death hit him instantly—metallic, thick, suffocating.

And there, in the center of the room, sat Y/n. Naked, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. Her skin was stained with blood—his blood—and in her hand, she still clutched the dagger. Her face was blank, hollow, as if all life had drained from her.

Criston’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. Gods. What has she done?

Without thinking, he rushed to her side, kneeling in the blood, ignoring the way it soaked into his white cloak, staining it red. His hands were shaking as he reached for her, gently trying to pry the dagger from her grip. "My princess… Y/n… what have you done?" His voice was soft, filled with worry, but there was no judgment, no anger. Only concern. Only devotion.

She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were distant, staring ahead as if she were seeing something far beyond this room, far beyond the dead body at her feet.

Criston’s heart raced as he pulled the bloodied dagger from her hand, tossing it aside. He reached for the corner of his cloak, the pristine white fabric now ruined, and began to gently wipe the blood from her skin. His hands moved with care, as if she were fragile—like a porcelain doll that might shatter at any moment.

"My princess," he whispered again, his voice tight with desperation. "It's me, Criston. It’s all right. You’re safe. I’m here."

But she still didn’t respond. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes unblinking. Criston could see the toll it was taking on her, the way her body shook faintly with each breath. She looked… lost. Like the little girl she had once been, scared and small.

“I want to go home,” she whispered, her voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

He froze, his hand stilling on her arm as he looked at her. She didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t seem to even recognize him.

“I want to go home to my mother,” she repeated, her voice breaking, fragile, as if she were clinging to some distant hope.

Criston’s heart shattered. The queen. He knew the news hadn’t reached her yet. Her world had been her mother, and now… The queen was gone.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in his eyes as he reached for a cloak from the bed, wrapping it carefully around her naked body, covering her from the cold that seemed to seep into her skin. "You’ll go home," he whispered, his voice trembling just slightly. "I’ll take you home."

With a soft grunt, he lifted her into his arms, her body limp and unresponsive as he held her against his chest. She was so small, so light. He hated seeing her like this. She was always so strong, so sharp. But now… now she was silent, and it terrified him.

He held her tightly, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, his white cloak now drenched in blood as he carried her through the brothel.

The madam said nothing as they passed, and the other patrons kept their eyes averted. Criston’s face was set, his jaw clenched, his eyes forward.

I’ll take her home. It's alright. Everything would be fine.

Even if the rest of the world collapsed around them, he would be there. Always. For her. Only for her.

As they left the brothel behind, he felt her shift slightly in his arms, her breath warm against his neck.

“I’ll take you home, princess,” he whispered again, more to himself than to her. "You don't need to be scared anymore."

Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[starminsters]

James McAvoy as Asriel Belacqua HIS DARK MATERIALS — 2.07 "Æsahættr"

[venusbyline]

my poor Nine Moons or Merciful Gods readers 😭😭

i promise i'll update themsoon

[wintywriter]

They were united. Until they were torn apart.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 1

Part 2

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, eventual smut, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i nearly decided on nuking this because it feels so fucking bad and aimless guess in the end I'M really the tormented spirit huh anyway if I'm glad i didnt and decided to wait it out. if you enjoy this please think of leaving a comment and/or reblog because i need the reassurance. | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

"Father," Alicent pleads, "she needs to see you."

Otto's jaw clenches as he lifts his gaze from his desk. He looks upon his youngest child's features. You were one in the same, his first daughter and last. He thanks the gods that she did not inherit the curse you bear.

Alicent picks at her fingers while awaiting a response. Though she draws blood, no sound leaves her lips. She did not know it, but her father catches this anxious tick. He mentally corrects himself: at least she did not inherit it at equal intensity.

"A man has no place in the dressing room of a bride-to-be," the Lord Hand dismisses.

Alicent knew about as much would be said, yet she still tries, "please. She is having a-"

"And when has my presence ever soothed her?" Otto interrupts, raising his voice to make his point clear.

It was enough. Alicent understood.

He turns back to his papers. He reads them but none of the words register. He says, "I am sure your brother is already there, coddling her as he does."

Alicent does not respond.

Otto lifts his gaze, "go," he speaks as though his daughter missed the obvious, "if she needs someone so badly, coddle her with Gwayne."

Alicent returns to your chambers. Her heart pinched in every which way at the sight of you. Here you stood, clothed in one of the few precious dresses that belonged to your mother— a bride. Dark blue satin and gold jewelry embellished your form. Your brown hair was curled and plaited and pinned. Your face had a glow, only because it was stained with tears. It was terrible and magnificent all at once.

Rhaenyra goes to her best friend, and the two girls clutched hands before walking towards you. Gwayne spots them and gives your hands a tight squeeze. Because of this, you turn from your older brother to your younger sister. Your eyes are pink with melancholy.

"Lord Hand," Alicent mutters, "is deep in his work."

On his daughter's wedding day, thinks Gwayne.

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw, loathing your father more than normal in this moment.

More than your own, you cannot stomach your sister's duress. You stroke her cheek, "I am well now. Worry no more."

Alicent catches Gwayne's expression and knows that is a lie. Still, she smiles and nods, "I am glad," she looks you once over, "you are an exquisite bride, sister."

Rhaenyra offers a smile, "I agree, dear aunt."

Your face twists at the young princess's words, though you knew she meant well. You will away the dreadful sensation in your stomach and manage a smile, "thank you... sweet niece."

You relish their company for as long as you can in this moment. You gather strength from Rhaenyra's smile, from Alicent's touch, and Gwayne's words. Then, all at once, you were alone, walking towards Daemon Targaryen.

In truth, he was not curious of you. He despised you, for after all, you were the spawn of that Cunttower. But, gods, what could possibly be the reason you were taking so long to walk down the aisle? It was not like this room was that big. And so, he turns over his shoulder to inspect you. His hand remains on Dark Sister and his weight still rested mostly on one leg.

He squints at the sight of you, moving like a snail. He is about to roll his eyes, but then he catches a glimpse of your countenance.

Tis strange.

You were not nearly as repulsive as he remembered you, and not nearly as similar in likeness to your rotten twin. How could that be, when it was not only- what, a season since he had pummeled Ser Cuntface to the ground? He will never forget your screaming face in the audience, and how deliciously distressed your father had been from hauling you away.

Even now, as Daemon's lilac eyes appraised your distant silhouette, gliding towards him like a phantom intent on haunting, he second guessed if that weeping woman from the tourney was you. But then he turned to your brother and saw his jaw harden. It was unmistakable then you were the weeping woman, and now, you were his weeping bride.

Gwayne, could not help the way his hands tightened into a fist as he helplessly watched you inch towards his most ardent foe. Beside him, unmoving, stood the very man who allowed such madness to ensue: your father.

You pass the pew that seated your family. Your twin's expression softens. He nods, and you know he means take heart. Your sister does the same. But your father, who stood between his children, does not spare you a glance.

Daemon notices the coldness. He would feel bad, but then again, he has been proclaiming his ill-guided brother's Lord Hand was the biggest cunt in the realm for so long, so he doesn't. Oh, but then you look at him with those beady eyes, and he did not know why his thorax felt uneasy.

Twas strange indeed.

Soon you stood in front of your promised, and, finally, Otto lays his eyes upon you. He does not see you though. He does not see the woman dressed in the garments that once belonged to his wife. He does not see your trembling hand and glassy cheeks. He sees his timid, tremoring, little daughter that he had to leave a moon's length for work. He sees her frail body that shook on her tiny bed and found no comfort in the way he held her tiny hand when he returned.

As the septon begins this damning rite, all he could hear was the voice of the maester that promised the new medicine he procured would heal his girl. As tears rolled down your eyes, he remembers how he nearly killed the maester for feeding you herbs that caused you to retch the little food you had eaten.

Has my child not suffered enough?

Has my child not suffered enough?

ᴴⁱˢ ᶜʰⁱˡᵈ ⁱˢ ᵐᵃʳʳʸⁱⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵐᵒⁿˢᵗᵉʳ

Daemon turns to the pew beside the Hightowers' and finds his brother's face. Viserys seemed pleased to witness this wretched affair, as did Aemma, who clutched her pregnant belly. Rhaenyra beside her seemed more interested in you however, or at least the dress that she and Alicent helped dressed you in.

The septon blabbers and tells you both to speak your vows. You do, one as reluctant as the other. Then, as instructed, Daemon cloaks you and presses a kiss on your salty lips.

Twas bittersweet. On one hand, as he takes your clammy one, the image of Otto's face when Daemon told the King that he wanted to marry you comes to mind.

Oh, how excited he was to see the old fool look as though he was a breath away from lunging at him across the table, and how utterly horrendous that he hadn't. He would have simply, and justifiably, killed him. Then all this bother would not have ensued. The look upon the said man's face this moment, now that he's sullied what he so dearly protected, made his stomach giddy.

As the same time, as he held that same clammy hand of yours and felt it tremble, he remembers that you and he were bound. Though not in the manner of his house, he knew he could escape only so much of his wretched duties. Otto's vexation would only last so long, and deep down the cunt must enjoy that his daughter was now a princess. He knew soon Viserys would also begin nagging him again.

But then out of nowhere, he laughs. It was so abrupt that a few guests looked at him in confusion.

How could he forget? There was the matter of your... affliction. Perhaps he can frighten you to death on your wedding bed.

He chuckles once more.

The idea is so delicious, he is in good spirits the whole wedding feast. He does nothing but embarrass and shame you by entertaining literally every other lady save yourself.

What makes matters worse, at least on your end, is that your father refuses to go to your side and forbids not only your brother but as well as your sister from leaving their spots to come to your aid. There was no need to make the matter bigger than it was. You are left alone at your seat at the table, looking nothing but pathetic and weepy.

You sustain such temperament until you're in your marriage chambers, but then you do a funny thing and down two glasses of wine. Daemon laughs at how it spills from your lips, down your neck.

He, who had already much more than a measly two cups, comes behind you and takes the one you loudly prop on the table. You squeak and bolt away when Daemon's arm sneaks up from underneath your own; it only further amuses him.

"V'you a change of heart?" he pours himself a glass, "ready for debauchery, yes?"

You turn unbelievably pale, and it merits the fondest of laughs from your sadistic groom. Daemon drinks and licks the wine off his lips.

You gulp, reaching out a trembling hand.

He raises a brow at it. Suddenly, he's annoyed— twice was much because he has absolutely no idea what the gesture means.

That is, until you speak, "may I have some more?"

One of his faint silver brows raises. Suddenly, he is greedy with the wine he thought tasted too sour on his tongue. However, a curiosity within him urged to hand over the cheap drink, for why did his shivering wife have the nerve for this to be her first words to him?

He watched you throw your head back as you down the wine just as quick as you did the previous ones. He chuckles and crosses his arms. When you turn to Daemon, he tilts his head, "thirsty?"

You inhale deeply, though it is strangled, "for my anxiousness."

It takes a moment for him to realize what you mean, and when he does, his nostrils flare. Had he breathed fire, surely smoke would have come out his nose at this moment. Daemon releases an airy, unamused chuckle and averts his gaze, "eager to bed me, harlot?"

Your throat tightens, for that was not what you meant at all.

You forcibly swallow a lump that forms when he comes to your side. Your throat only further constricts when he grabs and yanks you into his chest. You whimper as he presses his nose against your ear. Goosebumps form when his hot breath hits your ear, "on the bed then."

Your heart thunders as he shoves you towards the bed. You nearly miss it. Actually, only your head and arms touch the cushion, and the rest of your body collides with the floor and the hard bed frame. Your tailbone throbs at the impact, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as your chest that tightened, and tightened, and tightened and—

You barely manage to gasp. You are hard of breathing when Daemon crouches and grabs your thighs, pulling your skirts up. He feels your flesh tremble beneath his palm. His fingers touch your skin, and it brings him to hiss; you are ice against his burning hands.

He looks up at you. A line forms between his brows. You gasped for air that seemed unwilling to enter your lungs. Not only was your face stained with tears, but as well as your neck now

He mutters, "nyke pendagon jaelā naejot sagon ipradāri," I thought you wanted to get eaten, "I do so find fear delectable."

You continue to slump into the floor until you're a melted mess. You can do nothing but clutch your chest, not that it helps one bit.

Daemon is satisfied at this point. He stands and dusts his hands off. He looks at the pitiful Hightower, your dark locks spilled on the ground as if blood from a crime scene.

"Is that your affliction then, wife?" he tilts his head, "do you seize up when you're nervous?"

You look at him, but do not respond.

"S'rather inconvenient, no?" he sighs, as though he actually cared.

You shut your eyes and curl into a ball.

"Mmm, well, I suppose I will have to claim the womanhood owed of me some other time," he said, uninterested. With that, he exits the room with a skip in his step, pleased to know he had such a tremendous effect on you.

You remain in this turmoil for what felt like hours.

By the time you peel yourself up from the floor, your body is encased in sweat. You command yourself to calm; you cannot afford to slip into another bout of insanity. Your tears cannot be contained as you struggle to undo the ties of your dress; at least tremendous relief comes after you do. You struggle to your feet and remove the pins in your hair while making for the vanity table.

You sit before yourself; your horrid face reflects on the mirror that was far too clear for your liking. As you free your hair from its bounds, you think, perhaps it was fortunate that your husband did not lay with you. At least not tonight.

But then, comes to mind, the argument you with your father. Your chest threatens to tighten again as the severity of his voice replays in your head.

It was no secret, Otto despised Daemon. How then could he be so shocked at your horror of learning he had approved your marriage to him. His raging voice still rings in your head: "you ungrateful fool!"

You fall apart in your palms and nearly succumb to yourself again. Thankfully, you manage to take deep breaths and pick yourself up before you fall apart.

You always knew you were the spare in your father's eyes, but you thought that merited indifference. You did not think he hated you so deeply. How could anyone hand their child to their enemy? Perhaps this was his way of finally having use of you.

A spare. A pawn. Will it ever end?

You go to bed and wrap yourself tightly under the sheets. You stare at the ceiling, praying the same prayer you've prayed since you were eight: Seven, let this be my final slumber.

You nearly choke when you are awoken by such violent shaking. You jolt up, or at least as much as you can from the blankets you were so tightly bound in.

Daemon grins and brings the hands he had shaken you with behind his back, "I would say good morn, but it is apparently opposite to you, wife."

The name makes your skin crawl. You push yourself out of the sheets and sit up. You wipe your face and tell yourself; you must get used to this, "good morrow, husband."

Your brown curls spill down your shoulder as you sigh to yourself. Daemon thinks you look much more palatable this way, unlike yesterday, when your hair was jailed so tightly. He motions with his head, "ta. We make haste to the dragon pit."

Your eyes are suddenly devoid of any trace of sleepiness as you look at him.

His lips remain curled, "it would only be proper to do so, no?" He does not let you retort, as he is already making his way out, "tis Caraxes' right to know who his master has been shackled to," he opens the door, "at least momentarily."

If he was self-satisfied with how you shook under his grasp last night, one can only imagine his exhilaration over your severe disinterest in meeting his mount this morning. What's more, Caraxes could smell your anxiety, and it made him chuff and snap his jaws.

Of course, Daemon chastised his dragon, telling him to obey, even though he very much did not want him to. He eagerly fantasizes: oh, a shame my bride died the day I introduced him to my ride.

A true shame.

"Calm yourself," Daemon sniggers as he forcefully pushes you towards the blood wyrm, "the harder you make this for yourself, the harder it will be."

You found no encouragement in that, for no part of it meant to encourage. You continue to writhe against him, pushing yourself back, only to be pressed against the prince's chest and urged forward. It didn't help that he shackled his hands on both of your wrists, preventing you from elbowing him away.

Though your hair was braided to the side, you still manage to whip it to Daemon's face in your attempt to free yourself, only causing him to be more impatient. You could not help the harrowing shriek that left you when he ultimately brought you to the beast's maw, and the said creature pressed himself against your chest to sniff you.

Caraxes rips away and shakes his head at your piercing reaction. He shrieks in like, as if disapproving, or showing offence. He must exact appropriate retaliation. He draws a deep breath, readying to set you ablaze. Daemon would have let him, had he not been a direct target of his mount's wrath, "keligon, Caraxes!"

Caraxes hisses.

