Chapter Text
Dawn comes too soon for both the Princess and the Knight.
Servants shuffle into the Princess’ chambers and prepare her for the day. A routine that passed with hardly a greeting until the maid dressing her asks if she plans on flying Syrax this morning.
Flying could shake the last of the cotton from her thoughts. Syrax always cleared her mind in the most thrilling way possible. She nods, and watches the maids set the dress aside and bring forth her leather flight attire.
As she steps out of her rooms, Ser Harrold a pace behind, she thinks to invite her cousin so she might find out more about her suddenly mysterious betrothed.
That thought hurts like dragon claws in her heart. She would have sworn that she herself was Gwayne’s only secret. That their near daily meetings and improper familiarity could be the only thing the honest boy would have to hide. She thought she could say she loved everything about him, everything that no other had seen. But now… that dark room with that scared girl would not leave her mind.
Laenor laughs when she finally asks after her betrothed once they have landed by an obscured beach far from the Keep. “Ah, so that is the reason you begged my company this morning. I had wondered what had broken through your lovesick stupor so soon.”
“I wouldn’t forsake you, dear cousin.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. Ser Gwayne is a man above many.”
“So I thought,” she mutters.
He studies her carefully. “Are you seeking something, cousin? A reason to sever the betrothal?”
“No.” She bites her lip and looks out over the water. “It has been so long since I’ve seen him, I wonder if my memories were glazed in grief. No one can be so perfect.” She knows she doesn’t want to lose him, but if she has to, she must lose her faultless impression of him before then. Her cousin won’t spare her a concerning truth if it’s there, and unlike Rhaenyra, he would know what men are like amongst their own company.
Laenor frowns. “He is… sad, and often reclusive. But he will be the only survivor of a once grand house, it is no question why he is sad and lonely.”
“And when he is not alone? Even on the battlefield there was no whisper of any… deviance or dark mark on his soul?”
“He’s an honorable man.” Laenor sighs and takes her hands with care. “You have nothing to fear. I think he will be the best of husbands. You will be the envy of every Lady in court.”
He has misread her worry, but Rhaenyra can’t begin to explain. Instead, she lightly shoves him with a teasing smile. “What do you know a Lady’s envy?”
“I know I shared their broken heart, briefly,” he admits.
That hadn’t even occurred to her. She narrows her eyes. “He is not—“
“Inclined as Joffrey and I? No,” he reassures, “he only has eyes for you. I heard the declaration from his own lips just last night.”
“You did? When?”
“When we parted ways. He wouldn’t join us in the city in case any dirt he picked up should stain your pretty dresses.”
That is the Gwayne she knows, not the one Ali—that girl tried to paint with a poor excuse. She seemed to not know the knight at all, but everything about her echoed with familiarity to him. It made Rhaenyra’s uncertain, which was not a feeling she was accustomed to, nor fond of.
She was too impatient to piece together these false assumptions and poor impressions. Like her Uncle always said, she was a dragon, she must dig out the truth for herself.
Later, Rhaenyra finds Gwayne at the training grounds, sparring with some knights and squires. Only a few notice her, Gwayne’s opponent among them, she remains far enough to avoid disrupting the match.
He has improved with a sword since she last saw him. The blade looks lighter in his hand, his movements more fluid and powerful, but the speed in his form remains. As a page, Gwayne was small framed, only winning matches by evading attacks until his opponent tired. He seems to have filled out in his months away, building strength to complement his agility.
Rhaenyra was used to seeing the increments of his improvements, but she finds herself enraptured watching Gwayne fight so differently. He is still lithe of limb, but his movements, like water in her memory, now strike like the licks of flames. It’s a beautiful dance that steals her breath.
In almost no time at all, he has his opponent, Harwin Strong, who stands over a head taller than he, on his back with a blade at his neck. The barrel chested knight yields and Gwayne extends a hand to help him to his feet, the slightest hint of confusion evident in his brow.
Rhaenyra finally approaches, applauding as though at a tourney, catching the remaining men’s attention.
“Princess,” Gwayne bows, sweaty curls sticking to his glowing cheeks, “forgive us, we did not hear you arrive.”
“No apologies needed, Ser, I was passing to enjoy the view.”
A few knights snicker. Rhaenyra smiles, pleased to watch the pretty red flush replenish in her betrothed’s face.
“Seeing your skill with a blade, it is no question you returned from the Stepstones victorious.”
“I’m afraid I cannot take credit, your uncle and cousin’s dragons were far more effective than one measly blade.”
Harwin claps him on the back to dispute, “Those dragons only achieved a stalemate in two years of bloodshed. But indeed, it was not your blade, but your mind for strategy. Luring the Crabfeeder onto the Prince’s blade like a rotten fish!”
Another young knight, a Lannister, joins, “And taking command of the archers, you evened our numbers in a day! They fell like crashing waves!”
Gwayne picks a callous on his palm sheepishly. “I am sure the Princess does not wish to hear such gruesome tales.”
“Nonsense, however, mayhaps my humble betrothed would be more inclined to boast with less of an audience? Unless he is still needed here, Sers?”
“He’s all yours, Princess.”
She likes the sound of that.
With an arm threaded through his, she leads them off the training field in the direction of the Godswood, Ser Harrold keeping a respectful ten paces behind.
“I tried to speak with you last night, after the feast. I had hoped we might celebrate our betrothal together?”
