Chapter 17: A Husband's Devotion
The heat was a physical weight, pressing down from a bleached sky and rising up from the flagstones in visible, shimmering waves. Naerys moved through it as if wading through honey. The garden, usually a refuge of green coolness, felt like a trap. Every rose bloom was overly bright, every scent of lavender and rosemary cloyingly thick in the stagnant air.
She was vast, a continent unto herself. The baby—a girl, the maester suspected—was a restless occupant, turning and pressing against organs that had no room left to yield. A dull, persistent ache had taken residence in the small of her back, a counterpoint to the tight, heavy curve of her belly. She walked not for pleasure, but out of a desperate, clawing need to not be still, to prove she could still command her own body, even as it felt increasingly like a foreign vessel.
Her hand went to the swell, fingers splaying over the place where a tiny heel dragged a sharp bulge beneath her skin. “Peace, little one,” she murmured, but the plea was breathless. Sweat dampened the silver hairs at her temples and trickled between her breasts. The shaded arbor ahead seemed a thousand leagues away.
From an upper window, Gwayne watched her. He had been tracking her slow, pained progress for ten minutes, a ledger of crop rotations forgotten on the desk behind him. He saw the way she paused, one hand bracing against the rough bark of an apple tree, head bowed. He saw the defeated slope of her shoulders.
He was moving before he made a conscious decision.
Naerys heard his footsteps on the gravel path, quick and sure. She didn’t turn, focusing on drawing breath into lungs compressed by the life inside her.
“The sun is a tyrant today,” his voice came, close and calm. He was beside her, holding a pewter cup that sweat with condensation. “Here. It’s just water with mint and a touch of lemon. The cook swore it would help.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his. The coolness was startling. She drank greedily, the tart liquid a benediction on her parched tongue. Over the rim of the cup, she saw he also carried one of her lighter wool shawls, the pale grey one. “It’s seventy degrees, Gwayne. I’m melting.”
“It’s for the stone bench,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips. “The shade is deep there, but the marble is still cold. It’ll seize up your back worse than it already is.” His hazel eyes were soft with understanding. He’d learned the map of her discomforts over these long months. “Come on. Lean on me.”
She did, letting him take her weight as they moved the final steps into the dappled shadow of the arbor. True to his word, he spread the shawl over the pale marble bench before helping her lower herself onto it. The relief of sitting was instantaneous, though the ache in her back merely shifted, settling into a deep, familiar throb.
He didn’t take the seat beside her. Instead, he went down on one knee in the gravel before her, his expression quiet and focused. “Where is it worst?”
“Here,” she said, pressing a hand low on her spine.
“Turn a little for me.” His hands were warm and solid through the thin silk of her dress as he guided her to angle her body. Then his palms settled on either side of her backbone, his thumbs finding the knotted muscles with unerring accuracy.
He began to knead. The pressure was perfect—firm, deep, inexorable. A groan escaped her, part pain, part profound relief. She let her head fall forward, her hair a curtain around her face. His hands worked in slow, patient circles, melting the rigid tension.
“Baelon is with the nursemaid, trying to stack wooden blocks. He gets as far as three before he kicks them over and laughs like a madman,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He was speaking to distract her, to pull her out of the prison of her body. “I think we’re raising a tiny anarchist.”
A weak laugh shook her shoulders. “Your father’s legacy is secure, then.”
His thumbs pressed into a particularly stubborn knot, and she hissed. He eased up, smoothing his hands over the spot. “Sorry.”
“Don’t stop. It’s good.”
He resumed his work. “I was thinking,” he said, his tone shifting into something lighter, speculative. “When she’s old enough, we could take them both down to the Honeywine. Not to the docks, but upstream, where the willows dip into the water. I could teach Baelon to skip stones. You could sit in the grass and tell her stories. Real ones, not just the maester’s dry histories.”
“What kind of stories?” she mumbled, her eyes closed, lulled by the rhythm of his hands and his voice.