"Keligon!" Stop!

He does not enjoy the order, exemplified by the way he licked his teeth, but obeys, nonetheless. He roars one last time, spit sputtering onto your face as he does. It's enough to make you finally lose your resolve.

You cease your wrangling and find yourself going limp in his arms. Daemon is pleased. He can finally drag you on dragon-back and torment you even more mid-air. What he did not know, however, was that your stomach was tingling; it was not that of the usual dread so familiar to you, but twas familiar still.

Daemon takes you by the arm and tries to make you climb up to the saddle, but then he stills when he hears the sound you make. He pulls away just before the acid from your stomach rushes out of your mouth. You retch so much it comes out of your nose, and you feel yourself grow lightheaded.

"Fucking gods," Daemon recoils in disgust. He turns to one of the dragon keepers and orders you away.

The dragon keeper, who looked far older than your father, spoke to you in a language you could not make out. You understand the part where he says maester as he leads you out of the pit. You manage to convey you no longer needed his assistance once you were out and walked off by yourself. You flinch and shriek when Daemon takes off on Caraxes.

You do not go to the maester's, instead, you have your servants draw you a warm bath and stay in it until it is cold. Only then do you scrub your skin until it is tender.

Once you were clean, you looked for the only person in the world that did not use your name interchangeably with hysteria: your twin.

"That uliginous blinkard," Gwayne slashes the dummy before him. You watch him pace from the bench you were sat upon. "He is incapable of procuring a morsel of dignity out of his wretched existence."

You clench you jaw when he chucks his sword to the ground.

"I should smother him in his sleep."

The thought chills you.

"But then I would be no better than he, would I not?" he seethes as he walks to your side, grabbing the towel beside you.

He wipes his face. You look up at him, a line forming between your brows, "remember you are my confidant, not my vindicator."

"If not I," he chucks his towel back beside you, "then who?" His forehead wrinkles, "an affront to my twin is worse than one to myself."

"Then you would know better than anyone that I share your sentiment," you grab his arm, hoping to calm him down.

His face is hard. He pushes your hand away.

You sigh, "and you know well that I suffer more in circumstances where you've acted on my behalf."

He clenches his jaw. He draws a deep breath and denies the thought with the shake of his head, "father will not hold it against-"

"Father holds everything against me," your eyes instantly water, "he would not be our father if he did not."

Your twin has never spoken your name any other way but in gentleness, yet it is precisely why it chips you apart. Gwayne continues, "be it as it may, but I do not believe that he gave to the prince— certainly not willingly."

You laugh and lift your countenance to the sky. Tears fall from the corner of your eyes, down your ears and neck, "does it matter?"

"It does," he urges, "he fought for you."

"He does not fight for me," you turn back to him, "allow yourself to come to terms with it as I have. It will hurt you less."

Gwayne does not manage a response as someone else speaks in that moment. The way you both tense at the sound is that of instinct.

"You vomited in the dragon pit?"

You turn over your shoulder and shoot up from where you sat. You watch as your father walks towards you. He places a hand on your neck and looks you up and down, "did the prince jostle you so on his ride?"

His touch is like a searing rod against your skin, his eyes, even worse. The raised hairs on your neck remain even as he pulls away. You quietly retort, "I did not even touch his saddle."

"Oh," Otto raises his brows, "then perhaps your affliction is that of you carrying."

Carrying?

Both you and Gwayne are mortified by the idea. You stutter, "s-surely it is not that quick."

"The blood of the dragon runs hot," he sighs, "as he would so boldly proclaim."

Your face burns upon hearing this.

Your father looks past you, "take your sister to the maester at once."

"No, I-"

"Make sure that she is good condition and take note of what will be instructed of her."

"That is not-"

"I am sure she will be required to take further precautions because of her affli-"

"We did not!" you blurt, finally regaining the attention of your father.

Your heart races as Otto looks at you. Suddenly, you are like a deer shot by an arrow, pained and powerless. He is annoyed that you interrupted him, only to say nothing. He presses, "we did not what?"

You take a strangled breath before reply, "we... did not consummate ou-"

"You what?!" he steps forward.

Gwayne immediately takes your arm, eager to get between you two, "father-"

But Otto does the same and pulls you toward him, "you did not consummate, or you did not want to consummate your marriage?"

Gwayne's hold on you falters. Your saliva lumps in your throat, "I-"

"You do understand the consequences if you do not bear your husband heirs, correct?"

You turn to your feet, unable to hold his heated glare, "I-"

"Look at me when I speak to you," he shakes you.

You lift your eyes, and hot tears begin to rush down your face.

"You've proven your point, father," Gwayne blurts, "release her."

"Release her?" Otto redirects his ire. Though he does just that, release you, it feels as though an iron clamp around your neck replaces your father's hold. "Even if I were to release her, boy, your dearest twin sister will not be free of the truth," he turns back to you, "nor my point. Your failure to do what is necessary will lead you straight into the dragon's belly."

You clench your jaw tighter than anyone should.

"Do you understand, girl?"

You nod before you allow yourself to breathe. You blurt, "yes, my lord."

Otto looks you once over before turning and walking away. The moment he is out of sight, you fold like a deck of cards, and Gwayne must keep you upright.

He hushes you and sits you back down. He kneels in front of you, observing if you were about to collapse into another episode. You do not, for he was with you, but you do weep until tears could no longer fall. He leads you to your room after this and urges you to rest.

You repeat the prayer you prayed on your wedding night before you sleep.

[raven-dor]

me and my husband

In which gwayne hightower is overprotective of his pregnant wife, and she begins to worry about the outcome of the birth

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x reader

WARNINGS: angst, anxiety, rough pregnancy, mentions of blood, arguing, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 3.2k

🎶 : me and my husband - mitski

AN: I read "chose me" by @entitled-fangirl and had to write something similar for gwayne!! this could also be read as part of the come back to me universe, but you do not have to read any other fic to understand the context!!

She watched from the dark hall, her heart fluttering as he leaned back in his chair, exposing his neck and upper chest. Pregnancy awoke a dangerous animal inside her, one that needed her husband near her at all times. 

Instead, he sat in his office. 

She could not blame him; it was hard work, taking care of Old Town in place of his uncle’s absence. Seeing as his cousin had died recently, Gwayne would stand to inherit the Hightower title, and he all but jumped at the chance to begin his training.

But as of late, it seemed as if she needed him more than he needed her. Mere thoughts seemed to drown out her happiness, every attempt to block them futile. The larger she grew, the closer she got to the inevitable. She cleared her throat, making herself known to her husband. 

“Gwayne?” He looked up, smiling brightly. 

“My love! You should be in bed.” He stood up, ushering her over to a cushion. She glared, letting him coddle her for now.

“I am not inept.” 

“I know, darling.” He knelt in front of her, kissing the back of her hand gently. “But you also know that I cannot help but worry for you.” He caressed her stomach, whispering. “And how is our little one?” 

“You have no need to worry, I assure you. The Maesters say the babe is perfectly healthy; there is no cause for concern.”

“And you?” He kissed her hand once more, his tone softer than before. “How do you fare?”

She was taken aback by that question, avoiding a direct answer entirely. “Do not worry about me.” 

“That is my job as your husband.” He walked back to his desk, putting out the flickering candle. “And Maesters are not always correct.” 

“That is a rather skeptical view.” She grabbed the chair's armrests and pushed herself up. Gwayne glared. 

“Please ask for my aid next time you plan on standing.” 

“Shall I ask you to help me relieve myself as well?” She glared back. “I love you; you know that I do. But I am not a frail piece of straw. I will not break from a gust of wind.”

“You are carrying the future heir to the Hightower name, my dear.” 

Terms like that make her uneasy. That is all she heard all day. ‘Future heir,’ ‘Hightower name,’ ‘a boy.’ All phrases she had heard over a hundred times. She just wanted a moment of peace where she was not reminded how little she mattered in this situation. A tight smile graced her lips, and all humor once held in her tone vanished. “As I am ceaselessly reminded.” 

He grabbed her hand, walking slowly out of the office. “All I ask is that you take care. If not for me, then for the sake of our child.” 

“I am careful.” She glared. “You know this. It’s not as if I go looking for things to hurt the babe. Do not treat me like a child to be watched over.” 

He rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. “I do not mean to upset you-” 

“Well, you have.” She scoffed. “You have somehow managed to insult my care for your future line and my child in one blow. It is astonishing, truly. I applaud you.” 

“You know that was not my intention.” He shut their bedroom door, removing his shirt. Y/N tried to keep herself from blushing at the sight, but when he looked like that, it was hard to do. He knelt in front of her, holding both of her hands in his. “I am sorry.” 

She hummed, walking away and sitting in front of her vanity. “Yes, well, I suppose I forgive you.” 

He grinned. “I am glad of it.” 

The woods were peaceful, a nice retreat from the bustling of Old Town. Her velvet green dress dragged behind her as she strolled along the frequently traveled path. She hummed, closing her eyes and listening to the sound of the trees swaying.

There was a lake nearby that she desperately wanted to swim in and stare up into the sky of blue. Pushing the tall grass out of her way, the clearing stretched out before her, the lake at the center. She grinned, running down the hill with a newfound joy.

“Y/N? Where are you?” 

Her smile fell, remembering the whole reason she had even been ‘allowed’ to go on this excursion. He’d only let her go if he came along. She sighed, turning around and walking back up the hill. “Coming, my love.” 

The auburn-haired man smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Where did you run off to?” 

“The clearing.” She traced shapes on his chest. “I was thinking, perhaps you could join me for a swim. It is the perfect day for it.” 

“I woul-” 

“My lord.” Their guard’s voice echoed through the forest. Y/N groaned, falling against her husband’s chest. Gwayne kissed the top of her head, smiling sympathetically. “Another time, I swear to you.” She sighed, nodding. A finger hooked under her chin, his eyes serious. “You look far too melancholy, my love.” 

“Well, perhaps if-” 

“My lord, I’m sorry, but it is most urgent.” 

Gwayne sighed, intertwining his hand with hers. “What is it?”

The Maester’s Wing was dim, with just a few candles keeping light. Gwayne had been summoned to settle a squabble between the townfolk, leaving Y/N to visit the old man herself. She tapped her foot against the stone floor, waiting for the Maester to ask her the questions she dreaded.

But those questions never came. 

“My lady.” 

Y/N smiled, nodding. “Maester Jon, it is wonderful to see you.” She held her stomach. “Tell me, any developments my husband or I should be aware of?” 

“Unfortunately, yes, my lady.” He sat down. “It seems, from what we can tell so far, that the birth may result in a breach pregnancy.” Y/N’s blood ran cold, and she felt her breath catch. “A breach pregnancy may result in a choice needing to be made.” He leaned forward, a sympathetic look on his face. “Do you understand what this means, my lady?” 

She nodded, standing up quickly. “I do. Thank you, Maester Jon. I shall relay the news to my lord husband.”

She gave one last glance at the dark corner before practically running out of the wing. She burst through the hall doors, dinner in full swing. There sat Gwayne, eyes drooping, visibly exhausted from his duties. 

Who was she to worry him anymore?

Y/N sat beside her husband, kissing his cheek. “How was your day, my love?” 

“Infinitely better, now that you are here.” He smiled. “How was the visit?” 

She took a large sip of her wine. “Well. All is well.” She grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I love you.” 

He grinned, squeezing back. “I love you much more, my dear.” 

If he chose the babe, she knew she would surely die from heartbreak before she bled out. She laughed, her eyes watering ever so slightly. “I do not think that is possible.” 

Since learning of the news, she’d been restless, barely sleeping and often waking before the sun. Its bright rays peeked through the curtains, hitting her skin. The warmth soothed her for a moment, but it was just that, a moment. 

The babe kicked harshly, a quiet groan leaving her lips. She stared at the ceiling, thinking that in just a few short weeks, she’d be giving birth in this very bed, staring at the very same ceiling. 

It had always been described to her as horrible and painful beyond recognition. And now that she was carrying an heir, which could possibly be breach, she almost wished she could go back to when they first met and stop herself. When she didn’t have to worry about what she did or where she went, she could just be free. 

He would be pressured into choosing the child over her; she knew this. Sometimes, when the need for an heir was strong, women had been carelessly cut open, being left for dead. It had been done many times, most notably in her lifetime, by King Viserys. Rhaenyra had told her of his actions: how he’d carelessly cut Aemma open, and her mother bled out on the bed without ever getting to hold her babe. 

She looked over at her husband, fast asleep and dead to the world. His hair covered his eyes; his face was shoved into the pillow haphazardly. She giggled; he’d always slept like there was no tomorrow; it was heartwarming, to say the least. She leaned over, pushing the hair out of his face, kissing his forehead gently. 

 Rolling to her side, she quietly stood, careful not to wake him. Pulling on her deep green robe, she made her way to the dining hall, eager to eat something of actual sustenance. 

After learning of the news, she'd picked at her dinner, telling Gwayne it was because the babe made her nauseous. 

In a way, it had. 

The smell of bacon and eggs flooded her senses, and she rounded the corner, the doors of the hall wide open. Greeting the occasional servant that passed by, she sat down, piling food onto her plate. 

“My lord.”

Her attention was drawn to the threshold of the hall, smiling for a moment at the sight of her husband.

He looked angry, stalking toward her, not even acknowledging the man who had greeted him. Odd, he normally slept as long as he could before starting his day. She smiled brightly. “Good morning, my love.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Is it a good morning?” 

“Quite.” She tilted her head. “Why? Is something amiss?” 

He nodded, crossing his arms. “I awoke, and my wife was gone. Imagine my surprise.” 

She felt horrible leaving him, she could admit. And fighting would only give him more cause to choose the babe over her. “I am sorry if I scared you.” 

“You should be. And another-” He stopped, shock adorning his features. “You are sorry?” 

“I should have woken you. It was my mistake.” She pat the chair next to her. “Please, join me.” 

“I’m afraid I cannot. I have to meet with the steward this morning.” 

Her heart clenched. “I can join you if you’d like-” 

“It is not necessary. I will only bore you.” 

She murmured, reaching out to grab his hand. “You have never bored me.” 

“You are kind, but I’m sorry, I cannot be distracted.” He grabbed a plate, placing a biscuit and two pieces of bacon haphazardly.

She scoffed, glaring at her lord husband. “I did not realize I was such a distraction."

"Y/N...."

"Perhaps I should stay in my chambers for the remainder of my pregnancy. To keep you from further distraction.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.” 

She stood, her eyes cold. “I know nothing of the sort.” She looked over his shoulder, beckoning over a servant. “Please move my things into the adjoining room. I will be sleeping there-” 

Gwayne sat his plate down, looking at the servant. “Do not move her things.”  

“My lady?” The young girl looked frightened, scared of the argument she was caught in the middle of. 

Y/N sighed, dismissing the girl. “It is alright.” She walked away, yelling back at her husband. “I shall do it myself.” 

“Y/N!” Gwayne yelled, dropping his plate and running after her. “Come back here at once.” 

She ignored him, walking faster. The stairs proved to be a challenge, holding the railing tight. Gwayne placed a hand on her back. “Let me-” 

She flinched, pushing him back. “Don’t.” 

He mumbled. “You may hate me all you want after this.” 

“After what-” He hooked his arm under her legs, carrying her up the stairs. “Gwayne Hightower! You let me down right now!” 

The top of the stairs was a relief; she practically leaped out of his arms. She walked into their joint chambers, filling her trunk with things she would need. Gwayne sighed, watching from the doorway. “Will you please just-” 

“I will leave you to your devices, my lord. I hope your meetings prove well spent.” Dragging the trunk through the door, she slammed it in his face. 

That had been three days ago. Other than the meals they shared or meetings both were forced to attend, she had steered clear of her husband. For the better part of the day, he would be in a meeting with the patrons of Old Town, or so she’d heard. Y/N took that as an opportunity, rushing out of the castle’s gates. Squealing, she cut through the tall grass once more, racing down the hill towards the lake. She threw her dress off, her petticoat barely revealing her modesty. Not that anyone would see, this part of the wood was only known by the family. 

The water did wonders for her nerves, cooling her skin. Her hair stretched out past her waist, flowing like the tall grass that surrounded this oasis. She floated for what seemed like hours; the babe had not stirred once. She hummed, caressing her bump gently. “It is quite peaceful here, is it not?” 

