I’m Always Pushing You Away From Me / But You Come Back With Gravity / And When I Call, You Come Home

if you can't take it (then get back) | j.v

summary:

“You sound surprised.”

“I just…” you paused, struggling to find the right words to convey what you were trying to say without outright insulting her heir. But Rhaenyra only chuckled, giving a slight nod, understanding.

“He has been rude to you, hasn’t he?”

OR; Your first meeting of the Crown Princes leaves much to be desired.

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x reader

warnings: jace is a classist guys, idk what to tell you, minimal violence, reader is a dragonseed but no descriptors were used <3 also OBVIOUSLY jace and baela are not betrothed in this fic

word count: 3,9k

author's note: yo to the anon who requested this like a bajillion years ago… i’m sorry it took me so long😔 thanks to my lil goblin master @eldrith for beta reading and being the best sister wife ever🫵🏼🧌

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"Silverwing. What a beautiful name,” you whispered as you gently stroked your dragon’s snout, Silverwing pressing into your hand as you stood in the middle of the meadow in your new dress.

When you had gone into the forest to pick flowers for your mother’s grave, the last thing you had expected was to leave said forest on dragonback, soaring through the skies, a dream come true. It hadn’t taken long before another dragon quickly joined your sides, its rider introducing himself as Addam of Hull, telling you to follow him to Dragonstone.

Before long, you had pledged your loyalty to Queen Rhaenyra and were offered a place to sleep, a position by her side. Only two nights prior, you had been slaving away at a small tavern on Driftmark, not knowing if you’d something to eat, now you’d never go to bed hungry again.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful dragon.”

“She doesn’t understand you.”

You whirled around, only to see Prince Jacaerys stalk his way up to you, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

“My Prince,” you uttered, curtsying. You had heard great things about Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and you felt giddy to be fighting alongside him for his mother.

Jacaerys came to a stop next to you, giving you a glare before he turned to Silverwing. You took a pause, not having expected to be rejected so brazenly, but you swallowed your pride, turning to Silverwing.

“She’s a beauty, is she not?”

You looked at Jacaerys only to see him roll his eyes and you felt a flash of irritation.

“She doesn’t understand you,” he repeated, as if you were hard of hearing. “We speak to dragons in High Valyrian.”

“Oh, Her Grace had mentioned that, but unfortunately I have not gotten around to-“

“Soves, Silverwing.”

Jacaerys seemed unperturbed as he interrupted you rudely, leaving you at a loss for words. Silverwing let out a growl, pushing her snout against your hand one last time before flapping her wings and taking to the skies. You watched as she danced through the sky, a look of awe on your face before you turned back to the Prince, a heavy weight settling in your chest. You took a deep breath, collecting yourself. Surely you were reading this whole conversation wrong. From what you have heard, the crown prince was an exceptional man and no one had ever uttered a bad word about him, or held any grievances.

“I apologize my Prince, if I somehow offended you.”

Jacaerys let out a laugh, but it held no warmth.

“You can refer to pure theft as an offense, yes.”

“Theft?” You echoed, confused. “You must have mistaken me, I am not a thief, I’m-“

“I know exactly who you are,” Jacaerys sniped. “You stole a dragon of House Targaryen.”

Aye, it seemed like you read the conversation exactly right.

“I did not steal Silverwing. I claimed her- she claimed me.”

“She claimed you,” Jacaerys repeated with a scoff. “You are a common born girl, not fit to be a dragon rider.”

Every ounce of grace and manner left your body at the tone of his voice, your eyes sparkling with fury.

“Pardon?”

“It is not your place to claim a dragon,” he hissed out and you sneered at him.

“Oh, my apologies, my Prince,” you exclaimed, voice so biting it was dripping with vitriol as you bowed your head “I did not mean to step on your toes. Let me just unclaim the dragon!”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes at you, his annoyance clear as day.

“That shows how much understanding you truly lack,” he said and you groaned, throwing your hands in the air.

“I know dragons cannot be unclaimed, I was trying to make a point!”

Jacaerys scoffed, turning his head away. He looked at Silverwing flying in the skies before he turned back to you.