“The ones your mother must have told you. About Dragonstone. About the sky. Stories with wings.”
The tenderness in his words, the casual certainty of a shared future—it unspooled something tight in her chest. It was more potent than the physical relief. She placed a hand over his where it rested on her hip. “She’s moving. Feel.”
He stilled his ministrations and shifted his hand to where hers guided it, spreading his fingers wide over the curve. They waited. A long moment passed, filled with the buzz of bees among the roses. Then a distinct, rolling push pressed against their joined palms, a knee or an elbow tracing a firm arc.
Gwayne’s breath caught. No matter how many times he felt it, the wonder never dimmed. A slow, unconscious smile spread across his face, transforming the usual thoughtful solemnity into something boyish and open. “She’s strong,” he whispered, his voice full of awe.
“She’s impatient,” Naerys corrected, but she was smiling too.
The walk back was out of the question. She knew it as soon as she tried to stand, a wave of dizziness and sheer gravitational defiance washing over her. “Just give me a moment,” she said, gripping his arm.
“No,” he said, the word gentle but final. In one fluid motion, he bent and slid an arm behind her knees, the other around her back. “Put your arms around my neck.”
“Gwayne, I’m the size of a siege tower. You’ll rupture something.”
“I carried a warhorse out of a muddy gully once. This is better.” He grunted only slightly as he lifted her, settling her weight securely against his chest. “See? You’re all baby. You weigh nothing.”
It was a flagrant lie, but she buried her face in the warmth of his neck, breathing in the scent of clean linen and his skin. He carried her with ease, his strides long and steady, navigating the garden paths and then the cooler, echoing stone corridors of the Hightower. Servants scurried out of the way, eyes averted but shoulders softening at the sight. The Lord Hightower, carrying his lady wife like a prize.
He didn't speak until he reached their chambers, nudging the door open with his foot. He carried her straight to the bed, laying her down among the pillows with a carefulness that bordered on reverence. He pulled off her soft shoes, then fetched a damp cloth to wipe her face and neck, the cool linen tracing her forehead, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone.
“Now,” he said, settling into the chair he’d drawn up beside the bed. He picked up the book he’d been reading the night before—a dense historical account of trade routes. “Where were we? Ah, yes. The punitive tariffs on Dornish citrus.” He shot her a wry look. “Thrilling.”
“Positively illicit,” she said, settling deeper into the pillows.
He read. His voice was a calm, steady river, washing over her. He didn’t just recite the words; he added dry commentary, questioned the author’s logic, imagined the faces of the outraged Dornish merchants. His free hand rested on her belly, a warm, constant anchor.
As he read about river tolls, the baby kicked, a sharp jab right under his palm. He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes dropping to his hand. He waited. Another kick, a flutter. His thumb began to move, stroking gentle circles over the spot.
He looked up from the book, his gaze finding hers. The afternoon light slanted across the room, catching the gold in her hair and the quiet intensity in his hazel eyes. The ledgers, the tariffs, the weight of the tower and his name—none of it was in that look. There was only this: her, the life they had made, and a wonder so profound it edged on sorrow.
“She likes your voice,” Naerys said softly.
“She has terrible taste in literature,” he replied, his voice thick. He cleared his throat, looking back at the page. But he didn’t start reading again immediately. He just sat there, his hand on her, his presence filling the room, a silent vow woven into the quiet hum of the fading afternoon.
Naerys watched the dust motes dance in the sunbeam between them. The dangerous peace held, deeper now, rooted in the tangible proof of kicks and aching backs and carried burdens. It was a fortress built not of stone, but of these minutes. And for now, feeling his hand upon their child, hearing the steady beat of his heart in the quiet room, she allowed herself to be its willing prisoner.
And for now, feeling his hand upon their child, hearing the steady beat of his heart in the quiet room, she allowed herself to be its willing prisoner.