A kick. 

Y/N grinned, her eyes tearing up. “Please, try your best to make this an easy birth. It would break my heart not to meet you. If that is the case, don’t worry. Your father’s a good man; he’ll raise you well.” 

No kick. 

She laughed. “Do not ignore your mother. It’s quite disrespectful.” 

A kick. 

“I miss him too, my love.” 

A voice broke through the silence. “Miss who exactly?” 

Y/N jumped, standing in the water. “My lord, I did not expect you-” 

“I was in a meeting when a guard informed me you were running out of the castle gates.” His face looked conflicted, but she didn’t want to address the fact that he most likely heard that whole ‘conversation,’ so she remained silent. “Is there something you wish to tell me?” 

So he had heard.

She smiled, trying to act as if nothing was wrong. “I do not know what you are referring to, my lord.” 

“Stop.” Gwayne sighed. “You haven’t called me that since before we were engaged, and I do not wish for you to start again.” He stepped forward, extending his hand. “Please come out of the lake.” 

She walked past his hand to her dress, every attempt to retrieve it proving futile. “Here.” Gwayne knelt down, picking it up off the stump. “What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?” 

“I would have figured it out, thank you very much.” She glared, pulling the frock over her head. “Do you not have another meeting to attend, my lord?” 

“I canceled them.” He laughed, stepping forward. “After I heard my wife was running away from our home, I thought it best to tend to the matter myself.” 

“How wise of you.” Y/N crossed her arms. 

“Shall we go to bed?” 

“I am not tired.” She walked up the hill, leaving him behind. “Have a restful night, my lord.” 

She slammed her bedroom door shut, leaning against it. She was tired; she hated to admit it. But she wouldn’t have told him that. She walked over to the window, placing the bouquet she picked on the mantle. A reminder of the freedom she once had. A reminder of life before she faced death itself. 

A knock rang out. “May I come in?” 

She tensed. “If you must.” She faced the window, too scared to face him. If she looked at him, truly looked at him, his eyes bearing into hers, she knew she would begin crying. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” 

“I have to ask you something, and I want you to answer me honestly.”

She nodded, walking away from the window and placing her robe in her wardrobe. “Ask it then.” 

“Do you still love me?”

Her heart stopped. “I-” 

Gwayne stepped forward, wrapping a singular arm around her waist. He drew her in, his scent engulfing her senses. She fought herself not to fall for his spell, but as he leaned his head down, and his breath hitting her neck, she knew she would not last. “If you do not, speak it plainly because I- I cannot go on like this any longer.” 

She turned around in his arms, placing her hands on his chest. “I do not believe I could ever stop loving you. Trust me when I say this.” She smiled. “I’m afraid it’s terminal.” 

“Ah.” He let out a sigh of relief. “Then what is it that troubles you so?” 

“I do not know what you-” 

“I beg you, do not finish that sentence.” He tilted her chin up, worry in his eyes. “What ales you, my love?” 

“I am simply nervous.” She could not be in his arms any longer. The more she lingered in his embrace, the more compelled she would feel to tell him. “It is nothing, I swear to you.”

He raised his eyebrows, pulling her hands from his chest and kissing them gently. “Please do not lie to me.”

“That night I visited the Maester, he told me something.” He nodded. “He said with the way the pregnancy is progressing, it is possible that the babe will be born breach.” Her voice grew quieter the longer she spoke. 

“That’s not all, is it?” 

She pushed out of his hold, walking to the other side of the room. “I’m so sorry, Gwayne. Truly, I am. Please forgive me-” a sob wrecked her body. “But I want to live. Please.” 

Gwayne shook his head. Where was this coming from? “Whatever are you talking about?” 

“I know I have been acting radical as of late, and I apologize, I just thought-” She hiccuped. “I thought it would make your choice easier.” 

“What choice, darling?” 

She whispered. “Between me and the babe.” 

“Why would I-” It dawned on him. Had she really been dealing with this all by herself? “Oh, my sweet girl. Why did you not tell me?” 

“I didn’t want to stress you any further.” She hugged herself. “Please, Gwayne. I swear I will give you another heir if this pregnancy-” She shivered. “Just don’t cut me. I beg you.” 

He dropped down in front of her, grabbing her hands in his. “Listen to me well. I could sire a hundred children, but you. You are one of a kind, and I will always choose you.” He kissed the back of her hands once more. “Irreplaceable. You must know this.” 

“No one is truly irreplaceable, Gwayne.” 

He stood, his eyes dark. “Do not say such things again. Swear it to me.” 

“I-” 

“Swear it, Y/N.” 

“I swear.” She whispered, cheeks red. “I swear to you.” 

He nodded, smiling lightly. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“For coddling you.” He stepped closer, caressing her bump. “I am scared as well. My own mother had many a difficult pregnancy, and I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” 

“I am sorry as well.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “I should have come to you with my worries. I did not want to burden you. And I will make sure you have your heir. I promise you that.” 

“I do not care if the Hightower name crumbles away into nothingness. As long as you are content, I will be as well.” He leaned down, their foreheads touching. “There would be no point to this without you. I fear I could not do this if you were not by my side.” 

“You have been doing perfectly fine as of late.” She frowned. "I truly am sorry.” 

“No more of that.” He whispered, staring at her lips. “May we please go to bed?” 

She nodded, knowing if she tried to speak that words would fail her. She lay on the bed beside him, tracing his freckles. “Sleep, my love.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. “I will be here when you wake, I promise.” 

[venusbyline]

Gwayne Hightower — Merciful Gods (1/3)

chapter one

(next chapter)

— summary: Gwayne Hightower is back in King's Landing. Just as you are willing to try to avoid your uncle at all costs, he is more than eager to finally show you the price for his silence.

— pairing: Gwayne Hightower x niece!reader

— type: dark

— word count: 1.5k

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, dark!Gwayne, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Hightower Incest (uncle/niece), dubcon, dubcon touching, sexual tension, degradation, violence, face-slapping, sexism, argument, referenced non-con voyeurism, referenced accidental voyeurism, referenced fingering, religious conflict, religious guilt, corruption kink, age gap (older man/younger woman), gaslighting, manipulation, curse words, referenced character death, prince regent!Aemond mentioned, dark content, sub!reader, dom!Gwayne, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: Merciful Gods is a threeshot series. It involves dark content about religiosity (The Faith of the Seven), incest relationship and women's repressed carnal desires.

— author's notes²: Each chapter will have its own trigger warnings.

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Merciful Gods masterlist

❥ about me • Gwayne masterlist • HOTD masterlist • main masterlist

"Well... you are here again, princess."

The voice you had been avoiding hearing during the last few days echoed off the walls of the Great Sept, your hands shaking as you remained silent and continued focusing on your prayers.

Since Jaehaerys' death, you accompanied your sister Helaena and your mother to the Sept then the three of you could beg to the Gods for forgiveness and for their kindness too, asking them to have some mercy on your family in the midst of all that war. You would kneel and pray for hours, lighting candles and focusing on your thoughts, even though Helaena was distracted, whispering random sentences that made no sense to anyone but her.

However, you could not blame your sister. No, you really were not in a position to judge her for not focusing on the Gods, not when you were also lost in thoughts.

Unlike Helaena, who had a broken mind since her son's cruel murder, you were distracted thinking about futile things. Sinful things, to say the least. Something that went against everything you learned about the Faith of the Seven.

"Do not be such a rude little girl, niece. I am talking to you."

When the footsteps approached where you were, you sighed and closed the eyelids. "I am trying to concentrate myself, uncle Gwayne."

Your words came out shakier than you would have wanted, a mocking sound escaping from Gwayne's lips as he continued walking over to where you were kneeling. Even though you had the eyes closed, you could hear his presence covering your shadow, his boots finally coming to rest next to you.

The slight smell of sweat and wet grass indicated that Gwayne returned recently from his daily training. Since Rhaenys's attack on Aegon, Aemond assumed temporarily the reigns as the Prince Regent and was orchestrating yet another attack against Rhaenyra's allies. You did not know so much about the whole situation, since your mother was willing to keep you and Helaena in the dark when it came to the more bureaucratic part of the Green Council. Everything you realized on your own was that your brother Aemond was not in his right mind, and he almost seemed to enjoy taking on the responsibilities that once belonged to the older boy.

"And you were concentrating this time?" Gwayne asked you with a sarcastic voice, which made you sigh again and open the eyes, raising the face to stare at your uncle and his large and imposing presence, standing very close to where you were kneeling and quite vulnerable.

"I always concentrate."

Considering how broken and high-pitched your voice sounded, it was no surprise when Gwayne raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. "Oh, that is true? So you are a rather... Faithful to the Gods' little girl now?"

Your cheeks that were once only a little warm due to the countless candles around the Sept, heated even more at Gwayne's words, some specific memories filling your mind while you stuttered in search of any convincing answer, but you could not found nothing.

Gwayne took advantage of your silence. "You know, dear niece... I still remember how cunning you were two years ago. Always mumbling about not understanding why you needed to come to Sept so often, but at the same time doing anything Alicent demanded. Pretending to be her perfect daughter."

Your face turned pale upon hearing your uncle's words, a part of you tensing at the direction of that conversation, already understanding very well what he was implying. The hands that had been intertwined throughout the prayers loosened and you placed them on top of your own lap, taking a deep breath and facing the grown man. But there was another side of you that was feeling attracted to what Gwayne was saying. Like a stupid moth to the flames.

That was a part of your conscience that you did not dare admit to anyone, not even to yourself. You wished to keep blaming the lit candles to justify the heat burning inside your veins, blame them for making you so breathless and paralyzed.

And you could mentally blame whatever you wanted, actually. Either way, in the end, both Gwayne or yourself would recognize the truth. Both of you would recognize the emotions that you had been trying hard to deny during the last years.

"How would my sister react if she knew her sweet daughter was touching herself at the Great Sept two years ago?"

Your uncle's degrading but honest words froze your blood and you immediately stood up from where you were, eyes wide and staring at him with disbelief. Before Gwayne had a chance to calm down, you were about to run away from the sacred place. Away from the Gods. Away from him.

Your attempts to escape failed as soon as Gwayne's large hand grabbed your wrist, his years as a knight making it easy for him to catch you, like you were a simple little mouse begging to escape from a predator.

"Do not you dare open that pretty mouth to cry out, sweetheart." Gwayne placed his palm over your lips, preventing any sound asking for help. His free hand released your arm and moved to your waist, pressing your smaller body against one of the pillars while you squirmed. "You thought I forgot, did not you? You thought I would not remember how you cried and begged me not to tell anyone about your dirty little secret?"

The knight let out a low chuckle as he watched your violet eyes fill with crystal clear tears that did not take long to start running down your rosy cheeks. He could feel the warm radiating from your body, the way you moved against his hold...

Gwayne lowered his face, kissing and licking the little quantity of your skin that was exposed due to the necklaces you wore. Ever since you saw Jaehaerys' body after his death, you had been wearing more accessories than usual, feeling a discomfort in your throat every time you pictured your nephew being beheaded and with his head sewn on afterwards.

Your uncle did not seem to care about any of this, just nibbling you roughly enough that you whimpered under his palm, but not hard enough to let marks that would make clear to the entire King's Landing about the unholy act he was committing against you.

Or that the two of you were committing it together.

"You stopped fighting."

Then you realized that he was right. That you really were not moving against him anymore. Your body was still tense under the touch and the tears continued to flow like a current. However, there were no more desperate movements.

"You want this, do not you, niece? This is why you keep coming to pray here at the Sept. Because you feel dirty for desiring carnal acts." He removed the hand covering your mouth, allowing you to say whatever you wanted. Or even scream if you wanted to.

No ask for help was even considered. "I do not... I do not feel dirty. I am not dirty."

His mocking smirk was playing on his face. "Are you sure about that?" Gwayne asked, now caressing your chin, his other fingers squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts covered by the green velvet dress. "You seemed quite dirty in my eyes during that night. Rubbing your pretty little cunt and fucking your fingers inside it, so close to the altar and letting out pathetic moans that you swore no one would hear."

"It was a mistake!" You growled lowly after letting out a soft whining, heart racing due to his caresses. "It was just a mistake, uncle. I was younger, I did not understand the true matter about the Faith of the Seven. I was bored and—"

"And you believed that touching your cunt before their eyes would make your religious duties more interesting?" His evil laugh echoed through the holy temple, as did your moans. "You looked like a whore."

Faced with such cruelty, the world stopped for a few seconds. Whore. You looked like a whore. That was what Alicent called Rhaenyra. It was the type of woman that your brother Aegon fucked every week. They worked in filthy brothels and sold their bodies to earn enough money to feed themselves at least. They were disgusting. Cheap price, most of the time. And they were dirty. Dirty and promiscuous women. Stained and condemned before the Seven.

Your heart sank and you did what you never thought you would need to do someday. Your hand collided with Gwayne's face with a considerable violence, his face turning to the other side, letting go of you at the same moment with shock and fury.

Neither of you moved for the next two seconds. You remained still, normalizing your breathing while Gwayne now was staring at the ground, swallowing hard and clenching his jaw.

When Gwayne returned your gaze again, a chill ran down your spine. The big and almost always charismatic eyes now held a darkness that you had not seen up close in another man other than Aemond or Daemon. It was dangerous and scary, for a moment you flinched against the pillar, like a helpless fawn.

"You will regret this, dear niece." The warning was the last thing Gwayne said to you before leaving the Sept, the gates closing with a thunderous sound that made you kneel once again, lighting a candle and begging for mercy immediately.

[floatyflowers]

Dark! House Of The Dragon x Game of Thrones! Reader|Part 8

<<< Part 6

Gulit is eating you alive upon realizing that you might have been the cause for Rhaenys death, but that didn't explain why you made sure to check on Aegon daily.

You weren't supposed to feel pity and sympathy towards a man who stole your mother's birthright.

But he reminded you of your grandsire, Viserys.

He reminded you of when Robb was murdered.

You were right there beside him when he opened his eyes, staring at him with your soft eyes.

Of course, you called the maesters not giving yourself the chance to hear him call out your name in his broken voice, trying to reach his hand out.

Aemond was burning inside with jealousy, but decides not to kill his older brother espically when Aegon claims that he 'doesn't' remember anything.

On the other hand with the Blacks, Corlys makes the decision to continue supporting Rhaenyra, especially after finding out you were taken hostage.

Your mother becomes paranoid to the point where she wished to ride Syrax and burn down Kingslanding.

All Rhaenyra could think of, is having you back in her embrace like she did when you were a baby, but her advisors are standing in her path.

"My sweet little girl, she must be scared, my poor girl"

Jacaerys destroyed everything in his bed chambers, all he could think about is what his monster of a uncle would do to you in his absence.

Not knowing that Aemond did nothing but speak softly to you, and lay his head on your lap every night, while sharing his deepest thoughts and emotions.

There is one person who you wouldn't mind staring at for the rest of your life.

Ser Gwayne Hightower, he reminded you of your father, Jaime Lannister.

But Gwayne thought you found him handsome, so he flirted with you.

He truly thought he could charm you into marrying him or something.

Yet you only smiled, before handing him a letter to give to his youngest nephew.

"Tell Daeron that I don't wish to keep in contact with him anymore nor will I send him anymore letters, Ser Gwayne"

[nyrasvoid]

A Knight’s Prize pt.3

Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

Summary: the princess Velaryon marries Gwayne Hightower and their wedding night is filled with passion and lust.

Warnings: smut, it’s all really fluffy but there is some teasing, also a little bit of teasing in public, morning sex, riding, and idk if there’s anything else 🤸🏽‍♂️

A/N: just two horny mfs on their wedding day 🎀🧸 btw I had so much trouble looking up how weddings were in westeros under the faith of the seven cs some ppl said they exchanged rings and others that they didn’t, so I just went with the cloak exchange cs it’s what we see in GOT

- Word count: ≈1.9k words

Part 1 Part 2

The tension in the Red Keep was noticeable.

The moment you stepped into your mother's chambers, you could feel the weight of their gazes on you.

"Mother, Uncle," you greeted them, knowing that this conversation was inevitable.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her expression softening as she reached out to touch your arm. "My daughter," she began, her voice filled with worry, "we need to talk about Ser Gwayne."