“You kid yourself thinking this gives you any meaning to your life.”

You let out a breath of disbelief, your lips parted in shock. You had heard a lot of insulting words in the years of your life, but never have they been so belittling.

“You do not understand the meaning of claiming a dragon, nor do you deserve it,” Jacaerys bit out, continuing. “You will never live up to the worth of a dragonrider. You are merely a tool in a war you have no control over. You’re a commoner, a lowborn,” he said, his face contorted in anger, stepping closer to you. “A mongrel.”

SMACK!!

Your hand slapped across his face, a reaction to his words that was mostly reflex than anything else, and your eyes widened in shock as as you had realized what just happened, a gasp escaping your lips as you reeled back.

Fuck, did you really just slap the Crown Prince of the Seven Realms across the face like a common beggar?

Jacaerys’ hand flew to his reddened cheek, his lips parted as you stared at each other in shock. You were frozen, not daring to move, fearing the Kingsguard would step out of the shadows any moment to strike you down in retaliation.

When you realized that no knight would come, you spared one glance at Jacaerys before turning to leave, quickly fleeing the scene of the crime.

You had retreated into your chambers after the absolute horror of a first impression. Not even Addam’s invitation for supper had beckoned you out of the room; you were sick to the stomach imagining what kind of punishment Jacaerys was planning.

The glass on the window was cool against your forehead. You had sought refuge at the small nook, your eyes in the sky, watching Silverwing fly through the skies, longing in your chest. Feeling the wind in your hair would make you feel better, you had no doubt, but you didn’t want to anger the Prince even further. A knock on the door made you startle, and with a small sigh, you went to open it. Ser Erryk was stood in front of your chambers, inclining his head.

“My lady,” he said. “The Queen has asked to see you.”

Fear ran down your back at his words. It happened. Prince Jacaerys told her that you had laid your hands on him and she was about to cast you out.

This was too good to be true anyway, it was bound to end. You had always known your temper would be your ruin. You’d just assumed it would be a patron in the tavern striking you down for cursing him out, not the Queen taking your head because you put your hands on her heir.

As you followed the Ser Erryk to the Queen’s study, you wondered how she would end your life. Make Silverwing eat you alive? Burn you? Take your head with a sword? All the options made your insides crawl, and you tried to form some sort of coherent apology in your head, but not a single one seemed sufficient.

As you paused in the door way of the study, Ser Erryk announced you, before leaving. You curtsied, your head low. Queen Rhaenyra gave you a smile, extending her hand to the empty chair in front of her.

“Please, sit.”

Her behavior confused you, you had imagined her angry, furious even. Maybe she was trying to lull you into a false sense of security before putting you in chains. Nervously, you took a seat, dropping your hands in your lap.

“How have you been faring?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice soft. “I couldn’t help but notice you have withdrawn yourself to the chambers.”

You bit down on your lips, unsure on what to say; you knew it was rude not to speak when asked a question, especially by the queen, and you were desperately trying to come up with words, any at this point, but your mind was blank.

“I thought you would be dragonback. Jace has told me you have a formidable connection to Silverwing.”

Your eyes snapped up at her words, your blood chilling.

“He has?”

Was that before or after you slapped him?

Rhanyra smiled at you, her eyes crinkling. “You sound surprised.”

“I just…” you paused, struggling to find the right words to convey what you were trying to say without outright insulting her heir. But Rhaenyra only chuckled, giving a slight nod, understanding.

“He has been rude to you, hasn’t he?”

You lifted your eyes to meet her gaze, your silence answer enough and Rhaenyra sighed softly, laying her hand on yours.

“I hope you can excuse the Prince’s unwelcoming behavior. The war is a heavy toll and he has taken it upon himself to shoulder most of the responsibilities.”

Your lips parted in surprise and you leaned back in your chair, giving a demure nod.

“Of course your Grace,” you said softly. “I cannot imagine what the Prince has been going through”

“I hope his words will not hold you back from further strengthening the bond with your mount,” Rhaenyra continued. “It is of utmost importance that you study as much of what the grandmaester can teach you.”