The deep quiet of the tower at night was different from the daytime hush. It was a living silence, filled with the settling of ancient stones and the distant, sighing rush of the sea far below. Naerys lay awake in it, her body a landscape of unfamiliar pressures. The baby had settled, but her hips ached with a throbbing, deep-bone soreness that refused to grant her sleep.
Beside her, Gwayne was motionless, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping either. His breathing was too controlled, the muscles of his arm beneath her head coiled with a tension that had nothing to do with rest. She could feel the heat radiating from him in the cool sheets.
His hand moved first, a slow, tentative slide from his own thigh to the curve of her swollen belly. His palm was searing. He splayed his fingers wide, holding her there, and let out a shaky breath that was almost a shudder. Then he turned his head on the pillow. In the faint moonlight, his eyes were black pools, glinting with a stark, unvarnished hunger.
“Naerys,” he said, her name a rough scrape in the dark.
He shifted, rolling toward her, and his mouth found hers with a clumsy, desperate urgency. It wasn’t the tender kiss from the garden. This was pure appetite. He kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging past her lips, his hand leaving her belly to fist in her silver-gold hair. A low, needy sound vibrated from his throat into hers.
His other hand groped over the thin linen of her nightdress, pawing at her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple to a stiff peak through the fabric. He broke the kiss, panting against her cheek. “I need… fuck, I just need.” He couldn’t seem to form a complete thought. He nuzzled her neck, biting the tendon there not quite gently. “Can I? Please. I’ll be careful.”
His obvious, pathetic need was a powerful thing. It melted any thought of her own discomfort. She reached back, her hand finding the taut muscles of his thigh and squeezing. “Yes.”
He tore at her nightdress, pulling the fabric up and over her head with a frantic impatience that made her gasp. The cool air hit her skin, followed an instant later by the scorching heat of his hands and mouth. He worshipped her body with a frantic, focused intensity, his lips and tongue and teeth on her breasts, her neck, the great drum-tight curve of her stomach. He muttered into her skin, a stream of filthy, adoring praise. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful like this. Full of my child. I can’t think. I can’t fucking think straight.”
The logistics, however, intruded. Her belly was an immutable obstacle. Trying to roll her onto her back was impossible. Guiding her onto her hands and knees made her back scream in protest almost immediately. She winced, a sharp hiss escaping her.
He froze. “No. That’s not right. Tell me.”
“It’s alright, just… my back.” She gasped, adjusting.
“Shhh. It’s not.” He was breathing hard, his cock a rigid, leaking bar against her thigh. His mind worked visibly through the haze of his lust. “Here. On your side.”
He helped her settle onto her left side, piling pillows behind her back for support and one between her knees. He draped himself behind her, his chest to her back, his thighs slotting behind hers. His hand slid between her legs from behind, his fingers delving through her folds. She was wet—her body’s confused, automatic response to his fevered attention.
“Good?” he rasped, pushing two fingers inside her, curling them.
“Yes.” It was mostly true. The angle was manageable, a dull pressure instead of a sharp pain.
He withdrew his fingers, coated in her slickness, and she heard him stroke himself once, twice. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was nudging against her entrance from behind. He pushed in with a slow, careful roll of his hips, filling her with a deep, stretching fullness. He buried himself to the hilt and stopped, his forehead pressed against the back of her shoulder, his whole body trembling with the effort of control.
“Oh, gods,” he moaned, the sound wretched and thankful. “Your cunt. It’s so hot. So fucking perfect.”
Then he began to move. His initial patience shattered like glass. What started as measured strokes quickly devolved into a frantic, pounding rhythm. He hooked his top arm under her knee, hiking her leg up to open her wider to his drives. His other hand braced against the headboard for leverage. The bedframe began a rhythmic, insistent creak against the stone wall.
He was using her. She knew it with a crystalline clarity. This wasn’t the shared, lazy pleasure of the sunlit chair, or the tender worship of the bath. This was a raw, physiological release. He was a man drowning, and her body was the only air. His thrusts were deep, selfish, and mesmerizing in their ferocity.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, a broken litany against her skin. His breathing was sobbing, ragged. “Take it. Just take it. Milk my fucking cock. I’m gonna… I’m gonna fill you up. Oh, fuck, Naerys.”
