#dark gwayne hightower

[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.

[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"

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 4 - The Dragon's Grief

Warnings: medival sexism, jealousy, mean Daemon, chracter death Masterlist

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with laughter, music, and the hum of conversation. The torches flickered with the wind that swept through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished stone floors. It was a night of celebration—one of many—but this time, it held particular significance. It was a feast in honor of the future heir, for Aemma was with child once more, and this time, King Viserys harbored a quiet hope that it would be a son.

Daemon's eyes never left her. He sat across the hall, his posture perfect, his gaze dark and brooding as always. But tonight, his mind was elsewhere. As he watched Melly, now 14, move gracefully through the sea of courtiers and lords, her silver hair cascading in soft waves down her back, something twisted inside him. She was growing older. It was undeniable. She was no longer the little girl who had clung to his side for comfort. No, she was becoming a woman.

And it unsettled him.

Melly laughed as one of the knights, Ser Gwayne Hightower, made a joke. His presence hovered too closely for Daemon's liking, and Melly's sweet giggle rang through the air, something about it making Daemon's chest tighten in a way he could not explain. He had always been her protector, her guide. But now, seeing her smile at someone else with such ease—it bothered him.

"You're staring at her again," Rhaenyra's voice broke through Daemon's thoughts, and he turned his sharp gaze to his niece, who was standing at his side. 

He said nothing for a moment, his eyes fixed on Melly as she joined the dancing circle, the knight at her side. She was laughing again, her cheeks flushed with enjoyment. Daemon's lips pressed into a thin line.

"What's the matter, uncle?" Rhaenyra pressed, tilting her head. "Is it not proper for her to have fun?"

"Not with him," Daemon growled lowly, his hand tightening around his goblet. His eyes flashed dangerously toward the knight, his features sharp. "She's too young to be playing at such things."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed. "She's not a child anymore."

Daemon's gaze flicked back to Melly, and for a moment, the weight of Rhaenyra's words struck him. Melly wasn't a child anymore. She was growing, blossoming into a young woman, and he—he didn't know how to handle it.

Later that evening, as the festivities began to die down, Daemon found himself pacing outside Melly's chambers. The scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine drifted through the air, but it did nothing to calm him. His thoughts were clouded with jealousy and unease. 

His boots echoed down the hallway as he walked toward her room. He was no longer the calm, collected prince; he was restless, unsettled. When he reached her door, he knocked once, then entered without waiting for an invitation.

Melly was sitting at her vanity, her fingers still tangled in the ribbon of her gown. She looked up in surprise, her face lighting up when she saw him.

"Uncle Daemon!" she exclaimed, rising to greet him. Her smile was warm, unaware of her uncle's rage and jealousy.

"Melly," he began, his voice sharp. "We need to talk."

Her brow furrowed. "What about?"

Daemon closed the door behind him with a soft thud, his eyes locking onto hers. "You were laughing with that Hightower cunt tonight," he said, his tone darker than he intended. "You were spending far too much time with that fool."

She blinked, confused. "He was just being friendly, Uncle. He was telling jokes, and I—"

"No," Daemon cut her off, his voice hardening. "It was more than that. You let him get too close. You—" He took a step forward, his eyes flashing with frustration. "You should know better."

Melly stood there, her mouth slightly agape, taken aback by the intensity of his words. "Uncle, I was just enjoying the evening. It's not a crime."

"No," Daemon muttered, his gaze darkening. "You're not allowed to entertain such men. You're not some prize to be won." He felt his chest tighten as his anger flared, a storm of emotions crashing inside him. "I won't have it."

"Daemon, please," Melly began. "It's just a dance, and a few words. I'm not—"

"Enough!" Daemon's voice rose, the harshness in it causing her to take a step back. Her eyes widened, a flash of fear passing over her face.

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, Daemon was standing in front of her, his hand gripping her arm with more force than he intended. His breath came out in quick bursts. "If I am telling you not to entertain those fools of the court, you will not continue to defy me! Understand?" 

Her heart pounded in her chest as she looked up at him, her thoughts swirling. She could feel his anger and his possessiveness in the air like an electric charge. But there was something else—something darker, something deeper. She wanted to fight back, to tell him that she was her own person, but the way he looked at her, the way his presence filled the room—it made her freeze.

"Please," she whispered, the words escaping her lips before she could stop them. "Don't be angry with me."

Daemon's features softened for just a moment, and his hand released hers. But the tension in the room remained thick, heavy with unspoken emotions. He turned away, running a hand through his silver hair, clearly frustrated with himself.

"Get some rest, niece" he muttered, his tone no longer angry. "Tomorrow, there is an even bigger event."

The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with the frenetic energy of the joust, knights charging at one another, their lances meeting with a thunderous clash. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the spectacle, but Daemon's attention was not on the knights or the cheers of the crowd. His gaze had long since been fixed on one figure — his niece, his sweet little Maeliora.

Melly, for her part, had noticed Daemon's gaze upon her, his eyes following her movements with an intensity that she could not ignore. There had been moments, especially in the last few months, where her connection to him had changed—shifted in ways she wasn't sure she understood. It wasn't just the odd, fleeting moments of awkwardness that had passed between them recently, nor was it the long hours of silence that had followed their last conversation. It was something else, something quieter, but no less powerful.

She couldn't help but watch him, the brooding prince, standing off to one side. There was something different in the way he looked at her now, a softness to his gaze that had not been there last night. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but every glance seemed to linger a fraction longer than usual. Her heart fluttered at the attention, but she dared not dwell on it too much.

Daemon's eyes flicked to the knights, and then to the stands, where his brother, King Viserys, stood with a mix of pride and anxiety. His thoughts shifted briefly, before returning to his niece.

"Princess," he said, after a beat of silence, "perhaps you'd like to show your support for your dear uncle, hmm?"

He took a small, deliberate step toward her. "Would you grant me the honour of your favour?" She looked up at him, her lips parting, and for the briefest of moments, the entire world seemed to still. Without thinking, she reached down, her fingers trembling slightly as she took the ribbon that she had tied and decorated with flowers. With a small smile, she handed it to him.

"For you, my prince," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of formality and something more.

Daemon's lips curved into a smile, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fall away from his shoulders. He took the ribbon from her, his fingers brushing hers in a brief, electric touch. His eyes softened as he stared into her eyes, a rare moment of tenderness flickering in his gaze.

"Thank you, princess." As Daemon turned away, Melly's eyes lingered on him, her heart beating faster than before. She couldn't quite place the feeling that had settled in her chest—was it admiration? Was it something deeper?

Daemon strode toward the field with purpose, his boots clicking against the stone as he moved. He was a force that could not be ignored, and the crowd parted before him. His eyes were fixed on one person—Ser Gwayne Hightower.

The knight looked up as Daemon approached, a frown crossing his face when he saw the intent in the prince's eyes. Daemon stopped in front of him, his posture tall and commanding.

"Ser Gwayne," Daemon said, his voice low but carrying. "I've been watching you today. Quite the joust you've had."

