Dark! Tom Riddle X Hufflepuff! Reader

I love making these

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Interview with the Vampire 1994 Masterlist

Louis x Reader x Lestat headcanons

Yandere Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

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saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?

'LOVE CAN KILL, [jealousy! hcs]

-GOT / HOTD CHARACTERS X READER-

⋆ Characters ↬ Robb, Jaime, Margaery, Oberyn, Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay, Tyrion, The Hound, Aemond, Aegon, Alicent, Gwayne, Daemon

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)

𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾

♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.

He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.

Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.

His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.

A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."

A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.

Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.

"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"

He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.

𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.

Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.

"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.

Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.

It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.

That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.

We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.

"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."

𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.

She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.

When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.

She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.

This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.

"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"

Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.

Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.

"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.

𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.

That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.

"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."

Yeah, he means business.

Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.

Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.

"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."

Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.

He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.

"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.

You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.

𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.

Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.

At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.

If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.

That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.

Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.

She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.

“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."

It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.

Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.

Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.

A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.

“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”

It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.

𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁

♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.

Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.

It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.

Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.

And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'

When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.

"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.

He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.

If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.

"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'

Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.

While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.

Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."

𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁

♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.

In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.

He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.

Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.

He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.

If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.

"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.

Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.

But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.

By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.

We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.

"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.

Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.

You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.

𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.

At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)

As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.

"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."

These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.

This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.

"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"

If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.

When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.

𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸

♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.

Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.

He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.

Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.

"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.

But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.

He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.

It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.

In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.

I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.

When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.

"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."

𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.

He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.

You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.

If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.

"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."

He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.

In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.

When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.

He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.

"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."

Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.

Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.

"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."

𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.

It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.

No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.

Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.

Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.

"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."

Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.

He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.

He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.

He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.

"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."

And he plans to show you that he's right.

𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.

She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.

I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.

Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.

A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.

Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.

"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."

It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.

If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.

Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.

"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."

𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.

He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.

If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.

He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.

And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.

Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.

"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"

Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.

He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.

"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."

𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.

He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.

He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.

He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...

He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.

"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.

He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.

"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!

---

Oath of Devotion

Kingsguard Gwayne Hightower x Queen Reader

Tags: angst, mention of SA, romantic tension, pining, forbidden relationship, hint of religious guilt, oral sex (female receiving), p. in v. sex, hopeful ending, third person narrative

Wordcount: 9,440 (I blame Freddie Fox for this madness)

As King Aegon is slowly dying from his injuries, his pregnant wife finds solace in Ser Gwayne's company. One night as the birth approaches, she confesses a terrible secret to the knight…

Author's Note: thank you so much to the lovely Lana who made a beautiful moodboard for this oneshot, here ♡

The Seven Kingdoms never had a Lannister Queen before the golden-haired lady had been sent to King's Landing to marry young Prince Aegon. The match had been decided quite hurriedly, as it had always been thought the eldest son of Viserys would marry his sister, but when the time came, a simple suggestion of alliance with the Westerlands by the Hand had been enough to sway the king's mind.

Strong allies were crucial for the stability of the realm, perhaps even more so than the purity of the bloodline, Otto Hightower argued, and Viserys agreed. Marriages could happen further down the line of succession to bring back dragon blood.

The dragon bloodline was safe, Viserys judged, but the realm was still weak and divided from his decision to name Rhaenyra as his heir. The Lannisters made their contempt and disagreement known many times, although never crossing the line of insolence or treason, and a match between their house and the royal house would no doubt appease them and secure their loyalty once and for all.

Therefore, on a sweltering summer day that would remain in people's minds for years to come, a carriage and a large party of armored soldiers crossed the gates of the Red Keep, bringing with them hope for peace, prosperity, as the young lady's dowry came in the shape of economic and trade treaties with the capital.

Gwayne had served his sister the dowager queen and her son after her, and when tragedy struck and a war for the succession erupted, it was ordered that he would now be sworn to the queen.

She was a bright and sweet girl, her mother-in-law often said, strong and resilient but kind and obedient, despite the occasional arrogance. The prospect of war had soothed her edges and calmed her fires, and she took the responsibilities that befell her more seriously than the young king did. She made a good queen, one that protected her people, and as the war tore the realm apart, she brought them comfort and strength.

Day after day and night after night, Gwayne shadowed the young queen as any threats against her were taken with the utmost seriousness and concern. On the other side of the Keep, brought back from the battlefield injured and without a dragon, King Aegon spent both his waking hours and resting ones in pain, a sweat taking over his body as the burns suffered at the hands of Rhaenys and her dragon spread across his skin in rashes that would never heal.

His younger brother Aemond was now regent, and as he took over with the guidance of Otto Hightower, Ser Gwayne was left to guard the queen away from matters of the realm. Even though he admitted to having felt cast away at first, hurt in his honor to be protecting a woman instead of defending his king on the battlefield, he soon came to understand that his mission was of the utmost importance.

As the queen's belly started to swell, Gwayne accepted that it was not simply a woman that he was protecting, but the future of the realm, as a male heir would secure Aegon's position further and lift the troops' morale as they fought across the lands.

It was a noble charge, a delicate one, and in Gwayne's mind, a holy one. He would keep the queen safe, insuring she would carry her child in as much safety, peace, and quiet as he could offer her, and in the end the realm might be rewarded with a new king to lead it, one with a golden crown of hair, with the soul of both a lion and a dragon.

As the queen's belly grew and the quickening was felt, the child keeping her awake at night and uncomfortable during the day, her mood soured. It was not a happy pregnancy, nor was it an easy one, and Gwayne felt for the young woman. He could see the shadows growing under her eyes, their shine becoming more dull—he didn't voice his concerns, as it was not his place.

He knew the bearing of a child could weigh heavily on a woman's mind and health. Such was a woman's curse, and a man could only pray that the gods would lift her burden.

Gwayne spent his nights in prayers, his eyes trained on the queen's door but his mind deep in pleas to the gods, reciting the texts he had learned. He prayed for an ease to come to the young woman, for relief of her pains, whether they were physical or of the mind, and for the strength to bear what was still to come. He feared she would not survive if she did not regain some sort of strength, spiritual if not any other.

Which is why his heartbeat quickened one night as the queen's first lady-in-waiting came out of the royal chambers with an unusual request.

The rooms were still lit with many candles despite the late hour, and the hearth was blazing hot and bright. She could not bear to sleep, not even to lie down, and even after two baths over the course of the evening, both with scalding water despite the Maester's recommendations, she still could not settle.

She was not one to beg nor reduce herself to ask service from her guards, and she kept to the schedule that was decided for her, but on this night, the burden was too much for her to bear silently.

"The queen wishes to visit the Sept," she heard her lady instruct the knight, but his answer wasn't the one she expected. Instead of agreeing as he usually did to everything she asked of him and leaving to attend to what he had been given, he stepped into the room and after a customary nod, spoke in a measured tone.

"The hour is too late, my queen," Gwayne tried politely, worried etched over his noble features. "Traveling through the city to the Sept is not safe."

Gwayne carried himself with pride and nobility, a quality that she had admired from the beginning, even more so when the knight had been assigned to shadow her day and night. He made the perfect sworn protector, with a non-threatening demeanor that allowed the young queen to feel at ease in his presence, as well as a galant and reverent disposition that brought warmth in her chest.

He was deferent and respectful to a fault, which is why it made her take a step back as he entered the room without being prompted or invited, and for a moment she feared he was acting on the king's orders, as the young man was his beloved nephew.

"The hour doesn't matter," she insisted, hoping her orders would be the only ones he was following. "Wake as many guards or servants as it will require."

Gwayne shifted where he stood, curling his shoulders inward and narrowing his stance, and for a second she thought he looked much younger than she knew him to be, before fright took over any affection she had for the man. "Surely whatever ails you can wait until the morning, your Grace," the man tried to placate, but a sudden burst of anger rose in her chest until she thought she might suffocate with it. 

