Cooked. Ate. Devoured. Work Of Art. Masterpiece. I Mean, What More Can I Say Or Want?

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.