"I know what you're going to say," you replied quietly, "but my mind is made up."

Daemon scoffed from his place by the window, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Made up? You've barely known him a fortnight, and you're ready to throw yourself to the Hightowers?"

Rhaenyra shot him a warning glance before turning her attention back to you. "It's not just about Ser Gwayne" she said gently. "It's about his family, their ambitions. Otto Hightower has never hidden his desire to see his blood on the throne, and now he's using you to accomplish his plans."

You stiffened at her words, "I overheard them, Mother. I know what they're planning. But I also know that Ser Gwayne is not like them. He's different."

Daemon's laughter was filled with sarcasm. "Different? They're all the same, playing their little games for power. And you-" he paused, stepping closer to you, "— you're the prize they're all reaching for. Do you want to be a pawn in their game, niece?"

"No, Uncle. But I refuse to be a pawn in anyone's game; not theirs, not even yours."

Rhaenyra sighed, her hand dropping from your arm. "We only want what's best for you," she said softly. "You're a dragon, my daughter. You deserve to be with someone who sees you as my than just a tool for power." she said softly

"And he does," you insisted, meeting her gaze. "Ser Gwayne is sincere. He will be a good husband, and I will make this marriage my own. I won't let them control me. We both want this to be more than a political arrangement.”

Daemon shook his head "You're making a mistake," he warned. "But it's your life to ruin."

"If this is truly what you want..." he continued.

"It is," you replied firmly.

Your mother sighed deeply, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "Then we won't stand in your way," she said quietly. "But know this, my daughter if you ever need us, we will be here. Always."

You nodded, “I know you are, you will still be my family, my blood.”

The evening of your wedding was a storm of emotions. The grand hall was filled with the lords and ladies of the realm.

At the entrance of the sept, you stood in your wedding gown, the gown itself was a delicate shade of white, adorned with gold embroidery.

Over this, you wore a blue cloak, the color of House Velaryon, a symbol of your heritage and the life you were leaving behind.

Since your father, Laenor, couldn’t walk you down the aisle, your uncle did it.

Daemon Targaryen, stood beside you, his gaze steady, filled with pride as he lead you towards the altar.

The guests rise to their feet as you approach. At the end of the aisle, Ser Gwayne awaits, his eyes locked on you. His dark green cloak, the colors of House Hightower, rests over his shoulders, symbolizing the new life you will be joining.

As you reach the altar, the septon, steps forward. The ceremony begins with a prayer, invoking the blessings of the Seven.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” the septon says, calling upon the Seven to witness this union. “We gather in your sight to bless this marriage, that it may be strong and enduring.”

You and Gwayne face each other, the moment arrived for you to recite your vows.

Gwayne begins, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

At the same time, you respond, “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

The septon then instructs “You may now kiss the bride”.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Gwayne leans in, his gaze never leaving yours. His lips meet yours in a tender kiss.

The guests rise as you both turn to face them, their applause ringing through the sept.

When the ceremony was over, the feast began. The hall was filled with the sound of laughter and music.

Gwayne leaned in, his voice low. "You are radiant tonight, Princess," he murmured, his hand resting on yours.

He looks at you, his voice soft as he asks, “Would you honor me with a dance, my lovely wife?”

This time, you don’t hesitate. “Of course I will, my dear lord husband,” you reply, allowing him to lead you to the dance floor.

But just as you begin to relax, flowing to the rythm of the music, you hear a familiar voice.

“Such a lovely couple,” says Lord Otto Hightower. “It warms my heart to see you both so happy.”

You tense as you hold Gwayne tighter, as if he would run away if you didn’t.

“Thank you, Father,” he replies, his voice calm. “We are indeed fortunate to have found each other.”

Lord Otto smiles, “Indeed,” he says, his gaze lingering on you. “I trust that you will both make our house proud.”

After your dance with Gwayne, you return to your seat beside your husband. The hall is alive with the sounds of joy, but your attention is solely on the man next to you.

You lean closer, your voice a soft murmur. “You danced so well tonight, Gwayne. I almost forgot why I was avoiding you the other day.”

“Ah, so you admit to avoiding me? And here I thought you were just eager to dance with Ser Loras.” Gwayne said with a false indignation.

You smirk, your hand brushing against his thigh under the table. “Perhaps I was just trying to make you jealous.”

His gaze drops to where your hand lingers. “Is that so? And did it work?”

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper teasingly, “I do not know. You tell me,” he looked back at you and smirked.

You continued “but I think you have more to offer than just jealousy. And now I can’t help but wonder what other talents you might be hiding.”

“Is that so? Perhaps you’d like to explore those talents further?” Gwayne whispered in your ear teasingly.

You leaned in, “Mayhaps I do.”

His eyes filled with desire at your words, and he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. "Shall we retire, my lady wife?" he asked.

You nodded, as he stood, offering you his hand.

Together, you left the grand hall, the eyes of the court following your every move as you made your way to your chambers

The moment the door to your chambers closed behind you, the atmosphere changed.

The formalities of the court were left outside, replaced by a fierce carnal desire for each other.

Gwayne turned to you, his eyes burning with a desire that mirrored your own.

"Princess," he began, "you've bewitched me. I've thought of nothing but this moment since I first laid eyes on you."

Your heart raced at his words, "And I you, Gwayne," you whispered, stepping closer to him. "I've wanted you from the very start."

He reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek. "You are the most beautiful woman l've ever seen," he breathed, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "And now you're mine."

You closed the distance between you, your lips crashing together in a kiss that was both desperate and sweet. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as his boner pressed against your crotch.

"Say it again," you murmured against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Tell me l'm yours.” You started kissing him down his jaw all the way to his neck.

"You're mine," he murmured, his voice filled with possessiveness. "All mine."

He obliged, pulling away just long enough to strip off his clothes, revealing his lean body.

You reached out, your hands trembling as they helped Gwayne take off his clothes. "Gods, Gwayne," you whispered, "You're magnificent."

His hands moved to your gown, untying the laces with a "Let me see you," he begged, his voice filled with desire. "I need to see you."

You stepped back, letting the gown fall to the floor, leaving you bare before him. The look in his eyes was one of pure adoration, as if he were looking at a goddess.

"Perfection," he breathed, stepping closer and pulling you against him. "You're perfect."

You gasped as his hands roamed over your bare chest, exploring every inch of your skin.

"Gwayne," you moaned, your head falling back as he kissed his way down your neck. "I need you, now."

He didn't hesitate, lifting you into his arms and carrying you to the bed, laying you down gently as if you were made of glass. "I've waited so long for this," he whispered. "But now that I have you, I want to savor every moment."

You reached out, your fingers wrapping around his wrist as you pulled his hand down between your legs. "Please," you begged, "Don't make me wait any longer."

He positioned himself over you, his body pressing against yours, as he rubbed your clit. “I'll give you everything," he promised. "Everything you want, everything you need.”

When he finally entered you, it was like everything else around you disappeared, leaving only the two of you in the heat of the moment.

The feeling of him inside you, filling you completely, was overwhelming, and you cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him.

"Gods," he groaned, as he began to move, his thrusts deep and powerful. "You feel like heaven, my love."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into you as he sped his thrusts.

"Gwayne," you moaned, your voice filled with need. "You're everything. You're all I've ever wanted.”

His pace quickened at your words, his breath against your ear as he whispered, "And you're mine. My love, my life, my everything."

Every touch, every kiss, was a promise, a declaration of love that needed no words.

"Tell me you're mine," his voice filled with desperation.

"I'm yours," you moaned, your body arching against his as you reached your climax. "Always yours."

When you finally came, it was like an explosion, it felt way better than when you did it yourself. He followed soon after, his seed filling you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room were your gasps for air. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms and holding you close as if he never wanted to let you go.

“You’re mine” he whispered one last time.

“And you’re mine” you replied, as you curled up on his chest.

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the politics of the realm, not the disapproval of your family, not the future that awaited you.

All that mattered was the man beside you.

The first first ray of light came through your chamber’s window. You turned beneath the silky sheets, the warmth of Gwayne’s body pressing against you, his arm resting over your waist.

The memories of the night before remained in your mind. How he had made you his, worshipped you, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You turned slightly, feeling his jaw against your cheek, as he pressed a kiss to your neck.

“Good morning, my lady.” he said against the crook of your neck, while his eyes were still closed.

A smile played on your lips as you turned around to face him. “Good morning, husband” you replied, your voice teasing.

Gwayne’s eyes, bright with mischief, roamed over your face before settling on your lips. “I’m not sure if I told you enough last night how beautiful you are,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your lips.

“You told me plenty,” you said, though your heart skipped a beat as his hand slipped lower, brushing over of your hip.

“Not enough,” he insisted, “I think I need to remind you.”

Before you could respond, Gwayne rolled you onto your back, hanging over you. His lips found yours in a kiss that started slow, deepening as you arched into him.

“I think you’re just looking for an excuse to delay our departure,” you teased between kisses.

“Can you blame me?” he asked, “Leaving this bed is the last thing I want to do right now.”

Without breaking the kiss, you pushed against his chest, gesturing him to lie back. His eyes widened in surprise, but a smirk appeard on his lips. “Taking control, are we?” he murmured.

“Someone has to,” you replied, positioning yourself on top of his hips. The feeling of him, hard and ready beneath you, made you wet. You took a moment to savor the sight of him, laid out beneath you, before leaning down to kiss him as he made his way inside you.

Gwayne groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you began to move, slow at first.

His eyes locked onto yours. “You’re incredible,” he breathed. “Gods, you’re perfect.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the praise, your movements quickening. Every touch, every word from him only elevated your desire, pushing you closer and closer to your climax. You rode him like your life depended on it, your bodies moving in perfect sync, the room filled with your moans and gasps.

“Gwayne,” you gasped, as you felt yourself close to your climax.

He captured your lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. “Come for me,” he murmured against your mouth. “Let me feel you.”

His words pushed you over the edge, your body collapsing on top is his. Gwayne didn’t last long before he joined you in your climax.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, eventually, you rolled off him, collapsing onto the bed right next to him.

“I could get used to waking up like this,” he said, with a soft smile.

You smiled back, reaching out to cup his cheek. “So could I,” you replied softly.

Gwayne seemed to sense your change in mood, his brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

You sighed, “I don’t want to leave. Or rather, I don’t want to say goodbye to my family.”

He nodded “It’s never easy, but you know they’ll be alright. And we’ll return soon enough.”

“I know,” you whispered, though the thought of leaving your mother and brothers behind still hurt you. “It’s just…we’ve always been together. And now…”

Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re not losing them,” he murmured. “You’re just starting a new life. And I promise you, we’ll come back as often as we can.”

You nodded, “You’re right,” you said, forcing a small smile. “I’ll just miss them.”

“And they’ll miss you,” Gwayne replied, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “But they’re proud of you, and they know you’re where you need to be.”

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up, slipping out of bed and reaching for the clothes that had been laid out for you. Gwayne watched you for a moment before following, the two of you dressing in silence.

As you tied the laces on your gown, you glanced over at him. “Ready?” he asked, extending a hand to you.

You took his hand, squeezing it gently. “As I’ll ever be.”

Together, you left the chamber, to say your goodbyes. You and Gwayne make your way to the courtyard. You embrace your mother and brothers, your voice trembling as you promise to write often and visit as much as you can.

Gwayne takes your hand gently, guiding you towards the carriage. With one last look back, you wave towards your family and you set off for Oldtown, hoping to live a good life filled with love.

PS: Im pretty sure this will be the last part, maybeeeee I will write another one with a time jump where they have children or something with the dance and choosing sides but idk.

[sl-ut]

for better or for worse

pairing: rhaenyra targaryen x fem!hightower!reader

description: the dance is over, the blacks have won. rhaenyra has taken control of the red keep, making quick work of executing those who have wronged her, save for alicent, who would be locked in a tower for the rest of her days, and gwayne’s daughter, who she has special plans for.

warnings: SMUT, canon-divergent (blacks win au, rhaenyra does not take kings landing until she wins), slight dark!rhaenyra but just glimpses, slight dubcon in beginning but after that it’s 100% consensual, mentions of death, several mentions of b&c, doesn’t follow plot to a t but def contains spoilers, violence, and all other got/hotd triggers just to be safe

words: 8K

date posted: 13/11/24

King’s Landing had been nothing but chaos since she had arrived so long ago, accompanied by her cousin Daeron who had been called into the fight for the throne. Her father, while off fighting this senseless war alongside the Hand of the King, had requested that his only daughter be brought to stay in King’s Landing as a means of protection. That was, of course, long before Aemond and Vhagar were killed in battle and Rhaenyra descended upon King’s Landing on Syrax, flanked by five other fully-grown dragons and their riders. If she had thought things had been chaotic amidst the war, there were simply no words to describe the capitol in the days to come.

She had been with her aunt when the Blacks landed, spending most of her days with the Dowager Queen in the wake of her own daughter’s death. She did not mind, knowing herself to be Alicent’s greatest comfort in that period, as well as the fact that she had also gone without the gentle touch of a mother since she was a child. Jaehaera often joined them, blissfully unaware to the fact that her mother had died months earlier, These prayer and tea times that they spent together were sacred to each of them, until, of course, they turned their gaze to the window, where Syrax’s golden scales glittered in the sunlight as she landed in the courtyard with grace.

Aegon had been in no position to defend his crown. He was dragonless and crippled, both at the hand of his younger brother, and Daeron was still leagues away from the capitol with his own dragon Tessarion. As Rhaenyra’s mount snarled and snapped at the white cloaks around her, they were quick to surrender as they took in the sight of the five other dragons circling in the clouds above; there was no way out. 

Those loyal to Rhaenyra were quick to storm the castle, keeping everyone inside until she could discover exactly who her enemies were and who were simply complicit. She had swiftly had Aegon executed, as well as Otto Hightower and the rest of the Small Council, save for Alicent. She’d been far too close with the Dowager Queen to have her publicly humiliated and put to death, and considering that she had admitted to making such a grave mistake in regards to the succession, she instead had her locked in a tower until further notice. Her only request was that she would be joined by her niece and granddaughter until Rhaenyra made other arrangements for them, which Rhaenyra was merciful enough to oblige. She was not a tyrant, and felt no desire to punish the innocent for the crimes of men. 

Nine days they were locked in the tower with no word from Rhaenyra. The white cloaks guarding their door were curt when asked, and only opened the door for their meals and the bare necessities to be delivered to them. It was a tight space, one that was likely intended to be a luxurious cell for one, though luckily Jaehaera took up little to no space at all as she was usually physically attached to either her cousin or grandmother. Both women made an effort to keep the young princess comfortable and entertained in some way, whether it be by telling her stories, singing with her, creating makeshift games for them to play together…they both understood that she was just about that age where everything could suddenly begin making sense, and they wanted to delay her realisation of the situation as much as possible. They spent their nights huddled together for warmth, being so high up in the castle as winter came upon the realm made for some very cold nights, and they were all eager when a handmaiden arrived in the morning with a jug of warm water for them to clean up with. 

Finally, on the tenth day, Alicent had decided she had had enough. She had woken the two younger females up with her banging and yelling at the door, demanding to see the queen. Jaehaera clung to her cousin in fright while Y/n watched in anticipation as the door swung open, one of the guards stepping forward to confront the Hightower woman. 

“It’s been ten days,” she hissed, straightening her back in an attempt to reclaim any authority that she may have left, “I demand to see the queen. Not for myself, but for the sake of my niece and granddaughter, who are being punished for crimes they are wholly innocent of.”

The white cloak rolled his eyes, “You demand? Just as you have for the last ten days? The queen is busy, she has a realm to recover from the war you caused. Now, be quiet, your concerns will be brought to the queen and, no doubt, be dismissed, just as all of your others have.”

The door rattled with the force that he closed it with, leaving Alicent to slouch and huff in disbelief. How had her life turned out this way? How had she fallen so far from her position as queen to become nothing more than a prisoner and a nuisance to her guards? Her shoulders began to tremble as a sob tore its way from her throat, though no tears escaped her watery eyes. This was not sadness or anger that she was feeling, nor was it grief for the loss of each of her children, having received word of Daeron’s death in battle only days earlier. No, this was complete and utter defeat; everything she had ever worked towards gone and abandoned beneath the rubble of utter destruction. Her family and legacy, destroyed because of a simple misunderstanding on her part, because the lords of the realm would see the world in flames before a queen sat the Iron Throne. 