Honey brown eyes widen minutely, and his neck bobs, clearly choosing his words carefully, “Apologies, Princess, the men wished to celebrate our homecoming and victory in the baséd way men do—“
“Don’t lie to me.” She feels him tense under her hand, but doesn’t pin him with her stare as she continues, “I flew with Laenor this morning, I know you weren’t with them. I hoped you weren’t the type of man who would lie to your future wife. Though the type of man I imagine, lies about visiting brothels not avoiding them.” She finally looks at him to find his eyes cast down to the dirt.
He sighs. The invisible weight on his shoulders takes such a familiar shape, that Rhaenyra, again, looks for resemblances between her knight and the maiden in the tower.
He does not stand as tall as he did before the King when he was first presented as a Knight, making his height closer to the girl’s. His hair is just the faintest bit redder, but Rhaenyra was right about the lengths being similar. Damp with sweat from training, Gwayne’s curls are dark and relaxed, the ends pass his neck like her Uncle’s before the war. Their chin and lips were nearly identical, though the girl’s were poutier as though she’d made a habit of chewing them, while Gwayne’s were slightly chapped, she remembered from their brushes against her hands and cheek.
“This is true, I did not join them on the Street of Silk. I retired from the feast to visit the Sept within the Keep. I-I have not been able to sleep without seeing the dead, ever since we departed. I thought lighting candles for our fallen might allow for a weary mind to rest. Forgive me, my love, I didn’t know you were searching for me.”
It’s a perfectly reasonable answer and Rhaenyra can hear the pain in his admission. It’s a relief. It’s why she loves him so. He is a strong knight unafraid of admitting his pains and fears with her. His vulnerability makes her long to protect him, and she thinks, unlike any other knight, any other man, he might let her.
They reach the Wierwood and she releases his arm to step around and face him.
He watches her skirts brush to tops of his boots before meeting her eyes. That eternal sadness that clings to him is back in the forefront. His shoulders sag forward, shrinking him back to the boy she knew before he left, not the man returned. “I’m not sure our marriage is the wisest course,” he begins.
She blinks at him blankly. “You call me your love in one sentence, then say us marrying is stupid in the next?”
“I didn’t mean any offence, but yes. You have far better prospects, Nyra. You are Princess, heir to the Seven Kingdoms. You should be marrying a Lord who can offer something to your House, secure your alliances, not some cast off third-born of a second son.”
“You’re heir to the Hightower.”
“There is no Hightower any longer; Oldtown is a quarter what it once was. By chance, I won the draw and survived, but at such cost— my brothers, and cousins, and uncle… my mother. I am heir to nothing but my father’s pride.”
Rhaenyra attempts to muster the courage to ask about Alicent, but the last image of her, pleading in the dark, stops her. She knows there’s an explanation to absolve him, because she knows him. There must be, she just has to find it. And if she can find it without making him suspect she ever doubted him, all the better.
“The illness took everything from my father… and from me. I survived, but the disease did not leave me whole…” he swallows back tears, “I cannot give you children. You need heirs—the Realm needs your line to continue.” He takes a breath. “Let the Hightower die with me, but do not take your House down with it.”
“You never said,” Rhaenyra breathes in disbelief.
“It is hardly proper— It is shameful. My father has sought matches with Houses that Hightowers have married into in the past, so they might take the name again with some right to it. But I realised long ago, a better prospect for myself would be the Wall—“
“No!” She gasps, appalled at the thought of losing him to the Northern outpost manned by former thieves and traitors.
“I could not deceive my wife as he asks me to. Selfishly, I could not see her bear another man’s child, even with my deficiencies…”
“He has no right to ask that of you!”
“He is my father.” He shakes his head, rephrasing, “He is the last Lord Hightower.”
It’s her Uncle’s words that come to her, “He is a scheming rat and a lying cunt!”
It’s a reflex when he tiredly scolds, “Rhaenyra—“
She cuts off his protest. “There must be some way. A maester who could—“
“Every maester will tell you the same, it is impossible for me to sire children.” His voice remains measured and she hates it.
Forgetting herself, she insists, “I love you. I don’t want to marry anyone else. I won’t!”
“You must. For the Realm. Every lordling worth even an ounce of gold in the Seven Kingdoms, would tilt for your hand—“
“You won a war!” Boldly, she reaches into his surcoat—it’s tight, more proof his frame has broadened in his time away—to pull out the red handkerchief with a golden dragon. Her token, which he wears above his heart even now.
His hand curls around hers, holding her close. The dragon in her chest roars possessively, pleased and still hungry for more.
He can’t resist placing a lovely kiss on her fingers tangled in delicate cloth. “Please, Princess. Tell your father you don’t accept the match. He’ll listen to you, he only wants your happiness.”
“And your father?”
“It is likely he’ll send me away. Mayhaps to another skirmish to wear our banner across the Realm one last time.”
“Couldn’t you join the Sept? Or take a White Cloak? I would make you commander of my Queensguard.” If he could not be her husband, then would he be her sworn shield? It paints a tragic romance, but one she might manage if only to keep him alive and hers, in her dragon’s precious hoard.
“I am my father’s greatest disappointment, but ‘Hightowers do not abandon their duty,’ even one I cannot fulfill.” There is an emptiness in his countenance, a shadow, which, for a brief moment, makes him appear identical to Alicent. It sends a chill down Rhaenyra’s spine.
“I understand,” she lies, but steps back, looking away.
Or tries too. His thin, calloused hand keeps her wrist against his chest until she looks back to him. With a shy smile he pries the handkerchief from her fingers. And with a playful glint in his eye, he tucks it back under his collar.
It casts away the unsettling similarity and she doesn’t tell him a corner of red peeks out, too pleased that he might wear her so boldly over his heart. With a parting kiss on his smooth cheek, she leaves him in the Godswood.