Ser Gwayne gave a stiff bow of his head, though he seemed unsure of the prince's mood. "My prince," he replied. "It is an honor to be in your presence."

"Is it?" Daemon's smile was cold, sharp. "Then perhaps you would care to prove your skill against me, on the field?"

There was no mistaking the challenge in his tone, and Ser Gwayne's brows furrowed. The crowd, sensing the tension, began to murmur. Daemon's reputation as a fierce duelist was known throughout the realm. But it was not just the contest that had brought Ser Gwayne's name to Daemon's lips. It was the man's proximity to Melly from yesterday's feast.

Ser Gwayne hesitated, his eyes darting between Daemon and the onlookers, but he stood his ground. "If it is your wish, my prince," he said with a forced calm, "then I shall gladly oblige."  

The two knights mounted their horses, and the heralds announced the duel. The crowd hushed as Daemon and Ser Gwayne squared off, their lances raised, ready for the charge. Daemon's eyes locked onto Ser Gwayne, his expression a mixture of focus and something darker. He wasn't simply jousting for sport. This was personal.

The signal was given, and both knights spurred their horses forward with thunderous speed. The lances collided with a loud crack, and in that moment, it was clear who the better rider was. Daemon's aim was true, his strength unmatched, and with a swift twist of his lance, he sent Ser Gwayne crashing to the ground, his horse rearing in panic before galloping away.

The crowd erupted in shocked applause, though many could see that Daemon had not just bested the knight in combat. It was something more—a statement, a declaration. He had made sure to humiliate Ser Gwayne, sending a message that would not soon be forgotten.

Daemon dismounted from his horse with grace, his eyes never leaving Ser Gwayne, who lay stunned on the ground. He approached the fallen knight slowly, his footsteps deliberate.

"Perhaps next time, you should keep your distance from what does not concern you," Daemon said coldly, his voice carrying across the field.

The subtle implication of his words was not lost on the onlookers. Melly, still standing at the edge of the crowd, felt a strange chill run through her. Her gaze shifted between Daemon and Ser Gwayne, the tension between the two men palpable. She had seen the challenge, the flash of anger in Daemon's eyes—and it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

The next day, the mood had changed entirely.

The news of Aemma's and Baelon's death had come swiftly, the tragedy a sharp and cruel blow to the royal family. The joy of the previous night's celebration had been replaced by an air of heavy mourning. Aemma, beloved by all, was gone. Her life had ended too soon, and the weight of that loss pressed down on the shoulders of every Targaryen.

The funeral was held the next day. The courtyard was silent, save for the rustling of the mourners' clothes and the distant sound of Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, preparing to light the funeral pyre. Daemon stood beside Melly, his presence a quiet comfort as they stood together in their shared grief.

Melly was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from the tears she had shed the night before. She had never known grief like this, the weight of loss suffocating and heavy in her chest. But Daemon was there, standing with her, offering her the support that she hadn't known she needed. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, a steadying presence in the midst of the storm.

Her own dragon was absent. She had yet to bond with one of the great beasts, as her dragon egg never hatched, and in this moment, it seemed like a cruel reminder of what she lacked. But she had Daemon. And that, at least, offered some comfort.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes filled with the same grief, and with a single command, Syrax breathed fire, lighting the pyre. The flames roared to life, rising high into the sky, consuming Aemma's body in a final, fiery embrace.

Daemon's hand remained on Melly's shoulder, his grip firm but not possessive. He stood beside her in silent support, his eyes never leaving the fire. The flames cast flickering shadows on their faces, and in that moment, it was not just the funeral that consumed the air, but the heavy silence between them. The unspoken words, the complicated feelings, the bond they shared—none of it was voiced, but it lingered in the smoke and ash that rose from the pyre.

And as the flames crackled and roared, Daemon knew that the days to come would be even harder still.

♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦♡❥♥️♥️❥♡❦♥️❦

End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! 💖 And again special big thanks to @paulyenvol6 for proof reading and helping me to pick a title for this chapter! :)♥️

[wintywriter]

They were united. Until they were torn apart.

[venusbyline]

my poor Nine Moons or Merciful Gods readers 😭😭

i promise i'll update themsoon

[thekinslayed]

Sweet Disposition

summary | Gwayne is welcomed to King's Landing by his beloved niece.

pairing | gwayne hightower x niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! oral (m), oral (f), just the tip, cum eating, reader has blue eyes and red hair, gwayne is a classist (and is in love with the niece that looks like him lol), incest, lotsa rubbing, lotsa yappin'

song rec | Sweet Disposition - The Temper Trap

wordcount | 3.2k

note | welcome to the stage, gwayne hightower!!! i just had to, u guys. i’m not too sure how the age gap’s looking since idrk how old gwayne is, but do assume they did stuff the first time when the reader was of age :)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Ah, sweetling!”

You squealed at the sight of him, rising from your seat by the window to rush over to the door. Your uncle grunted in surprise as you jumped into his arms, chuckling amusedly in your embrace. You had waited all day for him. Worry began to fester in your gut when there was no sign of him as the day grew dark. Mother said they must’ve gotten held back by the impending storm that was painting the blue sky a desolate gray. However, the gods have granted you your wish. Soon enough, a flurry of green flashed through the gates of King’s Landing, and Gwayne Hightower made his way to find you.

“What took you so long?” you asked, pouting at him. His chest rumbled against yours in another chuckle, the rich sound of his amusement a lively song.

“My deepest apologies, princess. Some trouble down in the Kingsroad had us going a longer way. No worry now, I am here,” he explained, planting a soft kiss on your cheek. “Brother dearest keeping you locked in here?”

You scoffed, pulling away from your uncle. His bright blues wandered around the expanse of your chambers, observing the various Valyrian tapestries decorating your walls. He admired you, as you trailed your hands over the cushions of the settee. Pure Targaryen, all except for the vibrant red of your curls. That was all Hightower, much to his delight.

“More so mother than Aegon, he doesn’t give two shits about me. Either way, it’s always him and mother huddled together in those council meetings. And Aemond, when he’s not off to gods know where. War feels pretty boring if you ask me,” you responded, earning a raise of the eyebrow from the redhead. 

“It won’t be boring once thousands of men die for your cause, princess, all so you could stay here and sit prettily while we fight for you.” He remained standing as you plopped down onto the plush chaise, reaching for a cherry from the plate of fruit situated on the side table.

It was tart, bursting with its dark juices as you sunk your teeth into its plump flesh. Gwayne watched as you wrapped your lips around the round fruit. It tainted your lips a luscious red, utterly delectable.

Your brows furrowed in offense, while a frown turned your pretty lips downward. “Are you saying I’m useless? If only I were given the chance, I could fly off on my dragon and burn more than half the enemy’s army before you could even engage,” you said, to which Gwayne replied with an understanding nod. 

“I know you would, darling, but we cannot have you harmed. You are too precious to be sent off to battle, take it from me,” your uncle replied, placating. You huffed, grumbling under your breath, making Gwayne bite back an amused smirk. Throwing away the cherry’s pit, you grabbed a strawberry this time, wrapping your fingers around its leaves to deliver it in one bite. Your cheeks had hollowed as you sucked on its juices, provocating… inviting. This had wiped the amusement off the elder Hightower’s face, making him clear his throat and shift where he stood, A smirk of your own rose on your lips at this success.