She reached a hand behind her, gripping the solid muscle of his hip, holding on as he pistoned into her. The sensation for her was a diffuse, secondary thing—a deep friction, the jarring of her body with each drive, the overwhelming sense of being taken. It was not comfortable. A faint, protesting ache bloomed in her pelvis with each impact. But the sound of him, the feel of his utter unraveling, was its own fierce reward.
His rhythm grew jerky, erratic. His fingers dug into her thigh hard enough to bruise. His moans climbed to a desperate, pathetic whine. “I’m there. I’m there. Please. Please.”
His climax seized him with a violence that seemed to tear him apart. He slammed into her one last, devastating time and froze, his body bowing behind hers. A raw, torn shout erupted from his throat, echoing in the quiet chamber. He pulsed inside her, jet after hot jet flooding her depths, his hips stuttering through the waves of it. He shook violently, his whole frame convulsing against her back as he emptied himself with a guttural, endless groan.
He collapsed, his weight heavy and sweaty upon her, his softening cock still lodged inside her. For a long minute, the only sounds were his shattered, gasping breaths and the pounding of her own heart. Slowly, carefully, he slipped out of her.
He gently turned her onto her back, his hands infinitely tender now, arranging the pillows to support her. He looked down at her, his face blotchy and streaked, his eyes glassy with spent passion and something like shame. He leaned down and kissed her, softly, sweetly, his lips lingering on hers.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the words heartfelt and aching.
She smiled up at him, her hand coming to rest on the side of his damp face. He gathered her carefully into his arms, her back to his chest once more, his nose buried in her hair. His breathing evened out, deepened. Within minutes, the weight of his exhausted sleep pulled him under.
Naerys lay awake in the circle of his arms, feeling the cool trickle of his release between her thighs, the steady, solid kick of their daughter within her. The dangerous peace was not shattered. It was, she realized, more complex now. It could hold his frantic hunger alongside his gentle gratitude, her mild discomfort alongside her fierce consent. It was a peace built not on simplicity, but on this: the willingness to be, for the other, whatever was needed in the dark. She closed her eyes, listening to his breath, and followed him down.
She closed her eyes, listening to his breath, and followed him down.
The dreamless dark was a mercy. She woke to grey light and the same, familiar ache. It was deeper now, a constant presence in her hips and lower back, as if her very bones were protesting the life they supported. The bed was empty beside her, but the scent of him—linen and warm skin—lingered on his pillow.
A few weeks later, the discomfort had become a sharp, gnawing companion. Her ankles were thick, and her feet felt alien at the end of her legs. Gwayne watched it all with a quiet, hawk-like attention. He saw the wince she tried to hide when rising, the way she braced a hand on the wall after standing too long.
“Come with me,” he said one evening, his voice leaving no room for debate. He had dismissed her maids an hour earlier.
He led her to the bathing chamber, where a copper tub steamed in the firelight. The air was humid and smelled of the rosemary and chamomile oils he’d poured into the water. He helped her undress, his movements clinical yet infinitely careful as he navigated the laces and layers, his knuckles brushing her swollen stomach. When she was bare, he took her elbow, supporting her as she stepped over the high rim and sank into the deep, fragrant heat.
A groan escaped her, long and involuntary. The water embraced her, a buoyant relief that seemed to lift the terrible weight for the first time in days. She leaned her head back against the rolled edge, closing her violet eyes.
“Gods,” she breathed. “That’s… I might live here.”
“I’d have the maids bring your meals,” he said, a soft humor in his tone. He didn’t leave. Instead, he dragged a low stool over and sat, then settled onto his knees beside the tub, folding his arms on the rim to watch her. “Baelon tried to eat a beetle today.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “He what?”