"No it cannot!" she roared, so sharply that her delicate voice broke in her throat and her maidservant flinched. Never had she seen her mistress speak as such, and it was with a trembling hand that she brought a warm cloth to the queen's cheek, delicately wiping her tears away.

"It cannot wait," she wailed, then covered her mouth in panic when her chest heaved and her stomach rose.

Her maid was quick to respond as the young queen turned and fell to her knees, surely grateful for the bucket the servant provided. She wept as she coughed and heaved, holding her stomach with one hand and gripping her maid's arm with the other.

"My queen, is it the babe? Shall I call for the Maester?" Gwayne asked worriedly, ready to bolt out of the room in search for help. 

"Call for the Septon, I beg of you," she whined as the maid stroked her hair and back soothingly.

Gwayne swallowed his worried protests and nodded again, retreating from the room quietly as the queen cried and begged in whispers, a despair so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes.

From this night on, Gwayne watched his sworn charge with rapt attention, following the young queen dutifully as she visited the Sept each day, morning and evening, and prayed on her knees with a fervency rarely seen outside of the order of the Sisters. His worries he kept for himself, although they must have shown on his face, and his prayers were silent on his lips as well.

As he watched over the young woman, he prayed without words, asking the gods for wisdom and guidance so that he could protect his queen to the extent that she needed.

She was in danger, at war with a despair so profound it could only come from inside, but no matter how many hours Gwayne spent on the issue, he could not figure out what threatened the queen so much. Her marriage with King Aegon had been young and loveless as the war started, and now that the pregnancy made her position more secure, she was neither saddened by her husband's condition nor joyful at the prospect of an heir.

Something terrible was afoot, Gwayne could sense, but his imagination failed him and he could not decipher it.

Whenever the hour or the weather did not permit traveling across the city to the Sept, she instead spent time under the Weirwood, which she found comforting. Back home in Casterly Rock, the cave where the ancient tree dwelled was a place of peace and harmony for her.

One evening, as her maid and her sword protector waited on the edge of the courtyard, she wondered with sadness if she would ever see it again. She remembered the way her whispered prayers would echo in the deep chamber, as though the rock was murmuring them back to her, repeating them as a parish would repeat a Septon's sermon.

"Ser Gwayne," she suddenly called, smiling as she heard the clinging sound of his armor.

"Yes, my queen," the man answered, and his melodic voice brought a warmth to her chest.

The man was often silent, but never cold, and she enjoyed his presence more than she had initially thought. He was pious and gentle, and he had the utmost trust of the dowager queen—a trust she found herself giving him as well, as each act of loyalty brought her comfort.

Kneeling under the large tree, a book of prayer on her lap even though her thoughts had strayed, she looked up at the man and found his piercing green gaze trained on her eagerly. There sometimes was an earnestness on his features, one that endeared him to her.

"There is a Weirwood tree where you grew up, isn't there, Ser Gwayne?" she asked, and he seemed taken aback by the question.

"Yes, there is, my queen."

"Did you visit often?"

"Not often enough. I wasn't so devout in my youth, I admit." 

She smiled as the ghost of a laugh passed her lips. Gwayne allowed the corner of his lips to stretch to the side, comforted by the fact that this detail of his childhood seemed to amuse the queen, and he wished he had more peaceful or cheerful memories to share with her. He had been sworn in to the Kingsguard not long after his mother's passing, and most of his childhood memories were now tainted with her loss.

"How strange for a man who was raised in the cradle of the Faith of the Seven," the queen pressed as a gust of wind blew across the courtyard.

She picked her shawl from her lap and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her back with the bright red fabric where a golden lion was embroidered. 

"Without a doubt, your grace," he replied, and it seemed she found his answer lacking.

"Do you miss it?"

"No, I don't," he answered honestly, and as her bright green eyes lifted to him once more, he continued. "I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, your grace. My life is here, serving the royal family."

"Which is also your family. You are a loyal man, Ser Gwayne. A man of honor," she praised, and she could swear she saw him blush in the dimmed light of the evening, pink erupting under the starlight spatter of his freckles.

For a moment she feared her secret would tumble out of her lips and her chest swelled with the raw emotion of it. She took a deep breath under his attentive gaze, wondering whether he would accept her confessions and bear her burden as she was forced to.

As she took in his noble features, the breeze making his copper strands dance, shame suddenly rose in her stomach and the words died on her lips before she could even give them shape. How could she even begin to voice the terrible secret that she bore, how could she ask such a devout and honorable man to keep her confidence, one that was rooted in utter disgrace and the most unholiest of acts.

Her hesitation must have shown, as the knight took a step forward and offered his arm to help her rise from the cold ground, but as he spoke she was reassured that he had not the faintest idea of the shame and self-loathing she carried.

"The hour is growing late and the air has quite a chill. Perhaps my queen would like to go back," Gwayne offered as he saw her shiver again, and she took his arm with a whispered thank you.

She rose in silence, wrapping her shawl around herself tighter as they walked back to the castle, still tormented by the moment she had just lived. She had been tempted to take the plunge into complete honesty and bare her shame to her sworn shield. 

She desperately wanted to be seen, just as she viciously wished to protect her secret and her shame. The duality of such a burden weighed heavily on her, and she was afraid she would die, crushed under this unsurmountable trial. 

"Shall I call for a bath to be drawn?" Gwayne asked from where he walked, always a step behind her on her right side.

"This is above your function, ser," the queen remarked casually, almost glad for the distraction. Still, her tone was almost breathless and the knight stopped for a second and dipped his head in silent apology.

"My apologies, I have overstepped," he replied in a demure voice and this time it was the queen's turn to stop. Standing under the archway leading back into the Keep, she turned to face her sword protector, an open expression of gratefulness overshadowed by her sadness.

"You have not, Ser Gwayne. I merely meant that it is unusual for a knight to concern himself with such mundane tasks."

"I concern myself with your comfort, not only your safety," Gwayne explained, keeping his eyes low in what could be interpreted as reverence, but in truth he was unsure if he could bear to look her in the eye at that moment. "You are carrying the future of the realm, after all."

"Of course," she replied, but this time her tone was clipped and cold, and by the time Gwayne raised his eyes to her, she had stepped away again. One of the layers of her shawl was floating behind her as she rushed inside and up the stairs, as though she was eager to take her leave of him. 

Shame curled in his stomach as he realized he had crossed the young queen somehow, and for a moment he wondered whether she had been expecting something of him, something he had failed to deliver. He thought of her words, of her emotions that played so openly in her eyes; if one knew how to look past the regal air she gave herself as armor, and he found himself caught on a delicate edge.

He was unsure where the line between insolence and amicable conversation was, whether or not he was meant to speak of his own volition or wait for her prompting. There were times where he felt she waited for his words, as though they bore some profound meaning that soothed her.

"Did I overstep this time, my queen?" he quickly asked, their footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.

This part of the castle was deserted at that hour, since most of the lords and ladies had retreated in their quarters for dinner, but Westerners dined at later hours, he had found out.

"No, you didn't," she assured, glancing at him over her shoulder. Curls had come loose from the breeze, bringing layers to her updo.

It wasn't until they were back in the antechambers of her quarters that Gwayne realized there were tears in her eyes, and as she turned toward him to dismiss him, her gaze looked like a forest in the rain, a storm drowning acres of pines.

"I have upset you," he stated with mild panic. "Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my good ser. I have upset myself," she replied with a smile that further concerned him. She took a breath that seemed to rattle her chest or heave her stomach, and her hand drifted to her abdomen. 