Ducking your head, you nodded and Rhaenyra pulled her hand back, effectively dismissing you. The chair scraped against the stone floor as you stood and Rhaenyra turned from you to look outside, the skies blue.

“I have been told this time of day is perfect for riding.”

You curtsied, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of your dress as you exited the study, suddenly energized after having talked to the Queen. Your feet automatically carried you back into your chambers, but instead of returning to wallowing, you pulled your riding gear out of the closet, unlacing your dress. With quick strides, you walked down to the dragonmount and within moments, you were on Silverwing’s back, soaring through the air.

The wind in your hair was exhilarating, just as you had imagined, and it seemed like all the burden was lifting off your shoulders the longer you were in the skies. You leaned down, brushing your gloved hands against Silverwing’s neck when she let out a snarl, suddenly changing her directions. Puzzled, you peered forward, trying to see what caught her attentions when you saw a smaller dragon at the edge of the island of Driftmark. Its scales were green, a burnt orange and your chest tightened a little when you recognized it as Vermax, Jacaerys’ mount. Letting out a small sigh, you tightened Silverwing’s reigns, pushing your legs into her side, urging her downwards. Before long, Silverwing landed on the soft grass, spreading her wings so you could climb down. Your landing on the ground was anything but graceful, still not quite used to getting off tall heights but if Jacaerys had noticed, he had the courtesy not to comment on it.

Tugging your gloves off, you slowly approached Jacaerys. He was overlooking the harbor of Driftmark. You had never seen it so crowded, with ships and people alike. Nervously, you glanced over to him. Apologies had never come easy to you.

“Good day to ride.”

You regretted your words as soon as they passed your lips, wincing. Out of every words you knew, you chose to say that? Jacaerys shifted on his feet next to you, turning his head slightly.

“Aye.”

He did not speak more, but you found yourself unable to blame him. You just struck him across the face a day ago and now you were talking about the weather? Behind you, Silverwing was growing restless, stretching her wings with a whine as Vermax eyed her, letting out a rumbling growl. An uncomfortable silence settled over you and Jacaerys, and you wrung your hands.

“I was out of line-“ “I apologize for-“

The both of you started at the same time, before stopping again. Your eyes met his briefly, your cheeks flushing.

“Please, you go ahead,” you said quickly him but Jacaerys shook his head.

“No, I fell into your word.”

“I insist, my Prince.”

Jacaerys paused at the honorific, before he nodded, his gaze trained at the ground. He let out a deep breath, raising his head again. “I am sorry for lashing out at you. I regret my words deeply. They came from a place of anger, not honesty.”

You blinked at him, stunned. An apology was the last thing you had expected to come out of the Prince’s mouth. He had no reason to apologize to you, you were of lower rank. Something you had thought he would hold over you.

“Anger… Towards me?”

Jacaerys laughed dryly, shaking his head. “Not truly, no… You had no hand in your parentage, I cannot fault you for that,” he paused, turning his head away, blinking quickly. “And I cannot fault myself for that, either.”

He seemed lost in thought, and you weren’t quite sure what he was insinuating, but you decided against pressing the matter. The atmosphere was still fragile, you didn’t want to risk overstepping.

“I am sorry I struck you,” you said, glancing at him. The cheek you had struck still bore a faint red, which was not surprising, as Jacaerys had fairly pale skin, apart from the small freckles dusted across his nose. He was quite beautiful when he wasn’t yelling at you.

“Oh,” Jacaerys chuckled, his finger brushing over his cheek, like he had forgotten about it. “I guess I deserved that. I called you some… Less than savory things.”

“Still… I’m sorry.”

“You have the temper of a dragon.”

You couldn’t help but blurt out a laugh, quickly covering your mouth. Jacaerys gave you a boyish grin, so different to the Prince you had met the day before.

This.

This is who you had been expecting.

“I could say the same about you.”

“I guess fire and blood runs through both of our veins,” Jacaerys said and you glanced at him, a look of understanding passing through the both of you, your dragons behind you settling down.

“Lykirī, not lykiri.”

“That’s what I said.”