Alicent sank into the embrace of her niece and granddaughter as they gathered around her. She stroked each of their hair, absorbing the last ounces of love that she would be offered in this world. 

“Don’t cry,” she whispered, her thumb caressing Jaehaera’s soft cheek and wiping away the tear that slid down her flesh. In that instant, she was transported back, staring down at her sweet Helaena; what she wouldn’t give to have only a few moments more with her, to have been able to be there and wipe away her tears and stop her from throwing herself to her own demise. “Everything is alright, my little dragon. And you, my sweet niece, you are both going to be alright.”

A few hours later, the three were stirred awake as their guards banged on the door, announcing their oncoming entrance. Alicent bounced to her feet, placing herself between the door and the two younger girls. 

The knight stepped inside the room, his face as stern as ever, “Queen Rhaenyra has decided to be merciful, and meet your demands. Come at once, or not at all.”

The Dowager Queen was quick to motion the other two to follow, taking each of them by the hand as she rushed after the knight. She would not waste the one opportunity to help what was left of her kin as much as she could, even if it meant that she would face a long and desolate future all on her own. 

They finally reached the throne room, and of course Rhaenyra would only agree to meet the remaining members of her enemy’s family in front of the entire court. Y/n noticed immediately how empty the room appeared, numbers dwindling quickly within the Red Keep and leaving only those who bent the knee behind. Some were blindly faithful to the Hightowers, even to their graves, which brought the girl some comfort, but very little considering that it meant that she too would need to abandon every value she’d been taught since she was able to walk. 

The remaining courtiers leered at them, no doubt having the most offensive swears and curses on their tongues, only holding back out of fear of the new queen. Regardless of the fact that they had bent the knee, more than half of these lords were undoubtedly hating the fact that a woman had ascended the throne and only surrendered out of fear. Y/n hoped that Rhaenyra might have some mercy for Jaehaera at least, if not for herself. Of course, she mourned the deaths of her father, grandfather, and cousins; she had once accepted a betrothal to Jason Lannister’s eldest son on behalf of her family’s cause, so there was some evidence against her own odds. The young child, however, could not be blamed for the work of her father by anyone with half a mind, though she has heard that Rhaenyra has grown mad since the death of her son Lucerys, so half a mind may have been too much to ask for. 

Rhaenyra herself looked nothing short of regal as she sat upon the Iron Throne, the crown placed neatly upon her tight nest of braids previously belonging to her father, and her great grandfather before him. Her violet stare was piercing as they grew closer, but her eyes were trained entirely on Alicent as she tucked her niece and granddaughter behind her, jaw shifting back and forth, signalling that she had been grinding her teeth in anticipation. 

Beside her stood her two remaining children, Aegon and Viserys, both seeming far too young to truly understand what sort of position they were currently in, how much power they wielded over the rest of the souls in this room. They were both toddlers when the war began, and Aegon did not appear to be any older than six or seven.

One of her queensguard stepped forward, his booming voice echoing around the partially empty chamber, “You stand before Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. You come before her as traitors for conspiring with the pretender and usurper Aegon the Weak. How do you answer these claims?”

Alicent let out a shuddered breath, “Yo-your Grace. I–we come before you to humbly ask–”

Rhaenyra let out a pitiful laugh, one that held nothing but malice behind it, “Humbly? You come before me humbly?”

The court let out a unanimous, nervous chuckle, all anticipating the queen’s next words.

Alicent’s face drained of colour, “You-your Grace?”

“Your niece and granddaughter who you hide away from me, they may come to me to ask for mercy, humbly, as you say. They are innocent in all of this, only the pawns of a greater game.” The queen grinned, “A game that all began with you.”

Alicent scoffed, quickly wiping the single tear that fell down her cheek, “Your Grace, last time we spoke face-to-face, we seemed on the same page. Forgive me for my confusion at your animosity.”

“Animosity?” Rhaenyra leaned forward, fingers gripping the arms of her throne in rage, “When we last spoke face-to-face, you swore to me that your usurper of a son had agreed to abdicate, that he was too crippled to even sit his own throne. Then, I come to learn that none of this was true, and that he had instead taken advantage of my lack of preparedness and had instead invaded the territory of my own allies. So explain to me exactly how my anger at your lies and betrayal to be displaced animosity.”

“Rhaenyr–”

“You will address the queen with respect to her title, traitor.” The same member of the queensguard spoke with an edge to his voice.

Alicent sighed, “Your Grace, I come to you, humbly, as a woman of the Faith, as you well know.”

“Faithful enough to take a lover before my father’s corpse was even cold,” She laughed, eyes looking out at the members of her court, who all seemed in shock at the admittance, “The words came from your own lips when we last spoke face-to-face, do not deny it to me now.”

Y/n frowned, tears pooling along her waterline as she tucked Jaehaera into her side. As if to protect her from these slanderous words, although she did not doubt any truth behind them. Her aunt had always been a faithful woman, so chaste it was almost impossible to believe, so it did not surprise her to find the woman who had once been her closest confidant airing out her darkest truths before the court. She did not blame her, despite the fact that she had drilled into her head the importance of virtue and chastity as a woman, but in truth, her aunt was the strongest woman she had ever known; she was forced into a marriage with a man who was more than double her age, taking on the role of queen at sixteen and consequently losing her best friend; she was the mother of four mentally unwell children, one unable to keep his wits about him, one who was tragically more in tune with the world than anyone gave her credit for, one who was maniacally vengeful, and another who grew up away from her protection. Perhaps Daeron had been the luckiest of them, considering how his siblings had fared, but Y/n knew that he had experienced his own ailments that had been kept well concealed on behalf of her great-uncle, the Lord of Oldtown, and she also knew exactly how the lack of a maternal figure affected a child.

Her father had done his best, but often admitted that he wished his sister had been there to help him guide her to womanhood. The septas could only do so much, though they taught her more self hatred than anything. Her great-aunt was a stern woman, and had no patience for her questions or girlish dreams, and pushed her away as much as humanly possible. 

“Your Grace,” her voice carried through the hall before she could even think, all eyes turning to the meek figure hiding behind her aunt and standing before the queen as a traitor. Rhaenyra herself seemed surprised to hear from her, violet eyes staring down at her curiously, “Forgive us. Forgive us for our crimes against your reign. My lady aunt speaks the truth when she tells you that we come to you humbly, three women guilty of nothing but being under the control of the wrong men. You, yourself, have experienced this cruelty, as has every other lady in this room.”

The queen seemed taken by her words, sitting back against her throne thoughtfully, “You mean to appeal to my mercy based on our shared experiences? On our mutual sex? Do you truly consider the three of you completely innocent of any crimes?”

“Innocent?” Y/n asked, “I–”

“Step forward,” the queen commanded, “You muster enough courage to speak before me. Speak to me plainly and speak to me truthfully.” 

Y/n’s gaze fluttered to the ground, then to her aunt, whose eyes were wide and glossy with fear. She shook her head, pleading with her not to speak any further. She inhaled deeply, sliding her palm over the crown of sweet Jaehaera’s head before she finally stepped around her aunt and stood directly before the queen.

“We do not have all day,” the queen smirked.

She clenched her jaw, growing angry with how much the woman seemed to be enjoying their humiliation, “My aunt admitted to her mistake, and yes, she is partially responsible for this war and her lapse in judgement is one that cannot be so easily forgiven or forgotten.”

“There we agree.”

Y/n swallowed harshly, “But you must not forget, that the plan to…usurp your throne existed from the moment that Aegon was born. You better than anyone must know that. While your father lived, you were protected, but he was the only man in this world who has ever wanted you to succeed.”

Rhaenyra gulped, “You speak as if you know me. As if you know my life, or the people in it.”

“I do not mean to offend Your Grace, I only wish you to understand,” a stray tear trickled down her face. “I accepted a betrothal made for me on behalf of my grandsire, a man who you executed for his crimes. I have never met the man I was meant to marry, nor was I ever going to prior to our marriage. I was nothing short of a game piece. My sweet cousin, Jaehaera, barely old enough to understand the fate of her own mother, or her brother before her,” Rhaenyra’s face paled at the mere mention of little Jaehaerys, “I have no doubt that my grandsire had similar plans for her in the coming years. As for my aunt, she has made mistakes, yes, many of which she will never be able to repent for, but she was victim of only the same treatment as I, only she was given to a gentle man rather than one who is known for nothing but his ability to hunt, as I was. If you cannot find the forgiveness to spare myself or my aunt, I beseech you to take your niece into your care, for she is the only one of us completely innocent.”

Rhaenyra averted her gaze, silent for a moment before she finally waved her hand dismissively, “I’ve heard enough. Take them away.”

Y/n kept her eyes steady on the queen as the guards dragged her away. She wanted nothing more than to climb those stairs and weep directly at her feet, to beg for mercy, whether it be through a quick death or a pardon, but instead she held her stare firmly, forcing the queen to stare into her eyes as long as she could before the guards dragged her into the corridor, and back up to the tower.

A day passed before they heard anything more about or from the queen. Servants came and went with their meals and the guards ignored Alicent’s insistent yelling, until the door finally opened and a white cloak stepped inside the small room. 

“The queen has summoned you.”

Alicent stood from the small writing desk near the window, wringing her fingers as she took a nervous step forward. 

“Not you,” his voice stopped her, his gloved finger extending to point at the younger woman who cradled the child on the bed, “Her.”

“Her?” Alicent barked, “No, she is innocent. What could the queen possibly have to speak to her about?”

“That isn’t any of your concern, traitor,” he scowled at her, “She can come with me peacefully, or we can do this the hard way. I have no preference.”

Y/n shared a glance with her aunt, slowly moving to slide Jaehaera out of her lap. The child clung to her, small hands grabbing her tightly as she wept in resistance. 

“Jaehaera, please,” her voice cracked at this rare burst of emotions from her cousin. The girl had been through so much in such a short amount of time, and she didn’t even truly know it. “It will be alright. I will return.”

Alicent peeled the child away from her, cradling the child as she screamed while her niece was grabbed by the arm and roughly led out into the hallway. 

Y/n was shocked when the guards led her away from the throne room and up into the palace where the royal bedchambers were kept. 

“Where are we going?” She asked the guard. 

He ignored her, finally stopping before the largest door in the corridor, a room she had once known as Aegon’s chambers, but were now Rhaenyra’s. A shiver worked its way up her spine as the guard knocked, roughly forcing her through the door when the queen called out for them to enter. 

The queen sat in a large chair before the roaring fireplace, far too close to such heat for anyone but the blood of the dragon. Her eyes were pulled to the door, a small curve appearing on her lips at the sight of the woman in front of her. 

“My lady,” she nodded her head, “You may leave us, Ser Rychard.” 

The guard gave her a slight shove forward out of the way of the door as he closed it behind them, leaving the two women almost alone, save for the handmaidens that scurried around the room around them. 

“Your Grace,” she lowered into a curtsy, “I must ask–”

“Save the pleasantries,” the queen hummed, turning her gaze back to the fire, “You were bold enough earlier. Do not tell me it was all for show.”

“I apologise if I overstepped earlier. I believe that you, of all people, can understand my desperation to preserve my cousin’s innocence.”

“I can,” the queen reached for the cup of wine at her side, taking a slow drink, “I have no intentions of harming a hair on Jaehaera’s head.”

“You mean it?” a weight was lifted from her shoulders, “What will you do with her?”

“I will keep her as my ward. Regardless of her parentage, she is a Targaryen princess and will be raised as such. She will know her histories, and she will have the finest things.”

“And will she know of her mother?”

Rhaenyra paused, “Helaena, for better or worse, is involved in such histories. I want the child to know not only of this war and the losses she has faced, but why they occurred and what we could learn from them.”

Y/n tilted her head and frowned, “No.”

“No?” the queen gasped, disbelief clear in her voice, “Tell me then, what would you have me do.”

“For better or for worse,” the younger woman scoffed, “For better or for worse, Helaena was nothing short of a victim. I understand that you had little relations with your siblings, for reasons I cannot fault you for. But in this war, for better or for worse, there were innocent lives lost on both sides.”

“Helaena took her own life.”

“Out of grief!” Y/n paused after her voice rose in volume, collecting herself before the queen, “Perhaps you had no part in the butchering of her son, as you say, but her death was nothing short of a casualty, I’m sure you can agree.”

Rhaenyra stood from her chair, crossing the room at a frightening speed, “You dare question my involvement in such…such…”

“Senselessness?”

The queen paused, staring at her with that same curious stare she had worn the day before in front of the court. 

“I believe you when you say that you had no part in this, Your Grace,” the young lady diverted her gaze to the floor, “But regardless, the order came from your late husband. The job was done in your name. Jaehaerys was not the first victim of this war, but the pain that this caused Helaena is one that you can almost understand yourself.”

“Do not speak of it.”

“This war has caused nothing but loss and heartache. Do not teach Jaehaera that her brother was butchered with purpose, or that her mother was a tyrant who chose to leave her.” her eyes had glossed over, and her grief had overcome the strength in her voice, “Helaena was special, she mattered, and for better or for worse, she was forced to watch as her son was brutally slain in his own bed, forced to submit to their will in order to not only save her own life, but Jaehaera’s as well. Teach her of her mother, and who she truly was. Do not paint her as a villain or a coward for her choice to leave this world.”

Rhaenyra stared at her for a moment, a rare glimmer of understanding appearing in her violet gaze before she lunged forward, taking the younger woman in her arms. Only then did the Hightower woman allow herself to weep for the first time since her imprisonment. 

The queen soothed her and brushed a hand over her hair. She held her close, allowing the younger woman to nuzzle into her neck as close as she needed. After a few moments, she pulled away, wiping her cheeks dry as she attempted to compose herself.

“My apologies, my queen. I do not know what has overcome me.”

She shook her head, hand coming up to brush her thumb across her cheekbone, “Do not apologise. You are right, I know just as well as anyone that you and Princess Jaehaera are innocent of any crime beyond being born a woman. I understand your grief. The princess will learn of her mother as she was, not as she will be remembered. She will know her brother and she will understand that I had no hand in his death. She will know her father, who, beyond his many faults, I am told, was as attentive a father as he could. When she is older, I will propose a marriage between her and my own son Aegon, so that she may carry on her mother’s legacy as queen consort and finally end this feud.”

“Only if she agrees,” Y/n whispered, “You claim yourself to be different from men like my grandsire. Do not force her into an unwanted marriage.”

Rhaenyra scoffed out a laugh, “You are a demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

The younger lady let out a small giggle of her own, glossy eyes staring into those of the queen. Neither of them took any notice of the curious stares of the servants around them as their foreheads came together, noses brushing as Rhaenyra teased her lips against the younger lady’s. She smiled at the surprise on her face, testing the waters once more before finally pressing their lips firmly together. 

Y/n was still, unsure of how to react. She had not been so intimate with anyone before, let alone another woman. She had been raised as a woman of the Faith, which warned against the dangers of such temptations, but there was something so alluring about the silver-haired woman that made her not want to pull away.

The kisses shared were soft at first, but slowly grew in passion as Rhaenyra took a handful of the younger woman’s hair in her hand, guiding her mouth along with her own. 

One of the servants cleared their throat, clearly uncomfortable with the display. Rhaenyra pulled away just enough to turn her head.

“Your Grace, your bath is ready.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, “leave us.”

The handmaidens made quick work of fleeing the queen’s chambers, no doubt eager to spread such gossip through the staff of the Red Keep. Once they were gone and the door was closed behind her, Rhaenyra turned her attention back to the starry-eyed girl in front of her.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Your Grace?”

“You heard me. I imagine you have been longing for a proper bath after days in confinement. Take off your clothes, and get in the tub.” The girl stared at her for a moment, causing some concern to appear  in Rhaenyra’s eyes, “Forgive me. You may leave if you wish. I will send some servants to your quarters for you to bathe in private if you so choose. However, I would like you to stay.”

At a loss for words, she mumbled out her most pressing concern, “What of the servants? Word will spread quickly, especially among suitors.”