Gwayne suddenly remembered the night his worries had arisen, and the question that he had kept contained for fear of being insolent suddenly pushed past his lips. "Is there something wrong with the babe?"

The young queen took a step back as though he had struck her, and heaved once more. "Now you are overstepping," she accused, tears rising in her eyes, but Gwayne knew he had found an element, if not the source, of her enduring despair.

Part of him defended that it was his duty as a sworn knight of the realm to protect the future of the crown, but he knew deep inside that his concern for the queen overtook his concern for the realm.  

"I am your sworn shield, my queen, your protector. How can I protect you if I do not know what ails you?" he pushed and her hands curled into fists, holding the brightly-colored shawl in front of her like it was giving her composure. 

For a suspended moment Gwayne thought she would strike him across the face or order for him to be disciplined, but she did neither. Instead, her face smoothed over and all emotions left her, like a steel vault closing. She took measured steps backward into her chambers and beckoned him inside with a quiet word.

"Leave us," she ordered to the girl who was currently preparing her bed, propping pillows and smoothing the covers. "I need a private word with Ser Gwayne."

The girl left without a word, barely a quick curtsy, leaving him alone with the queen. She looked strangely calm, all of her emotions swimming in her eyes behind her blank expression. She walked to the fire, observing it for a moment as though it held the words she was looking for. The orange light illuminated her features and she spoke without looking up at Gwayne.

"Would you keep a secret for me," she whispered, as though the mere question was a treason, something reprehensible. 

"I would never betray your confidence," the knight replied, his heart galloping in his chest as a wild horse. He knew they were on the edge of a confession, that there would be no coming back from it—he would likely never forget her words, and she would likely see them on his face every time she looked at him.

"Swear to me," she said, barely turning her head, and her gaze was fierce and burning.

“I swear to you, my queen, upon my sacred vows, that I would never reveal your secret," he swore, shivering under the intensity of her eyes.

"You once asked if the king hurts me, do you remember what I replied?" she asked bluntly, turning to him and crossing her wrists at the top of her round belly.

"The king doesn't touch me," Gwayne recited coldly. 

The queen took a deep, steadying breath, facing her burden and the gaze of her sworn shield with a courage that inspired him.

"The full truth is, the king doesn't need to touch me in order to hurt me,” she said regretfully. "He makes me... perform acts, for his viewing pleasure," she whispered with the look of a frightened deer, gauging his reaction.

He held onto his composure, relief loosening his shoulders slightly. He could easily imagine how a noble woman could feel debased by this, but what she had just confessed didn't touch the more horrible images his mind had conveyed over the last few weeks when he had wondered about her sorrows.

"There is nothing shameful about an act that was performed under duress. The shame is his," Gwayne replied fervently—he knew well enough of his nephew’s proclivities, and regretted that his temper was so ill-matched with that of his queen.

"You do not understand, Ser Gwayne. It is worse than what you are imagining,” she whispered tearily, rushing to him in desperate steps and for a mad second he thought she would reach out, place her hands on his arms.

He lifted his hands from the pommel of his sword, and her gaze quickly flitted to them as though she was considering his touch, but refrained. They remained in heavy silence for a moment, her eyes peering into his with such an intensity, he despaired words could not be shared in this way. Her lower lip trembled and she looked at him with visible heartbreak, as though she was about to bid him a definitive farewell.

"The baby isn't his,” she whispered, quiet and pleading, as though uttering those words would have the gods strike her down before she could finish her breath. "When he came back from battle, before the sweat took over his body, he already could not perform anymore," she explained, a great flush of shame upon her graceful features.

"Then, who..." Gwayne swallowed, unsure how to reconcile this terrible truth with her earlier admission. "Is it Prince Aemond?"

"Gods, I wish it was," she replied with a mirthless smile, twin tears making their way down her cheeks. "But the prince is too honorable and would have slain his brother at the mere suggestion. He would never betray Princess Helaena."

Gwayne shifted his weight, considering his next words carefully in the face of her frailty, but she spoke again before he could find them.

"Aegon had Ser Arryk scout the streets of King's Landing, rounding up the illegitimate children of Prince Daemon or King Viserys. As you surely know there are many working the docks or the brothels," she explained. "He had them brought back to the Keep for a specific purpose, and brought to his chambers one by one."

"I understand," Gwayne assured, but it seemed that now that her terrible secret was out, all the words she had kept to herself and the gods were pouring out of her sweet lips.

"Every night until my moons stopped coming," she recounted, her gaze staring into a void he could not see, her frame trembling as though the pain was cursing through her body once more. "I thought that now that I was with child, he would stop, and for a while he did. However the Maester confirmed that the child is alive and strong, and that there is no reason for me not to perform my wifely duties."

"The night you begged me to bring you to the Sept in the middle of the night..." Gwayne closed his eyes in shame, dropping his chin. Bitterness coated the roof of his mouth as he recalled the two scalding tubs of water she had had delivered to her rooms, her urgency, the way she wailed in despair when he refused to escort her to the Sept.

"I pray to the gods every night... I do not know what to pray for. I pray that it is not a son and that the future of the realm is not compromised, that a second war is not about to erupt," she sobbed, her hands coming to shield her face from his gaze. "And I pray that it is not a girl, because he will not stop until I have given him a son."

Gwayne's face contorted with her agony, and he wished he could lift the burden from her shoulders, and give it to its perpetrator. He loved his nephew—he had loved him as a prince and had often indulged his proclivities, and he loved him as king, but such depravity was beyond what he was prepared to forgive.

"Now my shame is plain for you to see, good ser," she said, looking somehow more rested than she had in weeks, her shoulders dropping in relief. 

"The shame is not yours. It is his, and mine. His for betraying your honor, and decency itself, and mine for not having seen it," Gwayne replied fervently. 

He took a careful step forward, too close to what was deemed appropriate, and yet she allowed him with wide eyes and parted lips, caught in the pull of his devotion. She took a deep inhale when he picked her hand up, slowly brought it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "I will not fail you again," he vowed, and she sighed, her small fingers curving into his hold.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling the closeness of her skin like the sun at the highest point of summer, scorching his cheeks, and he could not help himself. He pressed a second kiss to the back of her hand, feeling himself falter—his head spun as he pictured himself kissing along the delicate bones of her wrist, up her arm until he reached the soft skin at the crook of her neck.

He let go of her hand suddenly, taking a sharp step back, and at that she looked bereft; but he was sworn to protect her, and he would not tempt her into sin, no matter his desires and his conviction that he could please her as she deserved.

He saw the moment her emotions burrowed under the surface again, and her features closed over them, her face smooth as marble once more. "Would you call my maid back in?" she said, her voice firm and flat, and somehow Gwayne felt more wretched from that simple question than his own shame.

The next few weeks passed in much a similar fashion than they had before her confession, except that this time Gwayne was much more attentive to her outward signs of distress. He had hoped that the queen's confession would relieve her of much of her burden, as shame was the most wretched companion, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect, and any warmth she had once shared with him was gone.

His mind seemed to clear from the fog of yearning he had found himself caught in before her revelation, and he clung to the mission he had assigned himself as a lifeline. He stood proud and unyielding as a servant came to fetch the queen night after night, refusing for her to be summoned, even when the young man was replaced by Ser Arryk. 

His devotion to the queen came in the form of his steadfastness, fueled by the ache in his chest now that he knew of her burden. It came in the form of his silent presence at the door when the time of labors came, and midwives rushed in and out of the rooms to fetch linens and water. 

The girl that was born to her was pale as the moon, and yet made her mother smile as bright as the sun. Gwayne looked down at the babe with delight and fondness as he was introduced to her, his second charge, and he instantly took it on with pride.

"She looks like you, your grace," he said quietly, and the slow nod the queen gave him in return was charged. They both knew this time was only a reprieve and that her nightmare would soon start again.