You were sitting on the floor of the library, your back leaning against the bookshelf. Several books on High Valyrian were scattered on the floor around you and if Grandmaester Gerardys were here, he’d keel over and die immediately.

But he wasn’t here. It was just Jace.

Jace.

It was maddening to think that only a moon turn ago you had struck him across the face and now you were sitting together like old friends.

“That is not what you said and you know it,” Jace mused, his hair falling into his eyes as he leaned over a book, before handing it over to you. “Here.”

Your finger tips brushed when you took the book from him and you try to not let it affect you as much as you poured over the book, even thought it felt like his touch left a scorching mark on your skin.

It would be most unwise to let affection distract you, least of all now and least of all for someone like him. Who knew what may come to pass by the next moon or even the morrow? Even if the war’s end should come, the Queen would never allow you near him. You may serve as one of her dragonriders, but you were far from worthy to even be considered as the lady wife of her heir.

“Lyckiri,” you tried again and Jace groaned, leaning his head back against the wall.

“That was worse than before!”

“Ugh,” you whined, closing the massive book with a thud. “I have been studying since we broke fast this morning. I am unable to learn any more words.”

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Is that allowed?” you asked and Jace only quirked a grin at you, getting to his feet.

“I’m the crown prince,” he replied, offering you his hand. “Surely no one would take issue with me?”

Rolling your eyes, you took his hand, letting him help you up. The two of you languidly walked outside the library and you could feel the tension seeping from your limbs as soon as the first rays of sunshine hit your skin. You let out a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut and you stretched your arms out. Jace was chuckling next to you, and when you peered an eye open at him, he was watching you bemusedly.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” you sighed softly, wiggling your fingers at him. “You cannot tell me you don’t enjoy the sun and the fresh air, my Prince.”

He quirked a grin at you, dipping his head. “You don’t have to be so formal when it is just the two of us,” he said gently. “You can call me by my given name, if you wish.”

“Me, a low born calling the crown Prince by his given name? What would the council think?” you jested and Jace snorted, very unprincely.

“But,” you started, your voice softer. “Thank you, Jace.”

Jace smiled at youtaking a breath, before exhaling.

“Listen-“

“… is that a dragon?”

Jace whirled around into the direction you were facing, peering into the sky. The sun was shining directly into your eyes, and you squinted them, surely it cannot be a dragon. It was too small. Beside you, Jace blanched, the color draining out of his face.

“That’s Stormcloud. Aegon’s dragon.”

The small dragon seemed exhausted, his wings flapping slowly in the air, almost as if it was dragging itself to the earth of the island, until it finally landed, the small boy ontop of him clambering down. His hair was a stark blonde, one of Jace’s younger brothers.

“Jace!”

“Aegon?”

Jace sprinted towards his younger brother, who met him halfway, taking the boy into his arms.

“What happened? Where’s Viserys?”

Aegon’s eyes filled with tears, and he was tripping over his words as he tried to explain. Your heart ached for him.

“There were ships. They attacked us. I only managed to flee because of Stormcloud. Viserys-“

The blonde boy hid his face in his chest, his small body racking with sobs and Jace wrapped his arms tightly around his brother, his wide eyes flickering to you.

“I-“

“Go,” you urged him. “You have to find your mother.”

With a curt nod, though hesitant, Jace walked back into the Keep with his brother in his arms, leaving you standing in the grass while the dragonkeepers took care of Stormcloud, who seemed content enough to curl up on the warm grass. You didn’t want to imagine what the young dragon and his rider had been through, Aegon seemed inconsolable.

It was much later when you found Jace again, his shoulders tense and his strides quick. His forehead was creased in a frown, his eyes unfocused, so much that he jumped when you touched his arm gently.

“Is everything alright?” you asked him, voice soft.

Jace shook his head, his face pained, eyes wet with unshed tears.

“The Triarchy. Their fleet attacked the ship Aegon and Viserys were on while they were traveling on the Gullet. They have Viserys.”

“What?”