“How does Daeron fare?” you asked nonchalantly. Gwayne shrugged, waving a hand dismissively as he continued his exploration of your apartments. It was quite spacious, though the smallest out of the entire royal family, but it was comfortable enough. It was situated at the far end of the hall, farther away from prying eyes and curious ears.

“You know him, itching to fly back at a moment’s notice,” your uncle informed, to which you nodded in understanding. In truth, you hadn’t spent much time in King’s Landing, only in recent years. When the youngest was sent off to Oldtown to squire, you were tasked with accompanying him as his eldest sister. You were ten and five then, only returning after six years when your grandsire decided it was high time for you to be married off. In your time away from the capital, you had missed much, evidently enough. The war had put any courtship or marriage proposals on pause, which aggravated you. If only you had known, you would have spent your days back in Oldtown happily. With Daeron and your dragons. With Gwayne.

“Not curious as to how I’ve been, little red?” he mused. You smirked at him, tilting your head to the side in feigned curiosity. 

“How are you then, uncle? Missing your little squire?” you queried, teasing. Gwayne narrowed his eyes at you, which you mimicked. You were no stranger to your uncle’s tastes. Being away from the careful watch of your grandsire allowed him much freedom to do as he liked, especially when the old codgers were asleep. It was why you hadn’t seen much of him in your first years in Oldtown. The elder Hightower used to barely show an interest in his sister’s children, kept occupied by the pursuit of his merriment. He remained detached from you, up until you accidentally came across some unknown servant stumbling out of his chambers late one night, doublet unbuttoned and breeches unlaced. It sparked your curiosity, had ignited a carnal hunger deep within you. He had opened your eyes to such proclivities, had broken away the conservative mold your faith had locked you in. 

Gwayne feigned a sarcastic laugh, walking around you to your window. “Funny.”

One could see the vastness of the horizon past the Bay from this view. The breeze a salty, refreshing prickle. It held little of the nose-scrunching stench of Flea Bottom. You craned your head to watch your uncle face the wind. His hair had gotten longer, you noted. It looked better. “Though I am a bit peeved to travel all this way to not be welcomed by my whole family, but I suppose our new Hand has been keeping your mother company,” he said, a bite of bitterness in his tone.

You stood from your seat, approaching to stand by his side. The greens of your garments matched perfectly, and so did the reds of your tresses. You were always happy to look more Hightower than Targaryen, though your blood always ran hot, much like a dragon’s.

“Jealous much? Perhaps you could ask to join them,” you teased, bumping your elbow into his playfully. Gwayne merely rolled his eyes at your implication. The sight of the Dornishman leaning too close to his sister had confirmed the rising suspicions his father had made him aware of. How convenient it was for him to be made Hand too, granted a position that brought him closer to Alicent’s level. And to share her bed at night. How exhilarating it must be to a man like Ser Criston.

“I’d rather indulge with someone that stirred something in my loins without stepping on my shoulders for leverage in this society, thank you very much.”

“Anyone in mind?”

Gwayne turned to meet your gaze. The blues of your orbs were much like his, icy and deep. He could see the freckles that dotted the bridge of your nose from the proximity, could spend all day to count each one of them. The corners of his lips quirked upwards, as fast as a blink, before pursing.

He regarded you with a gaze so familiar, yet tantalizing enough to warm the meat underneath your skin. The hairs on the back of your head stood tall in attention, prickly underneath his stare. He turned his body to face yours, and you followed suit. Gwayne could almost feel the heat exuding from you, the dragon that you were, from this distance. Almost. 

You watched him watch you. The momentary flicker of his eyes to your lips was not overlooked, igniting a spark of excitement deep in your chest. Your feet took a step closer to him, nearly closing the gap. Gwayne mimicked you, taking a step of his own. The air between the two of you grew thick, almost dizzying with tension, but neither of you made the move. This was a familiar game with your uncle. It always left you thirsting for more, had made you an addict. It had you almost sneaking off on your dragon back to Oldtown just for a taste. 

“When are you to set off then?” you asked, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. You felt his fingertip begin to trace the outline of your curves, though you paid them no mind. 

“Well, it was supposed to be on the morrow, but this storm hasn’t worked out in our favor. In two days’ time, perhaps.” He had flattened his hand on the small of your back now, pulling you in subtly. You planted your hands on his chest, caressing the firm planes hidden underneath his doublet. His breath was hot on your face, bringing about a flush on your cheeks. 

“So soon?” you pouted. “You’ve only just gotten here.”

A heavy sigh escaped Gwayne’s lips. The skin on his neck was pale as he tilted his head back, littered with a light dusting of freckles. He was close to tipping over, you could feel it.

“War waits for no one, I’m afraid,” he muttered. You hummed in agreement, taking a bolder step by wrapping your arms around his neck. He tutted in warning, to which you only responded with an innocent bat of your lashes.

“We should make most of our time then,” you suggested, preening up at him suggestively. Your uncle bit his lip, pondering, deciding whether it was time for him to succumb to the magnetic pull of his body to yours. 

“Princess.” A warning.

“Uncle.” An invitation.

Gwayne pressed his lips to yours, sweet like cherry. You moaned in delight, a budding warmth in your chest bursting at the feel of his kiss. It was hungry, urgent, tainted with the promise of making up for the time you had spent away from each other’s warmth. Roaming hands found your rear, squeezing the plump flesh through your skirts. Your uncle’s wandering lips traveled their way downward, trailing to settle on the length of your neck. A whine echoed through your chambers as he bit on your neck, before smoothing over with his tongue. Something was starting to poke your hip, and your hand descended to cup it, earning a grunt from the redheaded man before you. 

A breath was hitched into his throat when you dropped to your knees, making quick work to untie his breeches. The heady scent of his cock was familiar, albeit he was unwashed, and it almost felt like coming home. Gwayne was your home. You wasted no time to press kisses to reddening tip, licking a stripe down the underside of his length before taking him whole. Your desperation was evident in your movements, head bobbing up and down fervently while you kept your eyes on him. Above you, the knight could only grunt, running a hand through his ginger tresses to keep himself grounded.

“How is it you’ve gotten better at this in my absence, hm? Had done your own practice?” he groaned, placing a guiding hand on the back of your head. You hummed around his length, the vibrations of your cavern making his cock jump. A hand replaced your mouth when you pulled away, stroking at a uniform pace as you looked up at him.

“One of Aegon’s friends said I certainly do it quite well. I have you to thank for the knowledge, I suppose,” you bragged, smirking when his blues visibly darkened at your words. He pulled you up back to your feet, leading you back to lean against a sidetable before claiming your lips once more. He was unbothered by the taste of himself on your tongue, nor by the spit painting both your cheeks in this messy exchange. You took hold of one of his hands to guide up your skirt, past your smallclothes, and settling on your mound. 