"How marvelous it is, that such a pure and perfect being shall be born of such darkness," she murmured, only for him to hear, pressing her bundle closer to him. 

Gwayne dipped his head until the line of propriety was crossed and he could smell the milk on both his charges. "As long as I am sworn to you, I vow that her purity will not be touched by this corrupted world."

The smile she bestowed on him at those words was as soft as a kiss, and he felt it on his face as though she had pressed it into his skin. 

With the beauty of that new life shining a light on the queen, came the shadow of what would follow. As she took to her chambers to rest and bond with her baby daughter, and he guarded the door more often than he effectively guarded her. Gwayne felt a tension mount in him, scalding and bitter. It colored his tongue in a way he usually controlled, but this time he could hardly contain himself. 

Words came bolting out like a wild horse one morning and he lost his grip on them and on his impulses, until he found himself waiting in the antechambers of the queen, his sheath in hand but his armor nowhere to be found. He felt unworthy of wearing it, his head down like a scolded child after the heated words the hand had spoken to him.

The heavy doors opened and he was summoned, stepping inside with his gaze tilted downward in the foolish hope of concealing his bruised cheekbone and split lip.

The rooms were bathed in the soft morning light and in the smoke from the night's candles. In the middle of those ribbons of white, the young woman sat. Upon seeing her, all shame vanished from Gwayne's chest and instead came a great conquering feeling, and he knew he would not be able to summon an honest apology for his actions.

"It was reported to me that you disrespected your lord commander," the queen said slowly, and Gwayne could only nod. There would be no use denying the truth of his deeds and his words, and he found he had no wish to conceal them from her.

"I confronted him. I asked him how he could allow the king to treat you in this way and never intervene," Gwayne said solemnly, a hint of defiance in his voice, and to his delight the queen huffed a sad laugh.

"You needn't defend my honor, ser," she said, lowering her eyes.

"Yes I do," he replied, widening his stance and looking up at her with the impertinence she knew he sometimes had. 

It was the righteous insolence of nobility, of not being a simple knight of the kingsguard, come from squiring for a noble lord, but the son of the Hand to three kings. She found beauty in the way he dared step over the line, and in the impudent way he was looking at her in that instant, showing pride in what he had done.

"You have hardly been able to look at me these last few days," she murmured, licking her lips.

"You misunderstood, I am ashamed, yes, but of myself!" he cried out, taking a step towards her once more, and heat bloomed in her stomach as she remembered the last time he had allowed himself to get close to her. "I was sworn to protect you and I failed to do so."

"Ser Gwayne, you forget yourself!" she admonished, but in truth she wished to reprimand herself for the way her thoughts strayed. 

Her hands came to rest on her belly and she closed her eyes, looking for composure. "I did not mean to offend you, or bring you shame," he said, quieter, his temper settling. He knew aches and pains came to her more often now that her term was near, and for all his pride at having struck his commander, he did not wish to distress her.

"You did not. My disdain for Cole is known, if anything I am grateful you spoke your truth to him," she conceded, then licked her lips over a smile that threatened to appear on her face. "I heard you bruised his face."

"I did," he replied, lifting his chin and unfurling his shoulders.

"A shame that he bruised yours," she said, rising from where she was sitting. She fumbled for a moment, troubled, but found steadiness as she dipped a handkerchief into the small basin of fresh water her maid had left on a table. 

Without another thought, she came to him in quick steps and reached up, pressing the wet cotton to the split side of his lip. "Your father and nephew won't have you dismissed. We need good soldiers at this delicate time," she soothed although it was unnecessary.

She watched as Gwayne's lashes fluttered, casting shadows on his freckled face, and her chest swelled in yearning. He looked so young in that instant, without the bulky armor that kept his lean frame hidden, and she flushed as she realized she had never seen him so uncovered. Her treacherous gaze flitted downward, along the planes of his chest and stomach under the simple cotton shirt he wore, to the cream-colored trousers where a tantalizing line of buttons rested over a slight bulge.

She averted her eyes but the silent sin had been committed, and when she met Gwayne's face again, he was watching her raptly. He reached up to hold her hand against his face, leaning into her until his nose and lips were nestled in the crook of it.

"Gwayne," she murmured, forgoing his title and all propriety along with it. 

His piercing eyes remained on her as his lips followed the line of her veins from her palm to the inside of her wrist and arm, uncovered from her large sleeve pooling at her elbow. They both sighed as she gently threaded her fingers through his copper mane, and a lick of heat went through her as his parted lips revealed his tongue.

She retracted her hand as though his fiery hair had burned her, tears coming to her eyes. “I was soiled, ser. Do not debase yourself," she murmured regretfully as his hand caught her elbow, keeping her close.

"You were not. You are made holier and purer to me because of the suffering you have been put through," he pressed, fervent as ever, and she desperately wanted to believe him, to cling to the reverent way with which he looked at her and hold on to whatever scraps of honor she still had.

"Please," she said, taking a few steps back and he let her go, her arm slipping out of his grasp until her fingers were falling from his, their fingertips grazing. 

The cut on his lip was stinging more fiercely now, and he nodded a few times as he pressed his tongue against it subtly—he bent down and picked up the kerchief she had dropped, white tainted with a few spots of his blood, and slipped it into his pocket.

He watched feebly as she closed her eyes against hot tears, taking deep, steadying breaths until he saw her surrender spread across her face. 

"The maester has informed me that my afterbirth confinement is to end, and that I may return to the King's bed," she said before she opened her eyes again, and Gwayne swallowed heavily under the implication.

“It may be over soon, my nephew won’t live to be an old king", the words fell from his lips before he could think them through.

“Hush, you must never be caught uttering those words!" she cried out, rushing to him again and pressing her hand to his mouth. "Mind your tongue, even here with me.”

Fear coursed through him and it must have shown on his face—for a second he wondered if he had willfully ignored affection she bore to the king despite his transgressions. However she shook her head, the pressure of her hand lessening until her fingertips were barely grazing his lips.

“I simply meant…" she softened. "You are safe with me and I shall keep your confidence, but I could not stand you being disgraced, or worse, if you were heard.”

The pads of her fingers lingered on his lips, and he could not help but lean into them, seeking her warmth. She gasped as the tip of his tongue came to taste the salt of her skin but did not retract her hand.

They were both breathing heavily, caught in that suspended moment, and he wondered if she would suddenly push him away as she had in the past.

"I will endeavor to remain by your side, always, my queen," he said reverently, dipping his face until his mouth was hovering over hers; such sweet lips deserved to be kissed, to be worshiped. Her fingers dropped from his face but his mouth grazed her cheek as she turned.

"Ser Gwayne, you forget your vows," she whispered.

"What are the meaning of those vows if I cannot protect you and serve you as you deserve? I am sworn to you," he pressed, his breath hot on her face, his eyes full of adoration. "I am yours. In every way you might require."

He tilted his head, seeking her mouth again, and this time she allowed him. Her fingers curled in his shirt as his mouth pressed to her gently, firm but chaste, his lips molding perfectly against hers. He waited with batted breath as she pressed back, letting her guide him, sighing quietly as she pulled back only to push herself up on her toes and kiss him again.

Ever mindful of how delicate she was, he wrapped an arm around her waist softly, enjoying the delighted sigh that came from her parted lips, and the way she melted against him as his tongue prodded hers. Her hand was back in his hair, carding through the thin strands and making the back of his neck prickle, while she tasted his passion and explored his lips with hers.

He was gentle and slow, yielding to her instead of taking, but she could feel the tremble of his body as he restrained his desires.