Jace sniffed, turning away from you, his head held high. You wanted to offer him comfort, at the same time, you didn’t want to overstep, so you wrapped your arms around yourself, letting Jace compose himself. He exhaled deeply, before letting out an annoyed growl, shaking his head.

“I have to go.”

Go?

“You can’t possibly mean the Gullet.”

“What else would I mean?” Jace snapped at you; and for the first time since you have made up with him, he reminded you of the Prince that had made you feel so small in the beginning. You knew his anger wasn’t directed at you, but you took a step back, mostly out of impulse. Jace took notice, sighing softly and his shoulders deflated.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to raise my voice at you,” he said quietly. You nodded, swallowing thickly, freezing when Jace reached out to take your hands.

“There has to be something I can do. It’s my brother,” He said, his voice breaking and his grip tightened briefly. “I can’t lose another.”

“What if I go?” you blurted out; Jace looked appalled at your suggestion. You paused, before sighing. “Me and the other dragonseeds. We should go.”

Your own words terrified you, even though you knew it was the smartest decision. Neither Rhaenyra nor Jace could go, the future of the realm laid on their shoulders. You and the other dragonriders were expendable and you knew that, but Jace still seemed hesitant.

“Let me go. I’m sure her Grace will agree,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m merely a tool in a war I have no control over, remember?”

Jace couldn’t help but let out a laugh at you using his own words against him, shaking his head.

“This is why her Grace brought us in, let us do this.”

You knew you had persuaded him already, his eyes downcast, focused on your hands.

“You can’t even say lykirī.”

His voice was quiet when he spoke again, but there was a faint smile on his lips, so you rolled your eyes with a laugh.

“Lykirī,” you said, the word suddenly rolling off your tongue easily. “You happy now?”

Jace agreed reluctantly with a small nod, and you squeezed his hand one last time, before letting go, your skin missing the warmth his hands were providing.

“Be careful, don’t fly too low,” Rhaenyra said, her arms clasped. Her voice was even, but you could tell that she was tense, fearing for her son’s life. “I am grateful for your service.”

She looked at all the dragonseeds, before nodding her head, turning on her heel to leave the dragonmount, but Jace lingered behind. Addam was the first to mount Seasmoke, then Hugh. As the dragonkeepers beckoned you forward, you called out for Silverwing. You glanced back at Jace, who was already looking at you and you swallowed thickly, pressing your lips together. What if this was the last time you’d ever get to see him?

Silverwing let out a small grumble as she settled against the dock. You took a step towards her, hesitantly, before you turned on your heel, running towards Jace.

“What’s wro-?”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his words as you cut him off by pressing your lips against his and he stilled in shock before he wrapped his arms around you, deepening the kiss. Silverwing let out a deafening growl and you pulled away, your cheeks red.

“I-”

“Don’t,” Jace said, inhaling sharply. “Tell me when you come back.”

You wanted to protest, but the look on his face made you swallowed your words. With a last squeeze of his hand you stepped away from him, mounting Silverwing.

“Lykirī, Silverwing,” you said gently, as she whined softly. “I’m sorry. Soves.”

Silverwing flew out of the dragonmount, and you barely managed to catch one last glimpse of Jace before you were in the skies, joining Hugh and Addam, the latter taking the lead. Despite riding the fiercest creatures on earth, you couldn’t help but feel dread all over. It didn’t ease the closer you got to Gullet, but you tried to stay strong as the cold winds whipped you in the face. Your stomach dropped when the clouds dissipated over the Gullet, revealing an entire fleet of hostile ships across the ocean.

Seven hells, you thought, your breath stocking in your throat, I should’ve told him.

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author’s note: sorry for the ambiguous ending😔pls leave some kindhearted feedback 🫵🏼🩵

[image ID: a four panel comic. The first reads: "Looking too feminine is kinda unsetteling to me..." said by a female ball. The second one reads: "But I still like to be adressed as a girl." said by a female ball. The third one reads: "Yet, I don't feel like a girl, at least not entirel-" said by a female ball. The fourth reads: "Oh." said by a bigender ball, with shatters of female laying around it. End of image ID]

Cooked. Ate. Devoured. Work of art. Masterpiece. I mean, what more can I say or want?