Gods, you were soaked. You had been the moment you felt his warmth, had pressed your nose into the familiar scent of his flesh. 

His fingertips trailed down your slit to collect your essence, before taking it into his mouth for a taste. You watched, hypnotized as his lips wrapped around his fingers. Your skirts were then bunched up to your hips, your smallclothes falling to the floor once you untied the ribbons that held them together. The figurines on your table rattled as the wood accommodated your weight when you had shifted to lean further. You beckoned him closer by wrapping your leg around his trim waist, and an arm around his shoulders. It was almost like you readied to dance as he took hold of your waist, an embrace so rehearsed, so familiar. The underside of his cock pressed against your weeping cunny, and with the sway of his hips, the sweet song of your whines filled Gwayne’s ears. His cockhead snagged against your pearl when he pushed his hips at a perfect angle, making you both moan. 

Calloused hands took hold of your thighs, dimpling the soft flesh under his hold. You gripped the edge of the table to ground yourself, throwing your head back as your uncle rubbed against you deliciously. He knew how much you liked this, well aware of how much power he held over you when he teased you with the promise of his claiming of your maidenhead. It stoked a fire deep within your loins, though today, it was not enough to burn you under.

“Gwayne…” you whined. “More… I need more!”

His red tresses swayed as he shook his head in refusal. His eyes were trained on the sight of your essence coating his cock, angling his hips to press against your pearl more. “I can’t… not yet, my love, you know this.”

You gripped his shoulders in frustration, urging him to look at you with your hands cupping his jaw. Your lips displayed your desperation as you kissed him. You have always asked little from him, naught but for one thing. 

“This could be the last time we ever see each other. Please, uncle,” you pleaded, burying your head into his neck as you sobbed. 

Your uncle had shown you much, had taught you much. However, there was one thing that was not for him to take. He dared not sully his niece, his beloved sister’s eldest girl. That kind of depravity is for Targaryens, and Gwayne thought himself a dignified man, honorable. Yet as you bit your lip temptingly at him, your brows furrowed adorably, the tight noose of virtue continued to loosen.

He grabbed hold of his cock, directing it to your slit. Gwayne kept his hand on the lower half of length to restrain himself, lest he lost all control. His tip breached your walls, reaching only far enough to feel your heat. “Just this much, and I promise when I return we will have so much more,” he panted into your ear. His thrusts were shallow, though some threatened to reach deeper, farther into your warmth. He alternated between rubbing and breaching, an assaulting tease to your senses. 

You moaned his name like a prayer. Devoted pleading. Your grip on the back of his neck was grounding, keeping his head from floating to the heavens to be here with you. You were all over him, from your hands in his hair, your lips on his jaw down to your juices that coated his cock. 

It was too late for him, he realized. To try and outrun a dragon’s fire was a futile attempt, and all he could do was welcome it with resignation. How ever could he deny himself this bliss? How could he deny you?

He came as his cockhead snagged on your folds once more, painting your mound with his pearly seed. Barely catching his breath, your hand on his shoulder ordered him to his knees. Like a devotee, the Hightower kneeled before you, descending his mouth onto your cunny. His own spend was salty as it coated his tongue, mixed with the sticky sweet nectar of your maiden core. The sight of his reds in between your thighs was a heavenly sight, and you could only pray to have him like this until the end of your days.

You were nearing your precipice, evident by the grinding of your hips against his face. With a thumb on your pearl and his tongue dipping in and out of your cunt, you came with a cry. Your uncle slurped up your release like a man starved, groaning against your mound.

When he had returned to his feet, Gwayne’s lips glistened with your essence. Breathless, you bit back a smile, but as his own flushed lips widened, a giggle bubbled from your chest. Your uncle chuckled, planting a small kiss to your forehead before taking you into his arms.

“How I’ve missed you, little red.”

“Why does it have a skirt?” 

You poked the ornate metal decorating the horse, confused at such attire. It even had a matching mask on its head, and you wondered if the poor thing could even see. 

“Tis armor. To ensure my royal steed is kept safe and no harm comes to it, and by extension, me, gods willing,” Gwayne explained, busied by the preparations of the move. Your uncle leaned closer to your ear, the distance between you tethering on violating propriety. “So I may find my way back to you.”

He was clad in his armor, silver steel paired by velvet Hightower green. He looked exquisite. If you were a lesser woman, there was no telling what you would have done right then and there, in the middle of the Keep’s courtyard. You regarded him with a dark gaze, uncaring of hiding your desire despite your mother and the Hand standing only a few paces away. 

Your chest was heavy with dread. A worrying nagging in your head growing harder to ignore. Their journey was sure to be hard, and who knows what else they were to face other than harsh terrain. What if there were dragons? What were he to do to defend himself from such fire? You would beg your brother to let you fly with them, but the fucker barely spared a second of his day for you. 

The prospect of losing Gwayne was daunting enough to drive you mad, yet there was little you could do. He could see it in your face, could feel the fear emanating from your anxious form as you watched him prepare. “Will you be careful?” you asked quietly. 

He gave you a downturned smile, heart swelling. “I will, little red, I promise,” he replied. His vow did little to quench your apprehension, evident in the way you looked at anywhere but him. The knight took hold of your elbow, giving you a comforting squeeze. “And when I return, we could tell your mother,” he vowed.

Your orbs were bright in surprise as you looked up at him, making Gwayne smile. The passing of a stableboy reminded you of your surroundings, making you huddle closer to him. “You don’t jest?” you whispered.

“Never about you,” he responded, sincerity clear in his voice. He took hold of your hand, placing a kiss to your knuckles. “I shall win the king his army, and ask for his blessing. Until then, wait for me, my sweetling.”

The ground thumped as the knights marched out of the city’s gates. They made for a menacing sight, a symbol for the war that was starting to brew. As you stood with your mother, you uttered a silent prayer. You hoped the gods would hear you now, would let Gwayne find his way back to you.

[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.

[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.

[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.” 

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: an ardent moment shared in the early hours of dawn with your knightly husband, gwayne hightower.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, smut & fluff, sweet banter, set after rook’s rest, gwayne is cunt-struck, making out, light teasing, mild body worship, hair pulling, light grinding, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, gwayne canon munch confirmed.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: desperately need more gwayne requests in my life because I LOVEEEE writing for him! this was just something small & self-indulgent that I wrote, I hope you all enjoy it! 🫶

Dawn’s first breath whispered through velvety curtains, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over gold decorum, passing over stone floors. It murmured still, exhaling tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through shrouded emerald, striking Gwayne’s visage with a sudden glower.

Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon even still. A tepid gale drifted in from Blackwater Bay, breeze tinged with a touch of saltwater.

It was far too early to be roused at such an ungodly hour, but sleep was an elusive beast, slithering away from the Knight when he needed it most. Days had passed since standing upon the battlefield, and yet his bones still quivered with a grating fear.

Dread surged through him at the thought of having to march out with Cole once more, as if the devastation witnessed at Rook’s Rest wasn’t enough. Dancing dragons and pyres of dragonfire still echoed through his wandering mind, a ceaseless haunting.