The healing touch of her sworn protector turned firmer as her hands pressed into the muscle of his chest, and she felt him quiver as she followed the plane of his flat stomach until she reached his waist. His belt was somewhere else with the rest of his armor and she delighted in the softness of his clothes, the ease with which she could reach his skin. 

He pressed his moan into her mouth, his tongue curling against hers as her fingers fell to the buttons of his breeches. He buried his face in her neck as she boldly curled her hand over him; he encouraged her, his own hand coming to rest at her bottom.

She rubbed him through the linen, feeling the weight of his stones and the length of his shaft; she relished in how it hardened in her palm. For once she had a choice, and in her arms was leaning a man that desired her, adored her beyond the shadow of a doubt. In his arms, she felt free, cherished—she soared as he moaned aloud when the heel of her hand pressed harder against his tip.

He widened his stance and heat washed over her as he did so.

"Your grace," he murmured in her neck, his voice edging on a whine, pleading and reverent.

"Not here," she whispered in his ear, breathing in the scent of his hair, sweat and soap. "I'm not your queen here. Please."

"You're always my queen..." he replied, his mouth pressing hot, wet kisses along the column of her throat, down into the collar of the gown she was wearing. "My lady of light."

His eyes were clear and piercing as he looked up, his fingers following the path of the tight laces until they found the knot at the base of her neck and pulled. She held his head to her chest, then to her abdomen as he removed the laces expertly, taking her dress and shift down as he went. She shivered as his hair grazed her breasts, his mouth following an invisible line from her collarbones to her navel.

Finally, as his knees hit the floorboards and two rings of fabric laid at her feet, did he look up again. His eyes were dark, blown wide, his cheeks flushed a dark pink and his lips parted on a sigh that could have been her name.

"Gwayne," she called, and he went swiftly, rising gracefully and picking her up, her legs around his waist. Her silk slippers fell to the floor as he brought her to the bed, his breath in her mouth and her core flush with his abdomen.

He laid her down on the edge of the bed with a care that brought tears to her eyes and kneeled in front of her once more. He picked up her feet one by one, and after removing her stockings, kissed one of her ankles, his lashes fluttering.

"Look at me," he said, his gentle tone bordering on commanding and it made her shiver. 

She was so used to having him at her call, obeying her every whim, and it felt good to lay back and allow him to take the reins. This control she was giving him didn't make her feel afraid, in fact she relished in it, and in the trust she had in him.

He kissed her ankle, then her knee, pushing her leg up until it came to rest over his shoulder, and finally, he reached the place she so desperately wanted him to kiss. 

She braced despite herself, but gasped when the press of his lips was merely a graze, the gentlest of kisses. It made her shudder, a blazing path running from her core up her spine, and she found herself rocking up against him, seeking more friction.

"Oh gods, Gwayne," she sighed as he kissed her pearl firmly, the very place she touched when the night was thick and she was alone, closing her eyes to visions of piercing green eyes and fiery hair.

She watched him as he savored her, his tongue coming to lick a careful strip up her folds, then prodded past the soft flesh to find her most sensitive spots. Soon she couldn't hold herself upright and fell to the sheets, her hands tangling in his luscious hair as her legs curled over his shoulders.

The cut on his lip stung but he ignored it, if anything the low burn incensed him, as though it was a mark of his devotion. She arched her back as he flattened his tongue on her core, and he felt her legs shake over his shoulders, her heels digging into his upper back.

"Gwayne," she whined, her grip tightening on his hair.

"Let go," he pleaded, desperate to feel her peak under his mouth. 

Curling his hands around her thighs, caged between her knees, he savored the ache in his jaw as she rocked back against him, gently then more pressing. He felt a tension mount in him as she grew stiffer under his grip, frantic, her body tight like the rope of a bow until it snapped.

She cried out as Gwayne's tongue pulled shudder after shudder of pure ecstasy from her pearl, irradiating her entire body. Heat spread in her core, her most intimate place pulsing with molten waves, curling her toes and arching her back. 

As she regained her breath, Gwayne was kissing the inside of her thigh, one of his hands stroking her soothingly while his other was busy between his legs, no doubt working the buttons of his breeches.

"Allow me," she panted, and he obeyed without hesitation; he climbed after her on the bed, his hips on either side of her and she reached up. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the tight buttons for a moment, and by the sight of her knight holding himself over her, his head hanging between his shaking shoulders.

He climbed off the bed as soon as the buttons were undone, pulling his shirt over his head and messing his copper strands even more. She found herself mesmerized by them, wanting to card her fingers through them again as he took his pleasure this time. She traced the curves and planes of his upper body with her eyes—from his defined shoulders to the swell of his pectoral and the carved lines of his abdomen.

Time slowed as they both looked at one another, her gaze caught by the open lapels of his breeches, showing the tented line of his small clothes, while his own gaze was running appreciatively over her curves. Pleasure had left a sheen over her skin, her breasts were peaked, and the long lines of her legs led him to the apex of her thighs where he now dreamed to bury more than his mouth.

Gwayne hesitated—serving and pleasuring her on his knees was one thing, but laying atop her, breaching her and seeking his own peak was another. "Are you certain?" he asked, and he saw hesitation spread over her face in turn, her cheeks flushing in shame.

He licked his lips. "I've broken my vows before, I am not proud of it, but..."

"I've thought of you," she confessed. "To make my nightmares endurable, to make my solitude bearable..." she trailed, then lowered herself to her elbows once more, bringing her knees up to part them. 

Without a second thought he pulled his boots off, and soon a pile of rough cloth and linen was joining it, and he stood fully bare in front of his queen.

"Wait," she said timidly as he stepped forward, ready to join her again, and he shivered as he realized she meant to look upon him a moment more.

He flattened one of his hands on his stomach, hoping to soothe the throbbing of his cock. It stood hard and leaking, pink at the tip, his stones heavy under the shaft. He bit his lip as she watched, her eyes blown wide in obvious pleasure as he succumbed to temptation and gave himself a slow pull, but instead of soothing the ache, it made his skin stretch tighter over his hardness.

"Do you ever think of me?" she asked, more brazen than she was a second ago, and her newfound confidence excited him.

He shook his head. "I faltered a few times but I never allowed myself. Not fully," he confessed.

"Would you do it now?" she asked, and he knew there was more to it than simply a woman asking to watch a man—it was a wounded girl taking back her power, taking her place as the one in charge for once, and he felt more honored than when he had taken his vows that she felt safe enough to ask it of him.

"You can refuse," she added, and her care broke his heart. He shook his head again. 

"I wouldn't refuse you that," he said, starting a slow rhythm, his skin prickling with excitement as she watched him take pleasure by his own hand. He felt his face and chest flush and he widened his stance slightly, only for the satisfaction of seeing her press her knees together at the gesture.

"Gwayne," she called again, and he knew he would never tire of her saying his name in this way, breathless and adoring.

"One time in the Sept, you caught me watching you, praying on your knees," he reminded her.

"You blushed, I had never seen you so flustered," she chuckled, then bit her lip as his hand sped up.

"I thought of it that night, and I could hardly help myself," he recounted. "I asked a brother to take his place at the watch, else I'd have sinned against you."

"It's not a sin to desire me," she said, then pushed herself further back onto the bed, and he followed her silent call. 

He crawled after her, coming to kneel on the sheets, his hand still lazily stroking his length. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent forward, and he captured her mouth in a passionate kiss. 

She let him press her into the sheets, and they shared a moan when her knees came up to his hips, her thighs resting against his. He let go of his cock to steady himself, his arms caging her in. Soon her hands were roaming his back, his flanks, mapping the shape of his buttocks, pressing him forward until he was flush against her core.

He gasped then, rocking down against her, quivering in her grasp when one of her hands slid between their bodies and guided him to her entrance. His face tucked against hers, breathing into each other's cheek, savoring the first slow press of his cock into her.