Twin Flames

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

As King's Landing awaits the arrival of Gwayne Hightower and his army, you recall your first impressions of the lover you last saw years ago

2.4k words Warnings: gets a little smutty so 18+, bit of angst but eventual fluff Notes: So...this will eventually have another part, but I've already let it run away from me so here, enjoy part one! Reader is from House Tarly but isn't described physically, I've noodled around with timelines and book plot (please forgive me), and no hate to Samantha Tarly but she made a convenient plot device. (Also, if you saw me add a missing 500 words to this approx 16 hours after I originally posted it, no you didn’t.) As always, please let me know what you think and thanks for reading!

Gently, you untangle the Dowager Queen’s auburn curls with a fine silver comb, preparing to arrange her hair in a complex pattern of braids for the day. A well-rehearsed dance now, after serving her these past four years.

As you help her fasten her necklace there’s a knock at the door, and a serving girl brings Alicent a small scroll of paper. “Just arrived with an outrider, your Grace,” she explains, bobbing into a curtsey before leaving. It’s secured with dark green wax, unmistakably a Hightower seal.

Alicent snaps it open and unfurls the message with a frantic urgency, eyes darting across it while she touches her hand to the seven pointed star pendant resting on her chest.

A small smile twitches across her face, her eyes meeting yours in the looking glass in front of her. “My brother sends word that he will arrive later today,” she says with a hint of relief. It’s the news you had expected and hoped for, but your nerves stirred. So long since you had seen him last.

“Excellent news, your Grace,” you reply, and smile encouragingly despite your sudden apprehension.

She reads the rest of the message. “He says he will be ready to leave here tomorrow once he and his host have rested a night.”

“So soon?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.

“Such are the times we find ourselves in,” she replies, clearly resigned to a short reunion with her brother. “Would you deliver this message to Ser Criston? He’ll need to prepare for tomorrow."

“Of course, your Grace.” You take the scroll from her outstretched hand and curtsey. Outside in the corridor, you chance a look at the fragment of parchment. Yes, it’s written in his hand. You briefly trace the familiar script with your fingers before making your way to the Kingsguard’s quarters.

The rest of the day is spent restlessly, pacing the castle’s halls in between your duties to the Dowager Queen, while avoiding Ser Criston Cole’s soldiers as they prepare to leave for Harrenhal. The sun starts to set, the Red Keep bathed in orange and then pink light.

After a small supper with Alicent, you finally settle in a window seat, watching the men prepare in the courtyard below for their departure. All turns quiet once or twice as Vhagar’s monstrous wings beat overheard and her shadow covers the Keep, although her presence seems to bring little security or comfort now.

Agitated, your mind runs to memories of another time.

…

You remember arriving in Oldtown for your sister’s wedding, the strange Hightower and its flaming beacon, the smell of the sea and din of the harbour. Samantha Tarly’s betrothal to Ormund Hightower was a great achievement, though he was a widower and she was barely older than his children. It mattered little to her, the prestige of marrying into one of Westeros’ oldest and richest houses quite enough to sweeten the deal.  

“There’s no need to be jealous, sister,” she whispered to you in the carriage as you approached the Hightower, “one day I shall find you almost as impressive a match.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” you replied, “I would prefer to know more about my husband than his name before I marry him.” Delighted by your reply, she laughed prettily and muttered, “so particular,” fanning herself to combat the smell of salt and fish from the markets.

The wedding was solemn, but the feast afterwards was lavish, and you quietly observed your sister and her new husband while speeches were made and toasts were drunk to the couple. The role of highborn wife suited Samantha, who preened and giggled under the attention.

After the feast there was dancing, and you dutifully took to the floor with your brother, then your new good-brother and his eldest son, and after that a score of eligible lordlings that Samantha sent your way. With each you made a little small talk about your journey and the festivities, and your new position in your sister’s household, but none secured a second dance.

Taking a moment to breathe after dancing with a lord older than your father, you took a cup of wine and attempted to disappear against a wide marble pillar. You pressed your back to it, feeling the cold smoothness beneath your hand, and wondered how much longer the celebration would go on.