“Suitors,” the queen snorted, “you complain of betrothals one minute, and demand one the next.”

The lady shook her head, “Not for me. Forgive me, Your Grace, but I had assumed you would wish to remarry once the throne was secured.”

“I have no desire to remarry. I have been widowed twice over, and not a single one of my lovers outlived this war. I do not wish for more children, or for company offered to me by any man. I cannot deny that we would face ridicule, but if you were to become my lover, I can protect you from unwanted betrothals and you will never face hardship again in your lifetime so long as I can protect you. Regardless of your answer, you are more than welcome at my court, and I encourage you to speak to the princess of her family, for no one could do her mother justice as I know you could.”

Y/n was stunned at the sudden change in demeanour. The woman who had called them before the court to interrogate and humiliate them for their parentage was now offering her a place in her bed. The woman who had only just gotten cross with her was here offering her a permanent position not only in her court as a subject, but also as an equal within these rooms.

“Say the word,” Rhaenyra breathed into her flesh, dragging the bump of her nose down the column of her throat, “And you will be free of me. I shall never ask you of this again. Or, take off your clothes, and you may have everything you could ever want.”

Y/n inhaled sharply before a nervous smile appeared on her lips, “Help me with my laces?”

Rhaenyra smirked, pressing one more kiss to her lips as she took her by the hand, leading her further into her bedchambers to where the large wooden tub had been prepared. She forced her to turn, making quick work of the laces at the back of her gown and helping her strip. Luckily, the gown was rather plain, simple blue cotton over her shift, and she was bare before the queen within moments. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned up and down her figure, a satisfied smile rising to her lips, “Your beauty exceeds my expectations, my love.”

The shift from enemy to lover was swift, so quick that Y/n felt like her head would begin to spin. She felt heat rise to her cheeks as she gingerly allowed the queen to take her by the hand, guiding her to step into the steaming water and sink into the warmth. She sighed at the feeling, having only had access to a small basin of lukewarm water between the three of them for the past fortnight. 

“Would you like some wine?” Rhaenyra asked her, already beginning to pour her a cup before she answered.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Y/n answered bashfully, accepting the cup and taking a long sip from it before allowing Rhaenyra to set it aside. 

Rhaenyra allowed Y/n to bathe in silence, sitting at her side and helping to scrub the oils away from her scalp with tender hands, manicured nails massaging the gentle skin and causing the girl to tip her head back and let out a small noise of contentment.

After she was cleaner than she had ever felt in her life, Rhaenyra’s hands moved down the back of her neck, softly massaging the tense muscle until she reached her shoulders. They then pushed down her back as far as she could reach before her flesh met the side of the tub, and began crawling around her front. Her nails tickled the flesh over her ribs, settling just beneath the slouched underside of her breasts, but made no effort to crawl any higher. Her soft pink lips ghosted up the side of her neck, inhaling the fresh scent of the oils in the tub. 

“Tell me to stop,” the queen whispered, “And we will never speak of this again.”

The younger woman exhaled shakily, slowly turning her head to come face-to-face with the queen. Their noses brushed one another for a moment as Rhaenyra waited with bated breath as she waited for her answer.

“Do not stop.”

The words were out of her mouth no more than a second before Rhaenyra’s lips descended on her own, fingers crawling up and firmly cupping her breasts in her palms. The younger woman gasped in surprise, but quickly relaxed into the queen’s touch as she rolled her already pebbled nipples between her fingers, completely disregarding the fact that the long sleeves of her gown were now doused in the water. One hand began to descend further into the water, tracing across her ribs, the soft pudge of her belly, and just barely reaching the thatch of curls that just barely protected her modesty. 

She pulled away with a gasp, “Wha-what are you doing?”

Recognition appeared in Rhaenyra’s eyes, her features softening, “You are a maiden?”

The girl shook her head, “My great-aunt once told me that if I was not chaste until my wedding night, I would be damning not only myself, but my entire house as well.” 

“If that were true, I can promise you that many of these great houses would be damned, my own included,” Rhaenyra scoffed, “With a man, it can be painful, but nice. I admit, I am not quite as experienced with my own sex as I am the opposite, but I find it just as if not even more enjoyable. Women are more…in-tune with one another.”

She stared at the queen inquisitively, “What do you mean?”

“You would understand what feels nice to you based on your personal explorations, just as I do.”

“Explorations?”

A small chuckle escaped Rhaenyra’s throat as she pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek, “My sweet, you are truly so innocent, aren’t you. Do not tell me you have never pleasured yourself.”

The girl shook her head, brows furrowed. Pleasure? What could she mean? Everyone had told her that coupling with her lord husband would be unpleasant for the first while, but may begin to feel nice after some time, but no one had ever mentioned anything of her own pleasure. 

“Then I would humbly request that I be the first to show you,” Rhaenyra smirked at her, “just say the word.”

Her nimble fingers played with the hair between her legs, tracing over it playfully and laughing to herself at the jump of the younger woman’s hips under the slightest of touches. Her thighs clamped together, this familiar feeling pooling between her thighs becoming more overwhelming than ever; she would normally wait this out, clean the wetness away and carry on, but she did not think that the queen was going to allow her to this time.

“Yes,” she uttered out, mouth feeling impossibly dry, “yes, please, Your Grace.”

The title sent a shiver down Rhaenyra’s spine, perhaps something to be reused at another time when she did not need to be so gentle with her. 

“In here, we are equals, my love. You may call me Rhaenyra, or whatever you wish.”

The queen’s name rolled off her tongue fluidly, and Rhaenyra revelled in the sound. She finally pulled away, standing to her full height and extending a hand to the woman and carefully helping her step out of the cooling water and onto the stone flooring. She led her back to where the fire continued to roar within its hearth, and turned her back to her. 

“Help me?” She called over her shoulder, moving her long braid to the side as the younger woman eagerly helped her undress.

The young Hightower woman stared in awe at the sight of her queen, appearing like a goddess before her as the firelight flickered off of her milky-white flesh. Rhaenyra was nothing short of beautiful, if that word was even suitable for a woman so divine. Y/n felt an overwhelming urge to bend to her every whim and desire.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” she whispered as Rhaenyra turned back to face her, chests brushing against one another with every heaving breath. 

“Have you seen many women in such a state, my lady?” Rhaenyra teased, an easy smile appearing on her lips.

The younger woman looked down bashfully, “I have not. But I doubt any other could rival you.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, kissing her so slowly it felt more like heavy breaths falling from their lips than anything else, “But you do, my sweet.”

Rhaenyra pulled her impossibly closer, deepening their kiss until her tongue was able to familiarise itself with the interior of her mouth. Y/n’s gentle fingers found their place on the queen’s jaw, holding her close as Rhaenyra reached around her, one hand gliding up and down her back while the other shamelessly grasped at her bottom, softly massaging one cheek in her grasp and smirking at the squeak of surprise it drew from her new lover. 

“Lay down,” she breathed into her, guiding the younger woman down to lay flat on the luxurious white fur rug in front of the hearth, wasting no time in dropping down to lay on her side next to her. “I need you to relax, I have nothing but pleasure in store for you, my sweet.”

Her pink lips traced down the length of Y/n’s throat, quickly descending further down to engulf her pert nipple between her lips, tugging and nipping at it as gasps and whimpers began escaping her lover. She moved to the other breast, taking her time in worshipping the flesh and nipples alike.

“How does this feel?” She asked between kisses pressed to her sternum, “I wish to hear you always, my love.”

“G-good. I cannot–I cannot explain it, but…”

“I understand, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra kissed her lips again this time, the hand that had once been resting on Y/n belly had slid further down to rest between her thighs once more, fingers tracing delicate patterns on the skin, “Will you allow me to feel you?”

The younger woman hesitantly nodded, breath hitching as Rhaenyra parted her thighs and finally breached the curls with her fingertips, a soft sigh falling from her lips as she felt the wetness pooling at her core.

“Feel this?” She asked, moving her fingers around to collect some of her slick before drawing small circles on her sensitive pearl, “feel how much you desire me? Nothing could stop me from having you, my sweet.”

For a split second, that same dark glint appeared in Rhaenyra’s eyes, the one she had the day prior in the Throne Room. For better or for worse, Rhaenyra was a Targaryen, all bound to have some darkness within them. If she were not so disposed at the moment, Y/n may have felt a sense of fear, but instead it only furthered her desire.

“Oh,” she jolted at Rhaenyra’s movement, legs widening at the warming sensation that appeared in the pit of her tummy, “my love,” Rhaenyra grinned at the name, “I feel…”

“Good?” Rhaenyra asked.

The girl nodded enthusiastically, tilting her head back into the plush rug as Rhaenyra dared to breach her entrance with her fingertips. Rhaenyra watched her face for any discomfort as her finger easily sank into her sweet heat, glad to find none even as she inserted another.

Y/n let out a cry of protest as Rhaenyra removed her fingers entirely, bringing them up to her lips and sucking every drop of her juices off of her digits. Y/n watched in awe, her kiss-swollen lips parted in surprise at the vulgarity of it all. 

“You taste divine,” Rhaenyra cooed, moving to kneel between her parted thighs, “and look how beautiful,” the girl let out a whimper as she traced her finger around the entirety of her cunt, “I fear I may perish if I do not taste you this instant.”

She left no room for questioning or protest as she settled on her belly, back arched with her ass high in the air behind her. Y/n only wished she could step out of her body for a moment to admire the sight from behind, but was quickly brought out of her thoughts as Rhaenyra dragged her tongue slowly up the entirety of her core, from taint to clitoris. 

She pushed herself up on her elbows in surprise, thighs clamping shut around Rhaenyra’s head as she began to alternate between licking around her entrance and suckling on her sweet, swollen pearl of nerves. The first true moan of pleasure was dragged from her throat as the queen sucked her clit, tugging at it with her lips for a moment before letting it slip back beneath its hood with a soft gushing noise. Rhaenyra chuckled, taking great pleasure in noticing how wet and responsive the young lady was to her touch, finally conceding and nuzzling her face into her wetness and focusing on bringing her to the brink.

She was not far off, having never felt such pleasure before in her life. She supported herself with one hand behind her, back arching into her touch as the other hand planted itself on the back of Rhaenyra’s head. Her eyes suddenly widened in shock, the feeling in the pit of her stomach far too strong to fight off any longer.

“Oh, oh,” she panted, “Your G–Rhaenyra, you must stop. I think I am going to–oh!”

Her face burned with embarrassment, thighs closing together as Rhaenyra pulled away. She could not believe that she had just…the feeling had been so similar to that of when she needed to use the chamber pot. Had she truly just peed on the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?

But Rhaenyra was dry as she returned to her side, save for the wetness smeared from her chin to her nose and across both cheeks. She was quick to press an eager kiss to her lips, allowing the girl to taste herself on her tongue as she smoothed her hand over her soft belly comfortingly. 

“You are so lovely,” the queen mused, “every part of you. Now, let me clean you–”

“No,” the lady protested, “let me…I wish to return the…”

Rhaenyra grinned shamelessly, “You wish to pleasure me?”

She nodded bashfully, feeling so vulnerable yet so connected at the same time as she came down from her own orgasm. Rhaenyra nodded, shifting herself across the rug once more until she was facing the opposite direction, stroking her lover’s hair gently.

“Tap my leg if this is too much. Just lay back, and allow me to take my pleasure from you.”

Rhaenyra quickly swung her leg over the girl’s head, straddling her face as she slowly lowered herself. 

“Stick out your tongue, my love. Remember what you liked, kisses and licks, remember?”

Y/n nodded, brushing her own hair away from her sweaty cheeks and following her instructions as the queen lowered herself onto her face, a low moan rumbling from her jaw as her dripping cunt settled onto Y/n’s awaiting tongue. 

Rhaenyra gripped her hair, slowly beginning to grind her hips down against her as the girl lapped eagerly at her core, moaning at the musky taste of the queen’s most intimate centre. She did her best to follow the movements that Rhaenyra had administered on her own core, licking and kissing until she was eventually engulfing the entirety of her cunt in her hot mouth, slurping and sucking at her juices. Rhaenyra laughed in surprise at this, grinding her hips harder.

“I had no idea you could be so greedy, my love,” she chuckled, rolling her head back in pleasure, “Oh, yes, yes.”

The girl was spurred on by the praise, testing the barrier of her clenching hole with her tongue as Rhaenyra rocked her hips harder and harder, forcing her clit down on the girl’s nose. Her words of praise became slurred as her movements sped up, loud yells of pleasure leaving her, no doubt revealing to the guards outside her chambers exactly what was happening between the queen and her prisoner.

Rhaenyra, having gone without touch since long before she invaded the capitol, was almost as quick to finish as her sweet maiden had been, moaning in pleasure as thick drips of white fluid oozed from her tight hole, covering the entire lower half of the younger woman’s face. 

The queen was pleased to find a grin on her lover’s face as she climbed off of her, quick to greet her with a kiss of dying passion, tiredness overtaking each of them as they laid together, hands wandering across naked skin. 

“Stay with me tonight,” the queen murmured, “and I will bring you so much pleasure you will not even remember your own name.”

Realisation dawned on the Hightower maiden, remembering Jaehaera and Alicent locked in that tower while she could sleep in the queen’s own bed that very night. Guilt gnawed at her conscience, though she would never find it within herself to regret any of what had transpired between them that night. 

“I cannot,” she frowned, “Jaehaera, she wept when I was escorted away. I promised her I would be back.”

A soft smile appeared on her face, “You care for her as your own. I admire that.”

Y/n shrugged, “As I have said, she is innocent in all of this. She does not even understand why she does not see her mother anymore.”

Rhaenyra pursed her lips, “You and the princess will be given proper chambers on the morrow, just allow me some time to arrange it. I would not dream of sending her back to that nursery, so she may stay in the rooms near my own children out of convenience for the maids. You, however, my love, will have the queen’s chambers.”

Her eyes bugged out of her head, “The–Rhaenyra I cannot–”

“You can, and you will.” She pressed, “as I have told you, I have no desire to remarry or take another man to bed. You are the closest I will ever have to another spouse, I swear it to you now. If I could take you to wife and make you consort at my side, I would.”

The Hightower woman felt warmth spread across her cheeks, but a gnawing question tugged at her, unable to deny herself of seeking the answer. 

“And my aunt, the Queen Dowager?”

Rhaenyra’s face hardened, “I shared a love with Alicent as a child, one that I have never been able to replace. For that, and for your sake and Jaehaera’s, I swear to be merciful to her. However, she began this war, and plotted against me from the moment my sweet Jace took his first breath. For that, I cannot forgive. She will be treated well, but she will remain in confinement for the rest of her days, as she has requested in exchange for your own freedom.”

Y/n was silent for a moment, knowing that this truly was the best outcome possible for her aunt at this point, “Will we be allowed to visit her? I knew Helaena enough, but Jaehaera would benefit most from Alicent, who knew her better than anyone.”

She pondered for a moment before coming up with her response, “So long as she bends the knee and accepts her fate, I will grant you visitation once a week, and you may pray together if you must.”

Y/n nodded, leaning in and trailing her own sweet kisses up Rhaenyra’s jaw and to her lips, “Thank you, my love.”

She jumped in surprise as Rhaenyra’s hand enclosed around her throat, applying no pressure except for the slight press of her thumb on her jugular as she pulled her in to meet her kiss once more, this one slower and lazier than the others as their lips dragged across one another’s softly. 

“For better or for worse,” the queen whispered into her, “you are mine, now and forever.”

[novaursa]

The Flames We Share

- Summary: You tell your son the truth. He has more than the blood of dragons in his veins.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is Rhaenyra's younger sister and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Blood We Choose. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 5 198

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The dungeons beneath Dragonstone were a cold, damp place, lit only by flickering torches that cast shadows that seemed to dance mockingly on the rough-hewn walls. The stench of rot and mildew clung to the air, seeping into the very stones of the fortress. Gwayne Hightower sat chained to the wall, bruised and dirty from his days of captivity, but his eyes were clear and resolute, fixed forward as he awaited what was surely his fate. His thoughts, however, were elsewhere—focused only on you, the woman he had risked everything for.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the stone corridors, and he looked up as the iron door creaked open. Daemon Targaryen stepped inside, a predator’s smirk twisting his lips. He tossed a crumpled message onto the filthy floor in front of Gwayne’s feet. The black wax seal was unmistakable—bearing the sigil of House Hightower.