He let her guide him, first as the tip breached past the dip that led into her body, then as the stretch made her gasp. He bit his lip as her walls molded perfectly around his length and she clenched, taking him in slowly. He audibly gasped as he bottomed out and she kissed it from his lips with a smile.

They both looked down between their bodies as they rocked cautiously together, but soon her gaze was caught on his face, alive with pleasure. His eyes were closed, his brow smoothed over in delight, his pink lips parted over sweet sighs that he could barely restrain.

Soon she couldn't keep her own eyes open, so taken with his warmth as she was—she fell against the sheets, arching her back against the delicious weight of him. The gentle way with which he was thrusting into her was easing her into it, a slow build of heat at her core.

He dipped his head into her neck, and his lovely moans in her ear only spurred her on. He pressed soft kisses into her skin, seeking the soft spot behind her jaw that made her mewl and grip his back harder.

"My love," the confession slipped from his lips and she gasped, tightening her hold on him, her legs coming to wrap around his waist.

Incensed by her reaction, he murmured it again in her ear and one of her hands slithered back into his hair, pulling him in for another wet kiss that left him breathless. They swallowed each other's names, their tongues curling in time with the rocking of their hips, and their rhythm gradually sped up.

Gwayne could feel a tension building at the base of his spine and he bit his lip, trying to keep it at bay until she was herself in the throes of it, or perhaps even on the edge. He reached down to one of her thighs, propping her leg up until it was almost curled at his shoulder, the back of her knee kept in the crook of his elbow.

The new angle made her nub catch against his abdomen, and he held steady as she ground up against him, chasing the dual sensation. Between the stretch of his cock inside of her, sending sparks up her spine, and the pressure at her pearl, setting her whole core ablaze, she could only surrender and allow the current to take her.

"Gwayne," she whined as she felt herself fall, the edge ever so close.

"I love you," he replied, his own peak approaching and loosening his tongue. 

She sobbed and he licked it from her mouth, the grinding of her hips turning frantic as she grew wetter around him. He wanted to laugh, victorious that she would accept his love and have such a deep, carnal reaction to it. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry, her back arching as she threw her head back onto the sheets, her core pulsing around his cock.

He held on, groaning through gritted teeth as his peak threatened to crash over him but he held on until the frantic rocking of her hips slowed to a stop and she grew loose and pliant. He pulled away and she clenched around the sudden loss, whining as the last waves of her pleasure still made her shudder.

She watched as he spent across her belly with a few moans and whimpers, his hair falling into his eyes as his hips stuttered into his own hand. 

She mewled as he fell forward, pressing grateful kisses into her chest as her own hands mapped his shoulders, eager to share a few more moments of bliss. She pulled him in by the back of the neck and he kissed her again, sweet and slow. 

"Allow me," he said as he pulled away again, this time climbing off the bed in search of a cloth and water to clean her skin.

She sat up, taking stock of the cooling seed on her stomach, and risking a glance to his lean back and buttocks as he turned. He was littered with freckles as stars on the night sky, and she wanted to tell him, but suddenly her words were caught in her throat.

"Are you sore?" he asked almost timidly as he returned with a wet cloth and wiped her skin clean, then folded it and gave her a gentle pat between her legs.

"No," she replied, looking up at him with something akin to adoration.

She sighed pleasantly as he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, his thumb coming to stroke the side of her face, the edge of her smile—she reached up to do the same, grazing the cut that had brought him to her in the first place.

"Do not ever let anyone touch you in this way," she murmured, and he huffed an endeared laugh.

"I swore to ward you and give my blood for you," he replied.

"Cole doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you," she pressed, her brow furrowing in earnestness.

Gwayne grew serious again, but didn't pull away until he had kissed her temple and murmured his love once more. She watched as he dressed again, their silence rather contemplative, until a knock at the door interrupted it.

He turned to her, a slight panic to his gaze and she slid from the bed quickly, picking up a robe from the back of a chair. "Hold!" she shouted. "Merely a moment!"

Yet the knock started again, more frantic this time, and she threw a look to Gwayne, gesturing from him to remain behind the screen that shielded her bed from the entrance of her chambers.

"Who is it?" she called. "I am in no condition to receive visitors."

At that the door opened and a sliver of a pale face and dark head of hair appeared—the young queen ushered the maid in quickly, and from his hiding spot behind the screen, Gwayne could only hear hushed voices. 

A heavy silence settled before the door opened again and quiet footsteps hurried out. The wood creaked loudly as it was closed, the silence broken by a wavering sigh from the queen.

Gwayne took a few tentative steps further into the room, squaring his shoulders and bracing for a terrible announcement, but when she turned to him, her face was one of utter relief.

She breathed a wet laugh, holding her hands to her chest as her eyes brimmed with tears. Gwayne felt breathless, hope and joy bursting in his chest as she spoke.

"You shall need your armor again, Ser Gwayne. The Prince Regent is calling an assembly in the Throne Room," she announced, and he couldn't have been less surprised. "It is all but a coup, my good ser."

"Long live King Aemond," he murmured as she picked up his sheathed sword and handed it to him, their fingers tangling over the engraved pommel.

Dividers by @/saradika

Beta read by the wonderful @arcielee, thank you so much ♡♡

Please reblog to show love. Comment to be added to the taglist.

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

@caterina-caterina @oldtowrs @targaryenswhxre @tabiitha @lothiriel9

@thenameswinter99 @maeriontargaryen @peachysunrize

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Jace + fearing for his mother's life House of the Dragon | 2.04 "The Red Dragon and the Gold"

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osha asking qimir/the stranger to weld her a cortosis arm bracer & he immediately rummages in his pocket & produces the teeniest tiniest bracer you ever saw. a layman might even call it a ring

qimir: this bracer is to wear on your ring finger. since that's what you most often use to block lightsaber strikes

osha:

qimir: don't make it weird, i have one too, it's strictly utilitarian, & NO it's not that they each have half of an interlocking heart, that shape is a person whose skull has been caved in it's clearly an intimidation tactic WHY are you insisting on interpreting this as romantic??

osha:

qimir: jesus fine you've worn me down i GUESS i'll marry you since you're clearly so hung up on it. don't worry i already sent out the invitations

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The urge to write fanfiction about my drs is strong...

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I LOVE DAEMON <3 he's so silly

The shortest marriage tour

summary: requested; Your mother had decided that you must find a husband and so she set you out on a tour to go to the different regions of the kingdom and seek out a husband. Though nobody will approach you with your father looming not even two steps behind you. You fear there is no hope until you reach house blackwood and meet the only son of samwell blackwood.

fancast!benjicot blackwood x reader

w.c: 3.8k

c.w: fluff ! history of house blackwood (could be inaccurate based off wiki), crazy ben for like two seconds, father daemon, more fluff, not proofread

a.n: hbo you will never stop me from writing this man he may be dead to you but to me he is alive and well as my benjicot fancast !

benjicot taglist: @spider-stark

the carriage is silent. the only sounds are the wheels turning against the soil and the occasionally sounds fabric as the two of readjust in your seats.

It had only been the first stop and it had been awful. It was supposed to be a marriage tour, where you would meet every eligible man in the six kingdoms but it instead felt you a much too long father daughter trip. He breathed down your neck not a single man would approach you unless you, with your father not too far behind, approached them and even then it never went well.

You have no clue why your mother even allowed him to come, maybe she didnt he just forced himself on this trip. You had thought your brother jace would accompany you but you worried that might be even worse than daemon and you expressed that to your mother, you did not think that would mean your father would wiggle his way into leave dragonstone and trailing around westeros with you.