“A shiny blue one. He had it clutched in his fist, heading for his mouth with a look of serious determination. The nursemaid nearly fainted.” Gwayne’s smile was loose, easy. This was their currency now: these small tales of their son, the mundane glue of their shared life.
“Did he succeed?”
“I intervened. Traded him a dried apricot for it. He seemed to find the beetle unsatisfactory anyway.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the damp hair at her temple. “Your days are long. I can see it.”
She sighed, the warmth leaching the tension from her voice. “It’s just waiting now. A strange, heavy waiting. I can’t bend to put on my own shoes. Rolling over in bed is a military campaign.”
“I liked being your soldier the other night,” he said, his voice dropping, the memory of his frantic need hanging between them in the steam.
She met his gaze, a faint smile touching her lips. “I noticed.”
His hazel eyes held hers, warm and contemplative. His hand slid from her temple, down the line of her neck, over the curve of her shoulder disappearing into the milky water. He let it rest there, his fingertips just brushing the upper swell of her breast. The touch was not initially sexual; it was possessive, soothing.
They talked more, of inconsequential things—a quarrel among the cooks, a raven from Oldtown about grain shipments. His hand moved in slow, idle circles on her skin, stroking her shoulder, her arm. The water lapped gently. Her muscles continued to unknot, her breathing deepening.
Then his hand drifted lower. It slid over the slick curve of her belly, fingers splaying across the tight skin. He rubbed there for a moment, feeling the hard shape of the child beneath. His touch dipped lower, through the cloud of silver-blonde hair, and found the soft, swollen flesh between her legs.
He didn’t look away from her face. His fingers parted her folds, finding the sensitive nub hidden within. He began to stroke it, a slow, soft, circular pressure through the warm, silken medium of the water.
Naerys’s breath hitched. Her eyes, which had drifted shut, opened wide. A shock of pure, unexpected sensation jolted through the haze of her discomfort. It wasn’t the frantic need of before. This was something else—a deliberate, focused offering.
“Gwayne…”
“Does that feel good?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. His thumb kept up its gentle, insistent rhythm.
She could only nod, her head falling back against the copper. A soft moan escaped her as the pleasure built, a slow, rising tide distinct from the water surrounding her. It was a pure, localized heat, a bright counterpoint to the diffuse aches of her body.
“Tell me,” he urged softly, his fingers learning her, exploring her slickness beneath the surface.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”
His touch grew more confident, more intense. The slow circles became firmer, faster. He added a second finger, sliding it down to penetrate her shallowly, then curling back up to stroke her. The water amplified every sensation, every slide, every wet sound. Small waves slopped over the side of the tub, pattering on the stone floor.
“You’re so wet,” he whispered, his own breathing shortening. “Even like this. Your gorgeous cunt just opens for me.” He was watching her face intently, studying the flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her lips. “Come for me. Let it go. I want to feel you come in my hand.”
His words, filthy and tender, combined with the relentless skill of his fingers, pushed her higher. The pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, in her core. Her hips lifted slightly, seeking his touch. Water cascaded over the tub’s edge in a small rush.
“Gwayne, I’m… I’m going to…”
“Now,” he commanded, his voice rough. He pressed hard, circling her clit with a furious, perfect focus.
The climax broke over her, a silent, shuddering wave that arched her back in the water. Her inner muscles clenched around nothing, pulsing violently, a sweet, sharp release that radiated out from his hand and temporarily erased every ache. A cry tore from her throat, ragged and real. He worked her through it, his fingers gentling but persistent, until the last tremors subsided and she fell back, boneless and sated, into the cooling water.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their mingled, ragged breaths and the dripping from the tub. The fire popped. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her silver-gold hair plastered to her cheeks. Her violet eyes were heavy-lidded, peaceful.
He leaned in, his own face soft with a kind of reverent satisfaction. He kissed her, a slow, deep, tasting kiss that held the steam of the bath and the salt of her skin. She lifted a languid hand from the water, leaving a wet trail on his stubbled jaw.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm. “Better?”