“My Lady,” came a voice beside you, and you stifled a sigh before you turned to find a man about your age with copper hair and distinctive dark green clothes. “We have not been introduced- Gwayne Hightower, Lord Ormund’s cousin,” he offered with a shallow bow and a tight smile on his fine- featured face.

“Delighted,” you answered, studying his high cheekbones and full mouth, “you are Lord Otto’s son? And the Queen’s brother?”

“The very same,” he affirmed, “I hear you will be staying with us in Oldtown.”

“Indeed, I think the intention is that I help Lady Samantha to establish herself here with her new husband and step-children.”

Both of you looked towards where the children were gathered, the younger ones pinching each other and squabbling while Lyonel, the oldest, yawned. Gwayne snorted.

“Is something amusing, Ser?” you questioned.

“Not at all,” he said, taking a sip of his own wine, “I only wonder how suitable you will be as a nursemaid, you hardly look accustomed to wiping noses.”

In hindsight you blamed your fatigue and the challenges of the day, but his comment made you bristle. “I am not here to be their servant, Ser, and I do not think you know me well enough to assume what I am accustomed to.”

Your skin prickled as he looked you up and down, eyes half lidded. Dark eyes- were they brown? Or deep blue?

“Quite right, my apologies. I look forward to knowing you better in the coming weeks then, my Lady,” he replied, the final words laced with sarcasm.

“And I you, Ser,” you returned sharply, before he dismissed himself with another brief smile and a nod.

A few times that night, while you were caught in dances with men you later couldn't recall the names of, you saw him watching you across the room with a haughty expression, bordering on a smirk. You tried to ignore him and the unbidden butterflies inside you, and hoped you would have little to do with him in the approaching days.

…

You were not so lucky. The first weeks in Oldtown flew, so much to learn and see and do. But each time you accompanied Samantha and Ormund on a tour of the Starry Sept, or the Maester’s Citadel, or the city’s harbour, Gwayne was your assigned escort. He offered you his arm each time with the same arrogant smile.

You spoke a little, remarking on the architecture or the books or the goods arriving from far off ports. Every time he seemed surprised, as if he had expected you to be too ill-educated or provincial to understand such things. It exasperated you.

“You know, Horn Hill is not some country backwater, Ser,” you retorted once when he had near congratulated you on having heard of the cities across the Narrow Sea.

“Of course,” he answered smugly, “I have heard there is even a library there.” You silently ground your teeth to hold your tongue.

Returning late one evening from the city, you bid goodnight to your sister and began to climb the stairs to bed, eager to be away from Gwayne’s enormous ego for a few hours before tomorrow’s fresh ordeal. Ormund had other plans.

“It is late, Gwayne, see my good-sister safely to her room,” he commanded, dismissing your protests with a wave of his hand. So, you and Gwayne made your way to your chamber in uncomfortable silence, the click of your shoes and swish of your skirts the only sounds.

At your door, you opened it with relief to find the fire and candles lit for your return. You turned to dismiss Gwayne, but he simply stared at you, half amused, from the open door. “You have done your duty, Ser, you may go,” you said, but he continued to stare, infuriating as ever.

You removed your gloves, throwing them down onto your vanity impatiently. “I have no love for intrigues, if you have something to say to me then please, speak plainly.”

“You know, ever since our first conversation, I have hardly stopped thinking about you,” he said lazily.

“What?”

“You were beautiful, so I approached you that night to hear you laugh and see you blush at my flirting, but it was not so. You are not impressed or intimidated by me, and that both irritates and interests me. I want to understand you. And I still think you are beautiful, even though I have not yet been able to make you smile. Is that plain enough for you, my Lady?”

“I…am not accustomed to such attention,” you answered. You had no cutting reply this time.

“I am accustomed to attention,” he admitted, “but it is always such empty flattery that it bores me. I have no fear of that with you. There, now we understand a little more about one another.”

Then he reached out, his hand gently touched your cheek and then cradled your jaw. His eyes, you saw clearly then, were deepest, sapphire blue. And his lips, you discovered, were as soft as they looked, fitting perfectly against yours.