You look out the window and notice its dark, very dark out. You would certainly not make it to your next stop until morning. “I told you we should have just waited until the next morning.” You scoff and glare at him. “And have to watch for yet another evening as all those people shit themselves whenever you speak? i apologize for not wishing to stay.” “they were never going to shit them themselves, maybe pee a little.” “is that not the same?” “no shit is much worse.”

Your father sits up and knocks on the roof of the carriage. “What house is the closest to us now?” “House blackwood my prince.” Your father contemplates for a moment before he nods to himself. “then we shall head there, you shall run in and inform them of us staying for the night.” “Of course my prince.” you grip into the walls as the carriage harshly turns and glare at your fathers pleased look. “oh what now?” “you are annoying.” He laughs.

You knew next to nothing about the blackwoods other than their infamous hatred for the brackens. You cannot help but agree with them for when you once met one of the bracken men he had tried to hit on you and it did not go over well. You hoped tonight would be quick and easy so you can slip out easy in the morning and get on your marry way.

It is not that you wanted to marry some lord certainly not, you simply wished to return home and finding the first man to even so much as not make you grimace with every word he speaks will be good enough for you. Even if your visit home will be short lived as your sure a wedding is to come soon after and you would have to relocate to your forever home. The more you thought about it the sicker you got so you pushed down your thoughts as the carriage stops.

Your father walks out of the carriage and helps you out. You take a look around, there was so much greenery, a huge field of grass and when you take a couple steps closer you can see some barns out in the distance. The castle itself was much more impressive then you had been expecting, you find yourself unable to look away from the white branches of the weirwood tree. The guard ran back out to the two of you, “The blackwoods would be more than happy to host you.” “Of course they would.” You slap your father on the arm, “May you please be a little nicer this evening.” he pouts at you before strolling off towards the doors and you close your eyes and take a deep breath before you follow after him, hopeful he is not too much of a pain in your ass.

You are led in by a couple guards and you almost crash into a maid who is running by, she quickly apologizes to you before running away. “Why is everyone in a rush?” “Well when the fucking prince shows up and says he wishes to stay for the night well past the time any reasonable person would be awake whatever are they supposed to do.” your father flashes you a blank look but you just grin at him and continue moving about the hall until you are in the main room. .

You’re sure the older man is samwell blackwood lord of the house but the face that catches your attention is the boy standing next to him. He was very pretty, even in the darkness of the room you thought he was very handsome and cup your hands together in front of you as you look straight ahead with a small grin on your face. “Welcome, it is an honor to host you prince and princess.” You nod while you father merely looks around the room. Samwell gestures towards the boy next to him who meekly steps forward, “My son, benjicot.” The boy bows and his eyes find yours already looking at him and his face grows red, “Hello.” He scratches the back of his head as he lets out an awkward smile.

“What type of name is be-” your father does not get to finish his words as your heel slams down onto his foot and he curses as he turns around, leaning down to grab at his legs. You do not acknowledge him simply stepping forward while the two men look back and forth between you and daemon. “It is wonderful to meet you both. I apologize for my fathers sudden intrusion of your home,” You father turns back to hiss at you, “Did you have to do it with you heel?” You ignore him and continue to keep your eyes on the two men, “If only my father was a better planner.” “I think you cut off my toe.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms.

“Even if i did i would be doing you a favor your feet are horrendous.” “My feet are just fine.” “That is not what maid mary thinks. You had asked her to massage your feet one day and when she walked out of your chambers she gagged and held her hands far away from her as if she was holding horse shit.” You father looks at you horrified, “That is not true.” You shrug and chuckle to yourself as you think back on the day.

Samwell weakly laughs and claps his hands together before he speaks to you. “It is no issue princess do not fret. Please if there is anything i could do for either of you while you are here just let me know.” You can’t but glance at benjicot again and he is already looking at you. His eyes widen slightly as he sees you looking at him and he looks down at the ground, the tips of ears bright red. The grin on your face only grows, you wanted to talk to him but with your father by your side you are sure to not get anywhere.

“what about dinner?” you glare at your father, “do not listen to him it is far too late and he is terribly impolite,” samwell gestures to the maids who scurry off, “nonsense you must be starving, we shall cooking you up something.” An idea pops into your head and you grin to yourself. You look at your father who narrows his eyes at your face. “My father on the road was just telling me hes been dying for a good drink and a good drinking buddy.”

You slap your father on the back and he lets out a laugh as he tries to hide the confusion on his face. Samwell lights up at your words, “Well why dont we have a drink before dinner, our cellars are wonderful we have a dinning room just this way.” Daemon nods but he glares at you as he walks by and heads to samwell’s side who looks to benjicot, “Keep the princess company son.” Daemons eyes widen as he looks between the two of you, your plan becoming quite clear to him. Yet he gets the chance to say nothing as samwell basically drags him off and you send him away with a smile.

Letting out a sigh of relief you turn towards benjicot who smiles at you, “Gods i thought he would never leave.” He lets out an awkward laugh, unsure of what to say to you as you step closer to him. He rocks back and forth on his heels awkwardly but his eyes can seem to stray from your face for too long. You liked him you cant stop the real smile from growing on your face as you look at him.

You are however aware of the numerous eyes in the room that are on you, from maids to squires everyone is glancing at the two of you. “Could you show me around your lands? i know it is dark but i was so fascinated by it.” He eagerly nods, “Of course princess it would be an honor.” He offers you his arm and you take it, “Please call me something other than princess i cannot stand to hear it any longer.” “I could not princess.” You hum and bat your eyes at him and he turns away from you, “What about my lady then?” He smiles to himself and nods lightly. “If you say so, my lady.”

You like the way his words roll off his tongue too much and turn away from him as you feel your skin heat. The cools summer night air hits your skin and you admire the lands before you. You immediately stire the two of you to the weirwood tree and he chuckles. “i take it you like the weirwood tree my lady.” you look upon the crows resting on the tree in fascination. “not like i love it it is glorious. is there a reason they sit upon the tree?”

“not one that we know of my lady. they have been resting there every night for thousands of years now.” you hum as one of the ravens looks at you, you cant help your curiosity get the better of you ask you begin to ask him numerous questions about his family’s house, why had you never studied house blackwood before? “i thought weirwood was only in the north.” “house blackwood used to be in the north my lady until my ancestors were driven out of the wolfswood.”

“its fascinating. Does your family have any historical texts here?” He looks surprised at your question but nods, “of course my lady.” “will you allow me to borrow them? i shall return them of course.” its also an excuse to see you again. the words die on your tongue as much as your throat itches to release it. “You are free to keep them my lady.” “no no i could never.” he opens his mouth to argue but with a pointed look from you he turns away and his face grows red again. “Then you are free to borrow them my lady.”

You turn away from the tree pleased and the two of you walk out to the long field of grass, you look and see the small river that lines the land. Your eyes drift off to the windmill in the distance. The land was so peaceful with little firefly's lighting the land before you. “it’s beautiful.” “yes…” you turn to him and he is not looking at the view but his staring at you. you raise a brow at him, “you are not even looking at it.” a small smirk grows on his face, “i am actually. quite the view in front of me.”

You huff and turn away again your eyes catch the large rocks that draw a line between the two huge fields of grass. “is there a reason those rocks are there?” He stiffens and his voice is a lot more stiff when he speaks, “the other side is bracken land.” you tilt your head, “why do you not just, build a fence or something.” He laughs and shakes his head, “it is not so simply my lady, that requires material and funds we do not have.” “you have not brought it up with the king?” he shrugs, “my grandfather tried many years ago but they dismissed the matter to lord tully who turns a blind eye too it. pricks.” the last words is only muttered from his lips but you catch it anyway. “do you really need such a thing?” “maybe we would not if the brackens were not such-“ he stops himself as if remembering whos hes speaking to and composes himself, “They eat our grass, their cows”

You laugh out loud, so loudly you cover your mouth to hold in the sound. “it is no laughing matter my lady.” he says but he laughs while he speaks. You compose yourself and wipe your eye. “and what is the difference between the two grasses.” he looks at you as if you had said something scandalous, maybe you had. “our grass is much better than theres my lady.” “it does not look any different to me.”