Recalling the scent of charred flesh and brimstone, bodies naught but ash crushed into the dirt — his stomach churned violently at the thought. Copper clung to his nostrils even still, body bearing the burden of war, pale flesh littered in scrapes and bruises.

It would be another sennight before they were to make haste to the Riverlands, but it did not bring him any semblance of comfort. His days were numbered, determined to spend it all within your presence, to fondly commit your flesh to memory before conflict’s next harkening.

To lay within silk and atop a feathered paillasse was a welcome respite from the rickety cot and hardened earth he’d been resting upon before laying siege to Rook’s Rest. He’d grown rather accustomed to a lavish lifestyle, a posh existence as both Knight and nobleman.

Beside him, your slumbering form remained partially swathed in the sheets, sage-hued shift nearly translucent when touched by morning’s sigh. An affectionate smile fluttered over his features, the Knight’s brow creased with worry.

To leave you once more was a sting unlike any other, a bitter and rotten thing, gnawing away at his aching bones. His lungs filled with a begrudging sigh, gaze carefully surveying your countenance, furrowed with sleep, hand idly tangled into the sheets.

Hushed, Gwayne sluggishly moved from your bed, muscles groaning with an incessant ache, still recovering from the callousness of battle. With feather-light footfalls, he paced toward an ornate vanity, seeking the basin of lukewarm water perched atop it.

Russet tresses remained disheveled from a restless slumber, cerulean hues briefly flickering toward you through the mirror. A soft stirring resonated from the sheets as you shifted toward the empty recess he’d left behind, evoking a rousing tenderness from within his heart.

With a steady palm, he doused his visage with spring water, raking his hand over his crown before returning to bed. Filling the space at your side, warmth renewed, Gwayne felt your body press closer, cheek flush to his clothed chest.

It was what he often yearned for, holding you like this — during arduous nights spent within forests, in the ruins of a burning field, he dreamt of you. An ebullient smile, a sway of your gown, fluttering of eyelashes against warm features; it was you his heart hungered for.

His chivalry often impaled itself upon its sword when he was near you, gallantry warped into baser instincts, those of lesser men; he was no better. Gwayne was thoroughly enticed by you, his precious wife — nothing ever proved more tempting than that of you, flush against him.

“I forbid you to leave.” The groggy lull of your voice, strained with sleep, had ensnared him from his own cacophony of thoughts. A low hum reverberated within your throat, digits flexing against the loose linen of his nightshirt.

A bemused huff tumbled from his lips, palm shifting to gingerly cup the base of your skull, fingertips ghosting over silken tresses. “Good morrow, dearest wife.” Gwayne mused, allowing you to rest your eyes for a few moments longer; he was certainly in no hurry to depart.

Pliant lips pulled into a tender smile, the very image of the maiden’s grace, beauty unparalleled as you began to rouse from slumber. Your Knight-husband is sturdy, broad-shouldered, flesh pale and kissed by dappled freckles, collar flourishing with a darkened bruise.

When your gaze first finds him, your heart leaps excitedly into your throat, thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird. His lips tilt into a threadbare smirk, as if suppressing any true intentions, mouth gracing your brow in a gentle kiss.

A muddled haze still gripped the forefront of your mind, now tinged with thoughts of his inevitable departure. When Gwayne had first left you, your heart wretched at the thought — now, it made you tear asunder with an incessant worry.

He wouldn’t want you to drown yourself within the depths of despair, but you feared what harrowing chaos this war would bring. Dragon’s fire upon the skies, scorching men to ash, hollow wisps within metal cages, now floating upon the breeze.

Fortunately, Gwayne was wickedly intelligent, his sense of self-preservation both intuitive and innately selfish — you hoped that he would return safely, if things became too destructive. As much as you attempted to scrub such pessimism from your mind, it proved to be quite an obstacle.

It did not take a Maester to uncover the stress that beset your features, and Gwayne knew it well, attempting to curb your concerns with a placating kiss. “You’ve only just awoken, and you twist yourself with vexation.” He murmured, warm breath pluming over your brow.

“I cannot help it,” Transparent, you let your husband know your disquieting thoughts, and even as you tried to smooth the worry from your visage, it remained in inklings. “You plunge yourself headlong into a war that would see no victory — only carnage.”

Gwayne valiantly purged himself of any nervousness, and instead, remained the very essence of unperturbed. “I returned to you once already, haven’t I? I shall do so again, dearest — not even dragonfire may keep me from you.” Soothingly, his fingertips drew circles over your crown.

Even then, his reassurance was not enough, a veiled satisfaction, at best. Fear chewed away at your innards like some feral animal, throat thick as you swallowed down your worry. “It frightens me, even still — you do not have to go.” The possibility of that was slim, as it stood.

“I’ve a duty as a Knight — I cannot flee from it, as you well know,” Cerulean hues found your gaze, doe-eyed, pleading for him to stay, but you knew as well as he did that he would leave. “You mustn’t worry yourself into a stupor.”

Despising his correctness, your lungs deflated with a strained exhale, expunging yourself of this nagging dread. You did not want to spend your days together raking yourself over the coals, and neither did he. “I will let it go — begrudgingly.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his smile threadbare yet genuine, reveling in your doting concern that you showered him with. “Your sentiments are most heartwarming, I assure you. I’ve an affectionate wife, one whose adoration I carry with me.”

As your nerves began to settle, disparaging thoughts of conflict simmering to a mere hush, you let out a chuckle of faux annoyance. “I do not believe that I’ve ever spoken of adoration.” You jeered, nose crinkling in amusement.

Gwayne scoffed, a glimmer of theatrical hurt fluttering over his features, set within his brow as he planted a palm above his heart. “Hells, wife — you wound me with such vitriol. We’ve only just awoken and this is how you treat your husband.”

Whatever dread and trepidation stirred within his heart, he squashed it, for now — let it return to mere cinders. The more his thoughts lingered on the inevitable, the more it pained him to leave you.

Instead, he opted for lightheartedness, for an ardent warmth, the love that blossomed between. A feigned gasp slipped past your lips as you lightly smacked his shoulder, features warming as he seized your wrist.

Wordlessly, he drew you close, flush to his body, lips planting a kiss to your palm. Wisps of dawn floated over your countenance, drenching you in slivers of a fiery gold; incandescently perfect. Any witty remark seemed to fade upon his tongue.

Gazes interlocked, a semblance of understanding passing between, a yearning that often permeated all interactions. He marveled at your beauty, a resplendence unrivaled, one that seemed to claw the very air from his lungs.

“I love you,” A sweet lull tumbled from your lips, shamelessly steeped in an adoration that had brought him to heel. “You are an honorable man, Gwayne — and the most excellent husband.” It was these assurances that the Knight held tightly to.

Admittedly, he did not feel honorable, especially now, thoughts wandering toward the depths of sin, savoring the sensation of your body pressed to his. Gwayne’s lascivious intent sometimes overruled any sense of logic, fact fading to mere fantasy.