“Your father sends his regards,” Daemon drawled, a cruel edge in his voice. “He offers to trade his traitorous son for some stronghold I care little about. Imagine that—a worthless fortress in exchange for his even more worthless offspring.” Daemon’s eyes gleamed as he studied Gwayne’s reaction, searching for any sign of weakness.

But Gwayne’s expression remained stony. “You can say what you wish, Targaryen. My fate was sealed the moment I brought her to you.” His voice was hoarse but steady. “As long as Y/N is safe, I care not what becomes of me.”

Daemon’s lip curled in disdain. “Is that so?” He took a step closer, as if to loom over Gwayne. “Safe? You think she’s safe, having fallen from the sky, bleeding and broken? You think I would allow the woman who bore my son—my heir—to suffer any harm under my roof?” There was a dark gleam of possessiveness in Daemon’s eyes, as if the very notion of another man daring to care for you was an affront to his pride.

Gwayne’s gaze sharpened at that. “I want to see Vaeron,” he demanded suddenly. There was a tremor in his voice, a desperation that Daemon did not miss. “I want to speak with my son.”

Daemon’s anger flared at the insolence of the request. “Your son?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “That boy is a Targaryen—a dragon, not the product of some dishonorable tryst! Do you think I would allow him to be tainted by the shame of what you nearly brought upon my niece, siring a child on her without even the dignity of wedlock?”

Gwayne’s eyes darkened, yet there was a hint of mocking amusement in them as he stared up at the Rogue Prince. “And you believe yourself to be the righteous one? The man who slew his first wife in pursuit of power? Who consorts with whores while claiming the love of dragons? Tell me, Daemon, what makes you any different from me?”

Daemon’s smirk faltered, his face tightening with barely controlled rage. But Gwayne continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “She was denied to me—Y/N, I mean. If your brother had seen sense, had given her to me rather than feeding your ambitions, we could have avoided all this bloodshed. The boy would have been raised in Oldtown, under the guidance of both our Houses, and this war might never have happened.”

“Nothing could have prevented this war,” Daemon snarled, eyes flashing. “It was written in fire and blood long before you or I even took breath. But do not delude yourself into thinking you have anything resembling love, Hightower. What you claim as love is mere possession—an attempt to bind what you could never truly have.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenched at the words, but he did not respond. The two men stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like a drawn sword. Daemon took a breath, his composure returning as he straightened.

“I’ll have the boy brought to you,” Daemon said at last, his tone laced with scorn. “You may look upon him and see the life you were never destined to have. But do not forget—he is mine, and Y/N belongs to me now. She is a Targaryen, and you are nothing more than a failed traitor.”

With that, Daemon turned and strode toward the door. Before he left, he paused, throwing one last taunt over his shoulder. “Do not hope for mercy when your father trades you away like the pawn you are, Gwayne. Your life is worth little, even to those who should care most.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Gwayne alone in the darkness once more. But he did not feel defeated. Even with the chains biting into his wrists, he had no regrets for what he had done, for saving you and ensuring you were delivered safely to Dragonstone. In the end, it was not his fate that mattered—it was yours. Even in the heart of this cold, bitter place, the thought of you kept the warmth alive in his heart.

Because in the quiet shadows, despite all the titles and power Daemon clung to, Gwayne knew one truth that Daemon would never fully grasp—he loved you, wholly and without condition. And in his mind, that was a victory far greater than any throne or dragon could ever grant.

The soft crackle of the hearthfire filled the chamber, mingling with the scent of herbs and ointments from where Maesters had tended to your wounds. You sat by the window, Silverwing’s scales still etched into your memory, the pain a constant reminder of the battle you had narrowly survived. The healing was slow, but the bruises and cuts were nothing compared to the deeper ache in your chest. You weren’t sure what stung more—the death of your dragon or the desperate, foolish bravery of the man who had risked everything to save you.

A knock at the door broke your thoughts. “Come in,” you called, and the door creaked open to reveal Vaeron. The boy’s silver hair glinted in the evening light, and his blue eyes—so much like his father’s—fixed on you with concern.

“Mother,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “How are you feeling today?”

You smiled softly at him, though your heart ached as you looked upon him. “I am mending, sweetling. Stronger with each day.”

Vaeron nodded, yet his expression was troubled. He came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, the worry in his eyes clear. “I heard… I heard Daemon talking about him,” he murmured. “The man in the dungeons—the one who saved you. Is it true he defied Ser Criston Cole and fled with you from Rook’s Rest? They say he’s a Hightower. An enemy.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. The boy was no longer the child you had once cradled; he was growing, his curiosity sharp and his mind keen. He deserved the truth.

“Yes, it’s true,” you replied, voice gentle. “The man who saved me is Gwayne Hightower. He… he betrayed his own kin, risked his life, and rode through the chaos to bring me here, to safety.”

Vaeron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But why would he do that? Daemon says he’s just trying to make amends for his family’s treachery. That he’s nothing more than a desperate fool.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s more complicated than that, my dear. Gwayne… he did it out of love, out of loyalty to someone who meant the world to him once.” You hesitated, the words heavy on your tongue. The truth was a blade you’d kept sheathed for too long, and it was time to draw it, no matter how much it might wound.

Vaeron looked at you expectantly, sensing the weight of what you were about to say. You reached out, taking his hand in yours, needing the touch to anchor yourself.

“Vaeron… the man in the dungeons, Gwayne Hightower… he is your father.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Vaeron’s eyes widened, the shock raw and unfiltered in his young face. He pulled his hand away, as if trying to distance himself from the revelation. “What?” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “My father? But… Daemon… I always thought…”

You nodded, pain lancing through your heart as you watched him grapple with the truth. “Daemon has raised you as his own, and in many ways, he is your father. But you have another father, by blood, and that is Gwayne Hightower. You were conceived out of a moment we both knew would never be more than a fleeting dream. He wanted to marry me, to build a life, but—”

Vaeron shook his head, backing away as he struggled to process it all. “No,” he muttered, as if denying the words could somehow make them untrue. “Daemon’s always told me I’m a Targaryen, that my blood is pure, that I am his son, a prince of the realm. How could—why didn’t you tell me? Why now, when he’s chained beneath us like some criminal?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back. “I didn’t want you to bear the burden of that knowledge before you were ready. You were always meant to be strong, to carry the legacy of the dragons. But Gwayne… he isn’t just a Hightower, he’s the man who saved my life when no one else dared. Whatever his blood, he does care for you in his own way, even from afar now.”

Vaeron’s lips trembled as he stared at you, his confusion and hurt palpable. “I need… I need to think,” he stammered, turning abruptly and nearly stumbling over himself in his haste to leave the room.

“Vaeron, wait—” you called after him, but he was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound echoed in the emptiness of the chamber, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Your chest tightened with regret. You had known this moment would come eventually, but you had hoped it would be under different circumstances. There was so much more you wanted to tell him, so much more to explain. But for now, all you could do was hope that he would find a way to understand, to see beyond the conflict of bloodlines and names.

In that fleeting moment before he vanished, you had seen the storm raging behind his eyes—a storm you knew would not settle easily. And in that storm, you glimpsed the boy he had always been and the man he was becoming, torn between the truths that defined him.

But you could only wait, knowing that the choice between dragons and towers was his to make, even if it broke your heart in the process.

Vaeron’s footsteps echoed through the winding corridors of Dragonstone as he fought to steady his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a heavy drum drowning out the world around him. The truth his mother had just revealed rang in his ears like a cruel jest—Gwayne Hightower is your father. The words were a blade lodged deep in his chest, twisting with every thought, every doubt that now swirled within him.

He turned a corner, the air cool against his flushed face, and found himself in the dimly lit dining hall. The large table at its center was set for the evening meal, though the room was mostly empty save for one figure seated at the end, absently twirling a goblet in his hand.

Jacaerys Velaryon looked up, catching sight of Vaeron. His dark curls fell loosely over his forehead, and his brown eyes narrowed in concern as he took in his cousin’s strained expression. “Vaeron?” he called out, his voice low but filled with the warmth of kinship. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”

Vaeron stiffened, his gaze flickering away as he hesitated at the threshold of the hall. The weight of the revelation clung to him like a shroud, and for a moment, he wondered if it would be easier to bury it, to pretend that nothing had changed. But Jacaerys’ patient eyes, filled with genuine care, drew him in like a tether.

With a resigned sigh, Vaeron walked over and slumped into the chair opposite Jace, the firelight casting shadows on his troubled face. He didn’t speak for a moment, merely stared at the table as he tried to gather the words that had lodged like stones in his throat.

Jace leaned forward, the lines of worry deepening on his brow. “Vaeron, you’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

“I…” Vaeron’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard before continuing, “I just learned something that changes everything.” He finally looked up, his eyes rimmed with uncertainty. “The man in the dungeons—the Hightower who brought Mother back from Rook’s Rest… He’s my father. My real father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes widened in shock, his goblet nearly slipping from his grasp. “What? But—Daemon’s always—”

“I know,” Vaeron cut in, voice strained. “I thought Daemon was my father, too. I grew up believing I was his son, a true Targaryen. But Mother told me just now that Gwayne Hightower is my sire. I’m… I’m a bastard.”

The word hung heavy in the air between them, laden with shame and confusion. Vaeron felt his chest tighten again, the sting of doubt gnawing at him. What did that make him now? Was he even truly a part of this family? A dragon in name only, born of a union that should never have been?

Jacaerys’ expression softened as he saw the pain in Vaeron’s eyes. He set down his goblet and leaned closer, trying to find the right words. “Listen to me, Vaeron,” he began, voice steady and laced with a touch of empathy. “We’ve both been raised with more lies and expectations than most people could handle. But if anyone understands how it feels to question who you are, it’s me.”

Vaeron blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jacaerys gave a rueful smile, leaning back in his chair as he stared into the flames. “I’ve heard the whispers, the taunts—people saying I’m no true Targaryen because of my questionable blood. They mock the fact that I don’t have silver hair or violet eyes, that I look more like a commoner than a prince. And sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if they’re right.”

The honesty in Jace’s voice caught Vaeron off guard, pulling him out of his own turmoil. He had always admired Jacaerys—his confidence, his sense of duty. He had never imagined that his cousin carried doubts of his own.

“But you’re still recognized as one of us,” Vaeron murmured, brow furrowed. “You’re still heir to the Iron Throne, still a dragon. No one would ever dare deny that.”

Jace nodded, but his gaze remained distant. “True, but that doesn’t erase the whispers. Even with the dragon blood flowing through my veins, I’ve always felt like I had to prove I’m worthy of the name Targaryen. But you…” He looked back at Vaeron, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You look like a Targaryen. No one would ever question your blood—silver hair—you were born a dragon, even if your father wasn’t one.”

Vaeron’s breath hitched at the kindness in Jace’s words. But it didn’t soothe the ache gnawing at his heart. “Does it even matter, Jace? If I’m truly a bastard, what does any of this mean? My whole life, I’ve been told I’m meant for something great, but now… now I don’t even know who I really am.”

Jacaerys’ expression grew firm, his voice taking on a rare edge of command. “It means you choose who you are, Vaeron. Blood alone doesn’t decide it. You were raised in this family, loved by your mother and Daemon alike. That is what makes you one of us. Not some Hightower who’s rotting in a cell.”

Vaeron’s throat tightened at the thought of Gwayne, the man who had defied his own House, who had thrown everything away to save the woman he loved. Did that make him worthy of being called a father? Could that kind of loyalty outweigh his bloodline, or was it too little too late?

“I need time to think,” Vaeron murmured, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just… a lot.”

Jacaerys reached across the table, placing a reassuring hand on Vaeron’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, cousin. You’re not alone in this, alright? Whatever you decide, you’ll always have me and the rest of your family behind you.”

Vaeron nodded numbly, grateful for Jace’s support but still lost in the sea of confusion and emotions swirling within him. The questions gnawed at him relentlessly, leaving him torn between the man he had always believed himself to be and the truth that now threatened to shatter that identity.

The tension clung to the air in the dining hall like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Vaeron sat in silence after Jacaerys left, lost in the maze of his thoughts, unable to untangle the twisted knots of his emotions. His whole life had been built on one truth: that he was a Targaryen, son of Daemon, a prince destined for greatness. But now that truth had shattered, and he felt like a child cast adrift on a stormy sea, unsure of where to turn.

The sound of footsteps approached, measured and deliberate, and Vaeron looked up to see Daemon entering the hall. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over Vaeron’s troubled face. For a moment, the prince said nothing, merely studying his son—his real son in all but blood—with a calculating gaze.

“You’re brooding,” Daemon finally said, his voice low and tinged with an edge of dry amusement. “A trait you didn’t inherit from your mother, I’d wager.”

Vaeron clenched his fists on the table, unable to meet Daemon’s eyes. “Everything I’ve ever known about myself is a lie,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and confusion. “How am I supposed to believe anything now?”

Daemon’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “You think this changes who you are?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think some whispered secret about your parentage wipes away the blood that runs through your veins? You are still a Targaryen, still my son in every way that matters.”

Vaeron’s eyes snapped up, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “But I’m not,” he insisted, his voice cracking. “I’m not truly your son, not by blood. I’m just… a bastard. A mistake.”

Daemon’s expression darkened, and he took a seat across from Vaeron, his presence commanding and unyielding. “Is that what you truly believe?” he asked, his tone both gentle and sharp. “That blood alone defines who you are? You were raised in the shadow of dragons, with the legacy of kings and conquerors shaping your every step. That is no lie. I’ve taught you, guided you, prepared you for the world because I chose you as my heir, not because of whose seed sired you.”

Vaeron looked away, struggling with the conflicting emotions swirling within him. “But… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice a whisper now, tinged with the pain of betrayal. “All this time, you let me believe…”

Daemon sighed, his gaze growing distant as if recalling a memory long buried. “Because you needed to grow up without that burden,” he said quietly. “What good would it have done to burden you with a truth that might have only confused you, made you question everything? You were born a Targaryen in all the ways that matter. I’ve treated you as such, and so has your mother. That will never change, no matter who your true father is.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened at the mention of his mother, and he shook his head. “But now I know, and I can’t just pretend it doesn’t matter. That man in the dungeons… he’s the reason I exist, and yet he’s a stranger to me. How can I make sense of that?”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. “Gwayne Hightower might be your blood father, but that doesn’t mean he has any claim over you,” he said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “He made a choice back at Rook’s Rest—one that I don’t entirely understand myself. He risked everything to bring your mother back here. Perhaps he thought it would redeem him somehow, or maybe he truly cared for her in his own way. Either way, he’s asked to speak with you.”

Vaeron stiffened at the words, his heart lurching in his chest. “He wants to see me?”

Daemon nodded slowly. “He does. He requested it, though he knows the choice is yours to make. I told him I’d send you, but the decision is yours. You can go to him, or you can ignore it and leave him to rot where he belongs.”

Vaeron’s mind reeled, torn between the curiosity gnawing at him and the fear of facing the man who had upended his world with his very existence. He shook his head, his voice trembling as he spoke. “I can’t. Not today. I don’t even know what I’d say to him… what I’d ask.”

Daemon studied him for a moment before nodding in understanding. “That’s your right. You don’t have to face him until you’re ready—if you ever are.” He reached out, placing a hand on Vaeron’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “But know this, boy: whoever sired you, you are still my son. You bear the Targaryen name because I have claimed you as my own, because you were raised with fire in your blood. No man, be he Hightower or otherwise, can take that from you.”

Vaeron looked up at him, searching Daemon’s face for some trace of deception, but all he saw was the fierce loyalty and pride that Daemon had always shown him. For all his faults and ruthlessness, Daemon had been the only father Vaeron had ever known. And in that moment, the boy clung to that truth like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” Vaeron murmured, his voice small but filled with genuine gratitude. “I just… need time. To sort through it all.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a rare, almost affectionate smile, one reserved for the few he held dear. “Take all the time you need,” he said quietly. “But remember, you are a Targaryen, and no truth will ever change that. Not in the eyes of those who matter.”