He laughs but the smile slowly slips off his face as he continues to think. You take the moment to admire his face as he stares off into the distance, keeping every freckle and every mark in your memory. “they poisoned the tree.” you almost ask him what tree hes referring to until it clicks. “the weirwood tree.” He nods but does not look at you, continuing to glance out into the distance.

Everything suddenly makes sense, the generational rivalry stems from the tree. from the looks of it it looks as if the tree has been dead for a very long time. They hated them because they poisoned the weirwood tree.

“i shall bring it up with my grandsire.” he turns to you in confusion. “there shall be a wall built. I will see to it myself if i have to.” “you do not need to go to such lengths my lady-“ “consider it already done.”

you are already formulating in your head the letters you will send out to the tullys and your grandsire. Maybe it is better you see them in person, your father would not argue if you wish to head to house tully if anything you believe it to be a stop on your tour.

The look on his face is unreadable, but the two of you hold each others gaze for a while before he speaks. “you are very kind my lady.” His words are soft and you suddenly find yourself wanting to be closer to him if that was even possible. He eyes trail down to your lips and he looks back up at you.

The clanging of a bell suddenly snaps the two of you out of whatever trance you had been in and your head whip towards the castle. “dinner,,,” He turns to you and your stomach rumbles. You were not even thinking about food two seconds ago but he walks you back to the castle in silence and you cannot help but keep your mind on him.

He sits across from you at dinner though he does not eat anything while you sit next to your father who is as drunk as ever. Perfect. He was certainly not going to wake up until late into the afternoon especially since you would be going to bed late you even think he may not wake until the sun begins to set tomorrow.

You say nothing more to benjicot that night but the glances you steal say more than enough words.

You awake the next day much earlier than you had expected thought it is certainly still late normally you would be eating lunch by now. As if on que a maid walks into the room and brings you some lunch, you ask of your father and she states he still asleep, quickly shaking your head when she asks if you would like to wake him and tell her if anything nobody is to disturb him before being dismissed.

After lunch you roam around the halls a bit mindlessly looking for benjicot yet you happen to stumble upon his father instead who happily greets you. “good day lord blackwood, if you do not mind informing me where you son is?” A large knowing grin finds its way onto his face as he gestures outside. “he is out training princess. You should see him in the field.” You nod and say a quick goodbye before rushing outside. Samwell turns to one of his squires, “what did you say they were traveling around for again?” “the princesses marriage tour my lord.” samwell leans back into his seat, “well lets pray to the gods she likes my son.”

You find him rather quickly but freeze as you come upon him. You had no clue who the other boys were but you find yourself unable to take your eyes off benjicot. Was this truly the boy who could barely look you in the eye yesterday? He looked more like a rabid wolf, a feral grin on his face as he bested his peers with ease.

You have never seen a man act like him before and you liked it, maybe a little too much. Unable to stop the churning of your stomach as you can faint hear him laugh and it sounds a little sadistic. You should not be as, whatever you were feeling, right now as you are.

“i like him.” You jump as your father suddenly stands next to you and watches the boys with a devious grin. “what?” “pick that one i like him, he’ll fit right in.” You shakily laugh though the thought had crossed your mind in the couple hours youve been here more than once. “you’re crazy.”

The two of you stand in silence for a bit watching the boys practice but you cant even focus on them as your mind races. “would it truly be alright?” your father turns to you but you keep your gaze on benjicot. “if i picked him.”

a comforting hand is places on your shoulder “you are free to do whatever you wish to, it is your choice to make.”

One of the boys suddenly turns to you and his eyes widen as he quickly whispers in benjicot ear who whips around to look at you. “looks like weve been caught.”

The boys make their way over to you two and bow, “good day princess, my prince, we are so sorry we did not see you.” daemon laughs, “oh do not stop on our account please.”

You ignore your father and greet them anyway, you face hot from your earlier thoughts as you come face to face with benjicot. “good day benjicot and,, company?” The men at his sides introduce themselves as tully’s oscar and kermit, who you greet with a nod. “and please, call me ben, benny, benji, just not benjicot whatever you wish.” he stumbles over his words and you smile and let our a small laugh. “alright ben.” He smiles happily and kermit slaps his back causing ben to glare at him.

“does that offer extend to me or does it only apply to the pretty pretty princess.” Ben stumbles as he assures daemon he could do the same and daemon looks to you with raised brows pleased ben folds to his words, “i told you i like this one.” You roll your eyes as the three boys look amongst themselves with confusion but oscar grins.

You suddenly grow confident with you choices and turn back to walk into the castle, “i will be back.” The four men watch you walk away. Daemons smile grows on his face as he places a hand on benjicots shoulder. “good job boy.” Ben is more confused than ever but nods anyways and lets out a small thank you that ends with a question mark. Daemon suddenly starts asking him about his training and that easily distracts ben who spurs on about his youth.

You find samwell again rather easily who perks up at your arrival. “Did you need something princess?” He looks eager for your words, like he is on the edge of his seat but you do not notice. “would you accept if i asked for your sons hand?”

He quickly stands and you take a step back in surprise, “of course! yes yes i mean absolutely i would be more than happy for you to marry my son!” he grabs your hands and shakes your hand wildly. You did not think such a thing would be so simple as that and watch as he asks for a maid to fetch his son.

You cant help but laugh at the ridiculousness of this all. The way he was rambling off to his squire asking for letters to be sent out to his sister and the tullys. The way the maids can only watch this all go down in amazement. Benjicot soon comes into the room and is shocked when samwell walks over and grabs his face pressing a big kiss into his sons forehead. “what is going on?” You see your father walk into the room and he looks more than pleased as you roll your eyes at him.

samwell does not answer his son as he speaks, “i knew you were destined for greatness my son this is a joyous day. His eyes find yours and they widen as samwell walks off towards your father and the two of them begin discussing things you’re sure are about a wedding. “my lady?” you turn back to ben and smile at him. “i apologize for not asking you first but,,” you trail off and it suddenly clicks in his head. His face grows bright red and he opens and closes his mouth like a fish unable to speak. “my lady,,” His friends suddenly clap him on the back, “good work benny.” He looks down at the ground as a grin grows on his face and he looks back up at you.

“truly?” you shrug and walk closer to him, placing a kiss on his cheek. “truly. if it pleases you.”

He laughs as if you had said the funniest joke, “it more than pleases me my lady.” you did not think this would truly go so well. What would your mother think? you had heard her tour lasted months and even then that was because she cut it short but you think she would be pleased knowing you had succeed in less than a months time.

---

I feel like people forget how Tom Riddle was in his Hogwarts years. I always see him being portrayed as cold and unapproachable in fics, when I believe it's canon that during his years at Hogwarts he was basically like a casanova with everyone absolutely adoring him because he was so good at pretending to be kind and charming. He was head boy, had the best grades, 'friends' with the popular Slytherins, I bet ladies flocked to him.

Bro was the ultimate golden boy

---

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon. 

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves. 

It was she who broke the silence. 

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then. 

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight. 

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze. 

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me. 

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have. 

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today. 

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it. 

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping, 

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke. 

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead. 

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing. 

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too. 

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness. 

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will. 

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting. 

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her. 

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it. 

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye. 

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire. 

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.  

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive. 

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced. 

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth. 

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction. 

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud. 

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face. 

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should. 

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me. 

Fix me. 

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond 

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now. 

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this. 

I loved you. 

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.