Fingertips ghosted over his jaw, defined and pale, sweeping toward his mane of coppery tresses, disheveled from rest. A methodical exhale escaped through his nostrils, bewitched by your hand of gold, touch turning him to some starving creature.

Foreheads brushed against one another, a closeness he desperately clung to, afraid to be swept away within some desolate wave. “Honor betrays me in this very moment.” His confession was wreathed in desire.

A brief shiver crept along your spine, feeling his hand gently encapsulate your wrist, thumb caressing silken flesh. Through creased brows, you canted your head to one side. “Why do you say that?” You inquired, perplexed.

“Why do you think, sweetling?” Gwayne hummed, planting a searing kiss to your jaw, one that poised to linger, savoring your sweet skin. A flicker of understanding doused your features, lips parting as your throat stirred with a subtle gasp.

“Speak plainly, husband. I am not sure that I truly understand your intent.” Effortlessly teasing him, a jocular twinge permeated your cadence, one that seemed a touch sly. Against your neck, you felt Gwayne’s encroaching smirk like a hot brand.

“Bane of my existence,” The Knight whinged into your flesh, knowing how easy it was for you to toy with him; as coy as a cat. He lavished kisses to your throat, one hand stealthily slithering towards the curve of your hip. “I adore you for it.”

Laughter spilled from your lips, akin to a nymph’s playful melody, as warm as the first breath of spring. Gwayne huffed, a low and bemused sound as your palm shamelessly pushed beneath his shirt, mapping sinewy muscle below your fingertips.

His honor was well and surely damned with you caressing him like that, salacious fantasies beginning to take root, lustful seeds whose leaves flourished quickly. Wordlessly, he began to sit upright, gaze deliciously hooded as he started to push your legs apart.

Rose-hued lips glided to your mouth without a wisp of hesitation, clamoring for a brazen kiss. It was bruising, wrought with such adoration that it made your belly pulse with a familiar heat. Eager, your hand continued to slither over his muscles, caressing along his abdomen.

Gwayne was attentive, swift; he was bursting at the seams to have you then and there, blanketing you with his body, each kiss burning with an arduous fire. A low groan caught within your throat, excitement beginning to mount.

That is, until a knock resonated throughout your chambers.

“Good morrow, my Lady, we’ve come to draw your morning bath.” The scuttling of handmaidens could be heard from outside of the door, rather poor timing, but you were keen on it, much to your husband’s dissatisfaction.

Gwayne appeared positively pained, amber brows drawn together, mouth upturned into an exaggerated frown. “Seven Hells, could they not wait another hour? What am I to do?” He groveled, though it seemed more theatrical instead of genuine, earning a smile from you.

“Patience is a knightly virtue, is it not?” With a cheshire grin, you wriggled from beneath him, leaving your husband to sink back down against the pillows. “Come in!” You called, adjusting your satiny shift back into place.

Unable to smother his own gallant smile, he decided to heed your mischievous remark, making himself comfortable for the time being. As you perched along the paillasse’s edge, surrounded by disheveled sheets of gold and emerald, he found himself ogling.

It was unjust, immoral for a man to covet — a greater sin, and it made him a sinner, no better than some craven individual. He coveted you as if you were a precious jewel, one to be kept close to his heart, shimmering for his eye alone.

Around his neck, he felt the sudden weight of your affectionate token, your ring dangling from a chain of silver. Gwayne rarely removed it, and during the taxing journey home, he often held it tightly within his fist, a reminder of what awaited him.

As the handmaidens went about filling your washtub with warm water, you remained poised, patiently awaiting their departure. Even when turned away from your husband, you felt his smoldering stare, as hot as a scorching sun boring right through you.

Peering over your shoulder, as if to tempt your blithering husband, a shiver of delight rolled through your spine, instead; he was gazing at you. Cerulean hues had not wavered an inch, never straying, mouth beginning to curl with a softer smile.

Shimmering silver glistened around his neck; your signet, still clinging to his throat. It warmed you to know that he’d kept it close, body shuddering with a wave of incessant heat.

Gwayne leaned closer, arm outstretched as his fingers pinched at the fabric of your shift, countenance brimming with ardor. For a Knight of his stalwart disposition, he had a knack for teasing, digits nipping at your hip.

Seconds became agonizing, as if stretched out into years, and you seemed quite patient, features warming as your husband’s hand flexed near your thigh. Incorrigible, you thought, teeth ensnared against the flesh of your inner cheek.

To Gwayne’s delight, your handmaidens emerged with emptied pitchers, curtsying to the both of you before making a swift departure. As soon as the door had groaned shut, he seized you, laughing into your shoulder as you yelped.

“Gods, what torture that was.” Bemused, he tugged you backward, bringing you against the expanse of his chest, lavishing your throat in soft kisses. A wanton sigh slipped past your lips, allowing him to dote upon you until you wriggled away.

“Torture? You seemed rather content,” With a witty counter, you giggled as a theatrical groan rippled through his throat. Insistent, Gwayne reached for you once more, hands firmly holding to your hips, urging you to sit down. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

“I did not say that you could leave, dearest,” A pang of lust saturated his tone, a silent command, beseeching you to stay planted atop the paillasse. Anticipation swelled within you, stomach surging with a familiar heat as he eased you down onto your back. “Not yet.”

Seamlessly, your enthused husband wedged his way between your legs once more, rucking up your shift without a care. Careworn palms traced over your thighs, a hitch catching within your throat as his mouth returned to yours with a renewed passion.

Beneath your breast, your heart galloped with anticipation, welcoming him in, digits climbing along clothed biceps, reaching his crown of copper waves. A soft moan reverberated from you, bodies beginning to tangle within the other, an amalgamation of limbs.

Gods, you invigorated him — he found it impossible to execute such restraint when near you, especially now. Each kiss made him slaver like some starving animal, begging for a mere glimpse of your flesh, a thing of beauteous delight.

“Gwayne,” A tremulous exhale plumed over his lips, which occupied themselves with kissing your jaw, ghosting over your jugular. Knees squeezing at his waist, silken tunic hanging loosely upon him, exposing pale flesh, bruised in some places. “You are insatiable.”

A bemused chuckle escaped him, one of a playful mirth that soon dissipated into something more stalwart. The Knight felt like some debauched hedonist when around you, unable to rein in his turbulent feelings, or quell the overwhelming ardor he felt for you.

His mouth lavished passionate kisses to your throat; transfixed, Gwayne allowed his hands to travel along your body, kneading and caressing wherever he pleased. Underneath his lips, you tasted saccharine, a silken honey that served as a constant temptation.

“You drive me to madness, sweet wife,” With a wanton groan, your Knight began to unravel the laces of your shift, and you seemed eager to find some relief. The garment loosened, front ties easy to pick apart. “Such beauty.” His sigh was a passionate one.

Golden sunlight sliced through the curtains, catching across your visage, molten dawn that bathed you in its resplendence. Gwayne’s heart nearly stilled at the sight, a subtle hitch forming within his throat as he reveled at your perfection.