“And now we know a little more, still,” he muttered, hardly breaking the kiss. Three more times, he kissed you chastely, you answering more confidently each time. Finally, his tongue swept along your bottom lip and you met it instinctively with yours.

Holding your face with both hands, he angled the kiss to deepen it further, while your arms found their place around his neck. Only the sound of footsteps in the hall broke you apart, both breathless and with reddened lips. “Goodnight then, my Lady,” he said, loud enough for the passing servant to hear, “until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow”, you agreed, still a little stunned as he lifted your hand to his lips for a parting kiss. For the first time, you blushed and smiled for him.

…

From then, your life in Oldtown was quite different to anything you had known before.

His condescending manner softened a little after his confession and attaining a kiss, and you did not react so sharply to his taunts. He didn’t feel the need to respond in kind to your occasional barbs, and you found yourself clenching your fists less in his presence. He sought your individual company, and you found yourself often and willingly accepting his invitations.

You took your own tours of the city’s historic wonders and cosmopolitan delights, enjoying a little more freedom without your sister there to tut at things she considered improper. Honey cakes and exotic fruits from the market were enjoyed afterwards in the Hightower’s library- a place you were sure Samantha would never venture- and sugar and sweet juice were kissed from your lips.

As often as you could, you accompanied the boy children to their lessons with their sword master, feigning interest in embroidery or a book while the object of your attention was across the training yard. You committed to memory the way his shirt would cling to his back with sweat while he trained with his fellow knights, the glint of steel in contrast to the red gold of his hair. Winks and smirks sent your way on those afternoons inevitably left you flushing red and pressing your thighs together.

Once you had followed him at a distance back to the armory where he would leave his sword to be sharpened and change his clothes. He heard you behind him as you leant against the stone wall inside. “What is it you think about when you come to watch me train? I’ll wager you couldn’t tell me what’s happening in that book,” he guessed, accurately, raising an eyebrow.

Perhaps the sun or the sight of his open shirt had gone to your head, but you felt bold. Reaching out, you toyed with its cotton ties. “I think, mostly, of where I wish you would touch me,” you smile sweetly, satisfied at his intake of breath, “and where I would like to touch you, and how. And the book is a romance, if you must know.”

“I have had similar thoughts,” he whispered, leaning towards you, “we really should share our ideas with each other more often.” An inch from closing the gap, a sudden clatter at the armory door made you jump apart.

“If only I didn’t always feel we were being watched here,” you muttered wistfully.

He smiled his usual smile, one that made him look like he was enjoying a private joke. “I may have a solution for that. Tell me, do you ride horses at Horn Hill or is it donkeys?” He chuckles as you roll your eyes, and tap him on the chest with your book, “fetch your riding boots, sweet, I will meet you at the stables.”

You can almost recall the smell of the tall grasses in the wide open plains of the Reach where you and Gwayne spent afternoons racing on horseback. You think of seeking shade under a glade of trees on the bank of the Honeywine and dismounting to let your horses drink. His hands on your waist, the rough scrape of bark on your back and the taste of his tongue.

He pulled away from your lips, his nose still brushing yours before his mouth ran down your neck to the collar of your dress. “Have you any idea what sweet, slow torment it is to see you astride that beast,” he whispered, breath hot on your skin, “to watch your thighs gripping the saddle while you race away from me?”

“Then look away, my Lord,” you replied, as if his words didn’t send heat between your legs and make you tremble.

His head snapped up and he sighed roughly while you laughed at him. His teeth captured your bottom lip as punishment before he claimed your lips again with his and pressed his body into yours.

…

Too soon, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones breaks you from your reverie.

reblog if you wear glasses. too many mutuals don't know they have glasses wearers in their midsts

I know it’s not hard to point out reactionaries hypocrisy when it comes to like safe spaces or hug boxes or whatever but genuinely how much of an echo chamber do you have to exist in for you to think this is a reasonable thing to say

The director of cybersecurity from the Electronic Freedom Foundation is offering to help women who have been threatened with compromise of their devices.