With that, Daemon rose from the table, giving Vaeron a final nod before turning to leave the hall. Vaeron watched him go, the conflicting emotions still swirling in his chest, but there was a newfound clarity in his heart. The path ahead was clouded, and the shadow of Gwayne Hightower’s existence hanged over him like a specter. But for now, he knew where he stood—with the family that had shaped him, that had loved him despite the secrets and lies.

But deep down, in the quiet recesses of his mind, he knew that one day he would have to face the man who had saved his mother and who claimed the title of his father. Just… not today. Today, he would hold on to the identity he’d always known and trust that, in time, he would find his way through the tangled web of blood and loyalty.

For now, he was still Vaeron Targaryen, son of Daemon—trueborn or not, dragon or not, he was still a part of the legacy that burned brightly in the heart of House Targaryen. And that was enough to anchor him, at least for tonight.

The corridors beneath Dragonstone were dark and damp, the oppressive chill seeping into Vaeron’s bones as he made his way toward the dungeons. It had been a week since his world had been upended, a week of wrestling with the truth of his parentage. He had tried to push it aside, to focus on the training sessions with his cousins, the books his mother insisted he study, the words of comfort from Daemon. But every night, when the candles burned low and the castle quieted, the thought gnawed at him: if he didn’t face the man in the dungeons, he would never truly understand where he came from—or who he was.

So here he was, descending deeper into the belly of the fortress, the iron doors looming ahead. A guard nodded and stepped aside, allowing him entry. The door creaked open, revealing the shadowed cell where Gwayne Hightower sat slumped against the cold stone wall, chains rattling faintly with his every breath.

Gwayne’s face was bruised and gaunt, the days of imprisonment leaving their mark on him. But his eyes, so strikingly similar to Vaeron’s own, flicked up the moment the boy entered. Surprise and something softer—something like hope—flashed in his gaze.

“Vaeron,” he murmured, as if testing the name on his lips. “You came.”

Vaeron stood just inside the threshold, tension thrumming through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—anger, indifference, desperation? But all he felt was a tangled mix of emotions that refused to settle.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally took a few steps closer, his voice tentative as he asked, “How could I not? I had to face you… or I couldn’t live with myself.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, a flicker of pride and sorrow crossing his face. “You’re braver than most would be in your position,” he said quietly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of his wounds and restraints. “How… how is your mother? Is she recovering?”

Vaeron’s heart tightened at the genuine concern in Gwayne’s voice. Despite everything, despite the shame and anger swirling within him, he could not deny the sincerity of the man’s question. “She’s getting better,” Vaeron replied, a hint of guardedness still in his tone. “But her injuries are still bad. The fall from Silverwing was…” His voice trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Gwayne nodded, his jaw clenched as if in shared pain. “She’s strong. She always has been. I knew if I could just get her here, she’d fight her way back.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion, and he averted his gaze for a moment before looking back at Vaeron. “Thank you for telling me.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint drip of water echoing through the dungeons. Vaeron swallowed the lump in his throat and finally spoke the question that had been burning in him since he decided to come here. “Daemon says you’re a traitor,” he said, his voice low but unwavering. “That you can’t be trusted, that you’ve betrayed your family and your House. But… you saved my mother. You risked your life, your honor, everything.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t change, but something deep and resolute flickered in his eyes. “Daemon’s right—I am a traitor to my own kin, to my House. I turned my back on everything I was raised to uphold. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

The simple conviction in his words struck Vaeron like a blow. He could see the truth of it written in every line of Gwayne’s face, in the quiet determination that had driven him to this point. Vaeron wanted to challenge him, to demand answers, but instead, he found himself asking, “Why?”

Gwayne’s lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “Because she was worth it. Your mother was worth more than any loyalty to my House, more than any honor I might have clung to. You see, I loved her long before any of this war came to pass. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, but your uncle, King Viserys, had other plans. When she was given to Daemon, I knew my place would only ever be on the outside, looking in.” He paused, eyes darkening with the weight of old wounds. “But that didn’t change how I felt. When I saw her falling in battle, when I saw Silverwing plummet… I didn’t think about anything else. I just acted. I’d rather be a traitor and live knowing I saved her than be a loyal man and watch her die.”

Vaeron’s chest tightened, torn between resentment and reluctant understanding. “You say that like it was noble, like it justifies everything. But it’s still treason. You abandoned your family. You betrayed your own.”

Gwayne’s expression grew more serious, his voice a low rumble in the dim light. “Yes, and I will face the consequences of that. I know what I’ve done, and I’ve made my peace with it. But you must understand, Vaeron—whatever Daemon tells you, whatever anyone says—you are my son. I know I have no right to claim you, not after all these years, but it doesn’t change what you are to me.”

Vaeron felt the words hanging in the air like a challenge, daring him to acknowledge the bond that existed between them, even if he wished it didn’t. He looked down, his fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, his voice strained. “I was raised to believe I’m a Targaryen, that I’m Daemon’s son. Now everything feels like a lie. How can I be both?”

Gwayne’s gaze softened, the hardness of his demeanor giving way to something almost tender. “You are both,” he said quietly. “You were raised as a Targaryen, with all the fire and pride that comes with it. That is a part of you. But you’re also my blood, whether you like it or not. And you get to decide what that means for you.”

Vaeron’s mind spun with conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, a flicker of something like pity. He wasn’t sure if he could ever see Gwayne as his father, not in the way Daemon had been. But he couldn’t deny that the man who sat before him had risked everything for his mother, for the chance to protect her even when all seemed lost. And for that alone, he couldn’t simply dismiss him.

After a long silence, Vaeron finally shook his head. “I can’t face you—not today. There’s too much I don’t understand, too much I still need to figure out.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting the decision without protest. “I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give,” he said softly. “But know that I’m here, for as long as they allow me to draw breath. And whatever choice you make, whatever path you choose—I will always be proud of you.”

The words stung, leaving Vaeron with a raw ache in his chest. He wanted to respond, to say something more, but the weight of everything—his own confusion, the war, the fractured loyalties—was too much. He turned abruptly, leaving the cell without another word, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of conflicting emotions.

As he walked away, the echo of Gwayne’s voice lingered in his mind, a reminder that some truths, no matter how painful, couldn’t be ignored forever. But for now, he needed time to reconcile the man he had always believed himself to be with the truths he couldn’t yet fully accept.

And so, Vaeron returned to the world above, leaving the man who called himself his father to the shadows, knowing that one day—perhaps too soon—he would have to confront the reality of who he truly was.

[spider-stark]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering. 

But not tonight. 

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend. 

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him. 

It’s only when you speak that he looks up. 

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.” 

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.” 

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now. 

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.” 

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters. 

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all. 

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.” 

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.” 

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?” 

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through. 

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for. 

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice. 

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.” 

“Understood what?” 

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated. 

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight. 

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering. 

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.” 

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.” 

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.” 

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.” 

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you. 

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask. 

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection. 

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?” 

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles. 

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.” 

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard. 

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back. 

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?” 

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?” 

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close. 

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods. 

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them. 

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side. 

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin. 

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot. 

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.” 

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.” 

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin. 

“To who?” 

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind. 

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.” 

A stone drops in your stomach. 

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…” 

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence. 

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…” 

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch. 

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

[misswynters]

Rooftop Cravings

Gwayne Hightower x reader (modern au)

[WARNING: making out/kissing, smoking, needy/desperate gwayne, implied sexual relations, worship?, extreme touching, not proofread

[synopsis: Gwayne calls you to the rooftop, needing you. Like a desperate man.

[note: uh i absolutely love freddie fox…he’s mine, the first pic is actually him (0-o)

Part of the Dragonblood: Southside Series

song inspiration: desert rose

The Hightower apartment complex stands tall and imposing in the heart of Chicago’s South Side. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and secrets are hard to keep. Tonight, the air is filled with the sounds of the city – sirens wailing in the distance, the murmur of late-night conversations, and the occasional blare of a car horn.

You move through the dimly lit hallways with purpose, your heart pounding in anticipation. Gwayne Hightower, the ever-charming and mischievous bad boy of the neighborhood, had slipped you a note earlier in the day – a secret rendezvous on the rooftop. The thrill of it all reminds you of scenes straight out of a TV show. Each apartment was a testament to wealth, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering sweeping views of the city that never slept. But Gwayne Hightower wasn’t interested in the views tonight. He was standing on the rooftop, the wind tugging at his clothes as he stared at his phone, desperation clawing at his chest.

He dialed the number, his fingers trembling slightly. The ring echoed in his ears, each second stretching into an eternity. When your voice finally came through, soft and curious, it was like a lifeline.

“Hello?” You answered with a question.

“Where are you?” His voice was rough, strained with an urgency he couldn’t hide. “I need to see you.”

There was a pause on the other end, and then you spoke again, concern lacing your words. “Gwayne, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” he admitted, his breath hitching. “I’m on the rooftop of The Hightower. Please, come. I… I need you.”

The line went silent for a moment, and he could almost hear the wheels turning in your head. Then, with a resigned sigh, you agreed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Gwayne ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket, pacing the rooftop as he tried to calm his racing heart. The city lights flickered below, but all he could think about was you. The way your smile lit up a room, the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter. He was consumed by thoughts of you, his need for you almost painful in its intensity.

The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an hour. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and longing blending into a potent mix that made it hard to breathe. When you reach the rooftop door, you push it open and step into the cool night air. Gwayne was waiting for you, leaning against the edge of the building with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks up as he heard you approach, his trademark smirk playing on his lips.

“You actually came,” he says, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling slowly, his back facing you.

You looked around the rooftop, adoring the city skyline. Seeing him at the edge, you walked over. “Gwayne, what’s wrong?”

He turned to face you, his eyes dark with unspoken emotions. “I’m sorry,” he slightly whined, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be without you.”

Gwayne's confession hung in the air between you, heavy and charged. The city below seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you on this isolated rooftop. The cool night air mingled with the warmth of his breath on your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

Gwayne stubs out his cigarette and steps closer, closing the distance between you. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, his hands finding your waist and pulling you close.

"You don't have to be sorry," you whispered, your fingers brushing against his jaw. "I'm here now."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as if it were the only thing anchoring him. "I've missed you so much," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "Every second without you feels like an eternity."

You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, soft and reassuring. "I feel the same way."

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Shall we make the most of our time together then?”

You couldn’t even respond before Gwayne captures your lips in a searing kiss. It’s as if all the pent-up longing and passion you’ve been feeling spills out in that single moment. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer as your fingers tangling in his hair deepening the kiss.

Gwayne's hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer. His need for you was palpable, an almost physical force that drew you together. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. Each brush of his lips against yours was a silent plea, a desperate need to be connected to you.

The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of you and the raw emotion that pulsed between you. Gwayne's hands roamed your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

"I can't get enough of you," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with desire.

You smiled against his mouth, your heart swelling with affection. "Then don't stop," you whispered, your words a gentle challenge.

Gwayne's response was immediate. He kissed you with renewed fervor, his hands exploring every inch of you. His touch was electrifying, each caress sending waves of pleasure through your body. You melted into him, giving yourself over to the intensity of the moment.

He guided you until your back pressed against the railing of the rooftop. The metal was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body. Gwayne's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses in their wake. You tilted your head back, giving him better access as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Gwayne," you moaned, the sound of his name on your lips spurring him on.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark with desire, but there was something else there too- a vulnerability that tugged at your heart. "I love you," he said, his voice trembling with the weight of the words.

"I love you so much it scares me."

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I love you too," you said, your voice steady and sure. "More than anything."

A shudder ran through Gwayne at your words, and he captured your lips in another searing kiss. There was a new urgency to his movements, a desperate need to show you just how much you meant to him. His hands slid under your shirt, the heat of his touch sending shivers through your body. Gwayne’s fingers deftly unbuttoning your shirt.

You gasped as his fingers brushed against your skin, your own hands finding their way under his shirt. The feel of his muscles beneath your fingertips was intoxicating, and you couldn't get enough. You needed to feel every inch of him, to remind yourself that this was real.

Gwayne pulled back just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside before doing the same with his own. The sight of his bare chest, illuminated by the city lights, took your breath away. He was beautiful, every inch of him a testament to strength and vulnerability.

He pressed you back against the railing, his hands exploring your now exposed skin. Each touch was a promise, each kiss a declaration of his love. You could feel his need for you, the way his body trembled with barely restrained desire.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I need you."

You nodded, your own desire mirrored in his eyes. "Mmmm," you hummed, your wordless expression, a vow.

Gwayne's eyes darkened at your words, and he kissed you with a passion that took your breath away. His hands moved to the waistband of your pants, his touch gentle but insistent. You helped him, the two of you working together to shed the last barriers between you.

When you were finally free of your clothes, Gwayne took a step back, his eyes raking over your body with a hunger that made your pulse race. He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek as he leaned in for another kiss. You stood there in your underwear and so did he. It was slightly cold tonight, so it was wise not to be fully naked out in the open.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured against your lips.

You blushed, the intensity of his gaze making you feel exposed in the best possible way. "Says Mr. Handsome," you jokingly replied, your voice soft but full of conviction.

Gwayne's lips curved into a smile, and he kissed you again, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. Each touch was a reminder of just how much he loved you, just how much he needed you.

The world seemed to fade away as you lost yourself in him. The city below, the stars above - none of it mattered. All that mattered was the way he made you feel, the way he showed you just how deeply he cared.

Without breaking the kiss, Gwayne's hands moved to your waist, slightly touching your nipples through your bra. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. When he reached your chest, he paused for a moment, his eyes dark with desire as he looked up at you.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Yes, Gwayne. Please."

That was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth descended on your chest, kissing and sucking with a need that left you breathless. His hands cupped your breasts, kneading gently as his tongue flicked over your sensitive skin. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn't help the soft moans that escaped your lips.

Gwayne's neediness was palpable. He was everywhere at once, his hands, his mouth, his body pressing against yours.

He worshipped your chest with an almost frantic desperation, his kisses turning into gentle bites and sucks that left you trembling with desire.

"You're so perfect," he murmured against your skin. "So fucking perfect."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "I need you too," you breathed. "I always have."

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a raw, unspoken emotion. "Then let's not waste any more time."

With that, he pulled you into another searing kiss, his hands never leaving your body. Up on the rooftop, under the moonlit sky, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, lost in each other's arms.

You pull away from the kiss, both of you breathless. Gwayne’s eyes are dark with desire, but there’s also a softness there that you don’t see often. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch tender.

He leads you to a makeshift seating area – an old blanket spread out on the rooftop, surrounded by the twinkling lights of the city. You sit down together, the cool night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

“Sometimes, I feel like this is the only place we can really be ourselves,” Gwayne admits, his voice raw and honest. “Away from all the bullshit.”

You nod, understanding all too well. Life in the Hightower complex is chaotic, full of drama and noise. Moments like this are rare, precious.

“What’s been going on with you?” you ask, wanting to share in his burdens, if only for a little while.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Same old shit. Trying to keep my family together, keep everyone out of trouble. It’s exhausting.”

You lean against him, your head resting on his shoulder. For a moment, the world feels right. The noise and chaos fade away, leaving just the two of you and the city lights.

The morning sun filters through the cracked blinds of the huge apartment. You wake up to the sound of Gwayne moving around the kitchen, the smell of coffee filling the air. You stretch and sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Last night was absolute perfection and bliss. He treated you well, having the most loving and gentle sex you could’ve imagined. It was all you can think about.

Gwayne turns as you enter the kitchen, a smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he says, handing you a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” you reply, taking the cup and savoring the warmth. “Thanks.”

He leans against the counter, watching you. “You should stay more often. I like waking up to you.”

You smile, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee. “I like waking up here.”

Gwayne steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek. “Then stay with me, ___.”

You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. It’s a big step, but one you’re willing to take. “Okay,” you say softly. He kisses you gently, sealing the promise. Gwayne traps you between the kitchen island and his arms, leaning down to match you height. You could feel him pressed against you, the only layer between the two of you was the thin underwear you both were wearing. He wanted another round.

[note: i keep adding more to my plate however, i was in NEED for this 😐, if you would like to be added to my taglist for all of my gwayne fics COMMENT!

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