Cerulean hues studied your countenance, the way your lips parted with an excitable exhale, irises doe-eyed, mouth upturned in a tender smile. It was crystalline, the way he plainly admired you, ever the loyal and adoring husband.

As your gown drew apart through the center, Gwayne parted your legs a touch further, bones lurching at the sound of your bated breath. With a sudden haste, his lips dutifully returned to your collar, lavishing you in countless kisses.

It was then that his want and festering desire began to pull him to what he coveted most, the heart singing beneath your breast. Still, his kisses continued, forging their path near your chest, slipping toward your pebbling nipple.

“Gwayne,” A delighted whine erupted from your throat, back beginning to arch as he kissed your bosom, tongue briefly teasing the peak of your breast. One hand flew to grasp at the nape of his neck, fingers raking through copper tresses. “Please, do not stop.”

As if to vex you further, a hand slithered between your thighs, digits gracing your nethers. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. “So swiftly, sweetling?” Such a lascivious jest fell effortlessly from his tongue.

“It is your fault.” A wanton whine split past your mouth, lips parted to make room for a strangled gasp. His digits briefly glided over your cunt, tearing themselves away as soon as they appeared.

Lips branded themselves over your flesh, continuing to tease your breasts before descending downward. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you, etched into your skin as his mouth feathered across your stomach.

The name of your paramour whispered into the surrounding air, wrought with an amalgamation of adoration and desire. Digits perused through his tresses, back keening from the silken sheets below, aching for his embrace.

Gods, he could not envision a prettier sight, your flesh belonging to some divine entity, the image of an ethereal beauty. He kissed trails of lingering kisses over your body, worshiping you in the way that you rightfully deserves, growing closer to the heat echoing betwixt your legs.

Patience was both his virtue and his agony, desiring to taste you, more than that of any fine stout or aged wine. Gooseflesh iced his spine when you began to massage at his crown, an absentminded gesture, filling his stomach with an insatiable hunger.

His cock twitched within his breeches, aching with something desirous, mouth raking over your silken flesh with a single-minded purpose. As he planted slow, deliberate kisses to your hips, he sank against the mattress, hitching your legs up over his broad shoulders.

Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. Sweet kisses buried themselves along soft skin, nearing your aching cunt as if to further prolong your torment.

“I must ravish you, dearest,” Gwayne exhaled near your nethers, drawn to you like a bee upon a blossoming flower. “My sweetest wife.” His constant lavishing of sultry praises made your cunt clench pathetically around nothing at all.

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. It soon disappeared between your legs altogether, lips savoring the ambrosial slick of your nethers.

Consumed by a heat so feverish that it nearly destroyed you, his tongue raked hot embers over your cunt, tracing along the length of your slit before dipping between your folds.

A gasp tore past your mouth; it was an ecstasy beyond comprehension, gnawing away at your bones. Abhorrently sluggish, your husband tasted you with deliberate laps of his tongue, nearly groaning as his hands kneaded into your thighs.

Gwayne dutifully lapped at your core, nose brushing against your mound, tongue dancing from the pearl of your cunt to your entrance, his movements repetitive. A sigh of delight floated into the air, your pleasure made known as you lightly tugged on his tresses.

A string of crass sounds emanated from below; soft, needy lips hungrily kissing along your cunt. Trapped within a foggy haze, both mind and body succumbed to the salacious machinations of your husband, digits flexing over his crown.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower. Steeped within your slit, the taste of you ambrosial, Gwayne continued his ministrations, tongue flicking along your core, making a sluggish ascent toward your clit.

Every fiber of your being screamed with ecstasy, stomach swirling with molten heat, climbing higher towards an inevitable release. Hips jolted from the sheets and into his mouth, unable to keep from writhing beneath his tongue.

“Gwayne!” A shrill cry punctured your lungs, breathing pitched with want as your thighs squeezed at his head. Dizzy from such overwhelming arousal, your body began to furl, a coil of heat pulled taut within your belly.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. Palms stroked along your legs, coming to grasp with an iron hold upon your thighs, attempting to steady your constant squirming.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand forcefully tugging on your Knight’s auburn locks as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

It was then that his tongue sought the clutch of nerves at the apex of your cunt, making your muscles twitch with anticipation. Deliberately, he stoked the fire churning within your belly, teasing your pearl with feather-light kisses and practiced circles of his tongue.

Cerulean hues coyly peered at you from his place between your legs, gallantry still well-intact, poisoned by his own lascivious intent. As your gazes met, you shivered, countenance unfurling with a look of complete and utter bliss.

Gwayne’s mouth deftly teased your pearl before planting a string of kisses along your slit, tongue lapping wherever he pleased. A groan wracked him, low and heady, intoxicated by your taste as his own hips ground against the mattress.

There was a slight alleviation to such burning friction, his cock throbbing ceaselessly, oozing with arousal into his breeches. In the past, he might’ve felt a twinge of humiliation, but not now, not when you bewitched him like this.

Arousal mounted with a searing intensity, scorching your body with a wave of feverish heat. Again, he traveled to your pearl, gently suckling upon the bundle of nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your clit.

“Such a sweet cunt.” The tremor of his salacious purr made your back arch, hips desperately jolting into the friction of his mouth. He treated you to a careful barrage of kisses, tongue circling over your pearl in an agonizing tandem.

Thighs twitched and trembled with your encroaching release, your pinnacle within reach as you haplessly clawed at his tresses. His name spilled from your lips, innumerable moans that flooded the space between bodies.

Gwayne ensured that you were doted upon, and a sliver of him wondered if this would be the very last time — it was dismal for him to think that way. Nevertheless, your enthused husband carried on with vigor, suckling upon your pearl before lapping over your nethers.

Slowly, you unraveled, having to ground yourself to any shred of composure, throat wracked with a choked sob. The coil of taut heat snapped like that of a bowstring, giving way to an overwhelming release, a white-hot tide of bliss.

As you found yourself wrapped within your peak, you cried his name, knowing that those who wandered the royal corridors were sure to hear you. Gwayne groaned into your cunt, his own body rutting forward until he too came undone within his own breeches.

It was sudden, the overtaking of desire, his love for you, so mesmerizing and intense that he could bear it no longer. With his restraint dissolved, he kissed at your slit even still, lapping up the ambrosial remnants of your release.

With perspiration glittering upon his brow, the both of you began to climb down from your shared releases, chest swift to rise and fall as you caught your breath. Warmth clung to your body, a stickiness prevalent between your thighs.

Gwayne kissed your legs, pale features flourishing with a scarlet pallor, gaze pleasantly half-lidded as he praised your form once more. “I shall never tire of your taste,” He sighed with rapture, palm smoothing over your belly. “Are you well, sweet wife?”

The title often made you preen like some giggling maiden, batting your lashes at him as you caressed his scalp. “Very well, husband — I owe you my gratitude,” You mused, unable to suppress a delighted smile as he kissed your knee. “I love you, Gwayne.”

Slinking forward, he resumed his place, body blanketing yours, arms quick to snap you up in an affectionate haste. He cradled you, caging you in against his chest, visage one of an unbridled tenderness. “As I love you.”

Flush to one another, foreheads beginning to touch, the scent of your carnal aftermath clung to sweat-laden skin. Despite that, the moment was sweet, one of a comforting silence, and yet the ardor there was unmistakable.

“The bath,” Your lips curled into a bashful smile. “The water is likely cold, after all this time.” Bemused, you noted the inkling of debonair cockiness swirling within your husband’s gaze — one that you were very familiar with.

“Alas,” Gwayne murmured, planting a kiss upon your jaw as he coaxed you from bed, bearing your weight within his arms. “I suppose I shall have to keep you warm once more.”

[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.

[calmingmelody96]

The Dragon's Niece

Chapter 6 - The Dragon's Return

Warnings: medival sexism, forced marriage, uncle-niece incest

Masterlist

Daemon's journey back to King's Landing had been long and tiresome, and he couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions as the city finally came into view.

After all these years, he was finally returning home — a home that felt both familiar and foreign. He had changed, matured, and grown, not the same impulsive young man who had been banished from the city he loved so much.  The trials of war in the Stepstones had forged him into a seasoned warrior, a man who now carried the weight of victory on his shoulders. His triumph in the conflict against the Free Cities had earned him a begrudging respect, and ultimately, his brother's forgiveness.

With a determined look on his face, Daemon crossed the gates, entering the bustling streets of the capital. The people eyed him like a foreigner, whispering to each other about the return of the Rogue Prince. Some looked upon him as a hero, while others viewed him as a man with a tarnished past.

As he moved through the crowded streets, Daemon made his way towards the Red Keep. The familiar sight of its towering spires and crimson walls brought back countless memories of his past.

Despite the change in his appearance - he was more muscular, his hair cut short, and a determined look in his eyes - there was no mistaking who he was.

Soon, he reached the front gates of the castle. The guards on duty exchanged uncertain glances, recognizing his face and yet unsure of how to react.

The guards glanced at each other again, then back at Daemon. Finally, after a moment of silent discussion amongst themselves, one of them moved to open the gates, the metal creaking loudly as the large doors slowly swung open.

As the gates parted, Daemon let out a small exhale, a mixture of relief and anticipation. He was finally back home. 

Daemon entered the Red Keep, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. The familiar smell of the castle filled his nostrils, like a comforting embrace.

He made his way through the labyrinthine halls, his heart pounding in his chest with every step. He had been away for seven long years, and there were so many questions swirling around in his head. What had his brother done during his absence? How had the politics of the realm shifted? And most importantly, how had his beloved niece fared...?

Daemon's thoughts darkened as he recalled the news of Viserys' marriage to Alicent Hightower, daughter of that wretched man. The alliance reeked of political maneuvering, a union that made Daemon's blood boil. Otto Hightower, with his scheming and insatiable ambition, had woven himself deeper into the Targaryen court, and the thought of his brother marrying into such a treacherous family filled Daemon with disdain. How could Viserys allow himself to be shackled by the very man who had orchestrated so much turmoil in their lives?

Finally, he turned a corner, and there in front of him was the throne room doors.

Daemon paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the large wooden doors. Beyond them was the Iron Throne, the very symbol of his family's power and authority. It was a throne that had claimed many lives and broken many hearts—a throne that had once belonged to his ancestors.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

Taking a deep breath, Daemon pushed the doors open with a loud creak, revealing the vast throne room. The space was adorned with banners and tapestries, reflecting the strength and legacy of House Targaryen. And there, upon the cold throne, sat his brother—Viserys—who surprisingly looked rather happy to see him.

After greating his brother and some small talk he returned to his chambers to bathe and take a little rest before the feast. His brother informed him of a grand celebration planned for the evening, a feast dedicated to Daemon’s safe return after seven years of exile as well as his magnificent victory in StepStones. He hadn’t expected such an honor from his brother, especially after everything that had transpired.

Finally it was time for the feast and he was in great anticipation to see a special someone. His niece. The reason of his excile and suffering. The little girl he sullied and ruined exactly seven years ago. He would be lying if he said he didn't miss her. And finally tonight he'd see her beautiful face. He wondered what she looked like now. She was a girl of fifteen when he left and he was twenty-nine. Now she is twenty-two and he couldn't stop imagining and portraying her face in his mind. 

However the reunion wasn't at all what he expected. Seeing her after seven long years was painful. As he stepped into the throne room, Daemon suddenly froze in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. A woman sat there, her frame small and slender - a woman of grace and beauty. But it was not just any woman. It was the girl he once knew. The one he had been forced to leave behind. Now a woman... and a married one, at that. A thousand thoughts rushed through his mind as he took in her appearance. She looked radiant, beautiful in her own way. Her face was more mature, her figure fuller, more feminine. But he was too late...

Daemon almost felt sick at the sight of her next to her husband... Gwayne Hightower, son of the man he hated with burning rage. The first time he heard the news about her marriage to the Hightower, he thought it to be some kind of a rumour, he didn't believe it or rather didn't wanna believe it. But now the proof was right in front of his eyes. He couldn't deny the reality. 

Of course, he knew about the schemes and plans of Otto Hightower. But for Viserys to give her away like that. His first-born daughter to this old snake's stupid son...

Suddenly something else caught his attention, something more intruiging.  A small boy standing next to her. It was his bright silver hair that caught Daemon's attention, his hair brighter than hers, way brighter. Almost as bright as his...

A boy. Who bears no resemblance to her lord husband. A boy who looked so painfully like himself...

Seven years ago, that night... when he came to her. Drunk and needy. It was so easy to manipulate her and claim her maidenhead; she was too young and innocent then. And he always craved her, burned with the fire of desire, desire to make her his, completely his. But his brother wouldn't allow it. So he thought of another way, a dirty, nasty way to bind her to him.

A painful lump formed in his throat as he stood there and watched her son tug at the flowing sleeve of her dress.

Daemon ignored everyone in the feast. Nothing and no one seemed interesting anymore. He just wanted to be alone with her, to speak with her... But of course, her lord husband did not leave her side.

As her little boy whined and complained about something, she leaned down planting a kiss on top of his brow and whispering something to his ear. She looked so warm and motherly. Seeing her with his son like this made something stir inside Daemon.

The sight of his son in her arms, or more precisely, his own son, who should have been in his arms - made Daemon feel a strange pang in his chest.

She should be his, he thinks, both of them. But he was an irresponsible coward who ran away when she needed him the most.

He knew it was his fault that she married Gwayne Hightower and now she was stuck in a loveless, passionless marriage, bound to that stupid idiot.

Daemon's eyes darkened with anger.

Soon Gwayne joined his and her father and left as she stayed there with her son.

When she was finally left alone, Daemon allowed himself a long sigh. He stared at her and her son for a few more moments before he finally stepped toward them.

"Niece. Can I speak to you for a moment? In private?"

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End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! 💖 Special big thanks to @paulyenvol6 for proof reading! :) Please let me know about your thoughts. What do you think will happen? How do you think she will react to him? And most importantly, do you think that the little boy he saw is really his son? Let me know in the comments please! <3