Chapter 2: The Smile
The damask bed-curtains were drawn back, letting the cool night air from the open window wash over them. Two distinct indentations marked where they lay, a respectful foot of linen between them as always. The room smelled of lavender from the sachets Gwayne had ordered, and the waxy, familiar scent of the tallow candle burning low on his nightstand.
Silence, but not the tense kind from the first week. This was the quiet of two people thinking, wrapped in their own thoughts, yet acutely aware of the other’s presence in the dark.
Naerys was staring at the canopy, tracing the embroidered Hightower beacon with her eyes. Otto’s words from that afternoon were a cold stone in her gut. Your value is your blood. Your purpose is to pass it on. She could feel the pressure of it, a physical weight on her chest. She glanced sideways at Gwayne’s profile. He was on his back, one arm behind his head, studying the same patch of ceiling as if it contained battle maps.
“Do you think,” she began, her voice almost too quiet, “they’ll ever be satisfied?”
He didn’t need to ask who ‘they’ were. “No,” he said, the word flat and final. “Satisfaction is a movable threshold. Today it’s an heir. Tomorrow it will be the heir’s education, or marriage, or which sigil they favor. The need for control… it doesn’t end. It just finds new shapes.”
She absorbed that. It matched the creeping dread she felt. “So we are just… delaying.”
“We are surviving,” he corrected gently. He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. In the candlelight, his hazel eyes were warm, tired. “That is the first and only duty, Naerys. To survive this with our minds intact. To not let them turn us into animals in a pen.”
“It feels like we’re already in the pen.”
“Aye,” he sighed. “But we’re not gnawing on each other. That’s something.”
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. He saw it. He always saw them, those tiny fractures in her reserve. They were his only metrics of success.
“What was the happiest you’ve ever been?” she asked suddenly, rolling onto her side to face him. The question surprised them both. It was too personal, too deep for this fragile hour. But the darkness invited it.
Gwayne was silent for a long moment. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. “There was a morning,” he said, his voice softer, drifting. “Years ago. Before the war truly began. I was squiring for Lord Redwyne at the Arbor. The training was done by mid-morning, and I had the whole day to myself. I took a horse, just a plain bay gelding, nothing special. Rode out to a cliff overlooking the Sunset Sea. The sky was this… impossible blue. The air tasted like salt and pine. I sat there for hours. No one needed me. No one expected anything. I was just… a man on a horse, watching the water.” He blinked, coming back to the room. “It sounds simple.”
“It sounds like freedom.”
“It was.” He looked at her. “Your turn.”
Naerys’s gaze grew distant, seeing something beyond the red damask. “Flying.” The word was a breath. “I was eight. My mother took me up on Syrax. Just a short flight, around Dragonstone. She sat me in front of her. I could feel the heat of the dragon between my legs, the immense power of her wings. And the wind… it wasn’t like wind on the ground. It was a river, and we were swimming in it. My mother laughed in my ear. She wasn’t the heir or the princess then. She was just… my mother. And below us, the world was small and beautiful and harmless.” She pulled the linen sheet tighter under her chin. “I’ve dreamed of that feeling every night since I came here.”
The ache in her voice was a physical thing in the room. Gwayne didn’t offer empty comfort. He just listened, letting the memory hang between them, sacred in its sadness.
“I wish I could give you that back,” he said finally, the words thick.
“I know.”
The candle guttered, sending long shadows dancing up the wall. The silence returned, but it was different now, softer, lined with the velvet of shared confidences.
Gwayne cleared his throat, shifting the mood. “You know, my brother Lyonel—the one who died—he had the most spectacularly terrible singing voice. Like a goose being stepped on.”
Naerys blinked, pulled from her reverie. “What?”
“A goose. Being stepped on. That was the sound. But the gods saw fit to bless him with an unshakable confidence. He’d sing in the bath, at table, during sword practice. Drove our maester to distraction.” A genuine smile, fond and pained, touched Gwayne’s mouth. “One time, at a feast in Oldtown, he’d had a bit too much wine. He decided the hall needed a ballad. He stood up, pounded the table for quiet, and launched into ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair.’”
Naerys propped herself up on an elbow, intrigued. “Was it awful?”
“It was a crime against music and bears alike. But halfway through, he forgot the words. Completely blanked. So he just… started making them up. Nonsense words. ‘The bear had a hat, a very nice hat, the maiden had a… turnip?’ He was dead serious, belting it out. My father’s face was purple. Mother was weeping into her napkin. I was under the table, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.”
A snort escaped Naerys. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but her shoulders were shaking.
Encouraged, Gwayne continued, his voice dipping into a mock-serious baritone. “He finished with a grand flourish, bowed to thunderous silence, and sat down as if he’d just performed at the Sealord’s palace. Looked at me, completely earnest, and said, ‘I think that went rather well, don’t you, Gwayne?’”
The image was too perfect. A giggle burst from Naerys, then another, and then she was laughing properly, a bright, unfettered sound that seemed to startle the shadows in the room. She collapsed back onto her pillow, hand still pressed to her stomach, tears of mirth glittering at the corners of her eyes.
Gwayne watched her. The polite, guarded smiles she’d given him for weeks were gone. This was real. Her face was alight, her nose scrunched, her violet eyes sparkling. The sound of her laughter was better than any song. A deep, profound pleasure spread through his chest, warm and startling. He’d done that. He’d brought that sound out of her.
Her laughter slowly subsided into breathless chuckles. She wiped her eyes. “Oh, gods. A turnip?”
“A turnip,” he confirmed, grinning like a fool. He felt lighter than he had in months.
She sighed, a happy, weary sound, and turned back to look at him, her expression softening. “Thank you for that.”
“For the story of my brother’ musical disgrace?”
“For making me forget,” she said simply. “For a minute, I wasn’t here. I was under a table in Oldtown, laughing at a terrible song.”
He reached out then, an impulsive movement. His fingers brushed a strand of silver-gold hair away from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear. His touch lingered for a second on her skin, warmer than the candlelight. “Any time,” he murmured.
The air shifted. The laughter had burned away a layer of formality, leaving something raw and tender beneath. Her gaze held his, and the distance between them on the mattress felt suddenly vast and yet insignificant. The memory of his failure on their wedding night was there, and Otto’s threats, and the impossible task ahead. But for this heartbeat, it was just the two of them in a pool of dim light, connected by a shared joke and a touch.
Naerys’s smile faded, but the softness in her eyes remained. “Gwayne…” she started, then stopped, unsure.
He withdrew his hand, the spell breaking. He knew what she might ask. Why? The question hung in the air, heavier than the one about his happiest memory.
“We should sleep,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “Daeron will likely hunt you down tomorrow for that tapestry critique. You’ll need your wits about you.”
The mention of her uncle, the other silver-haired ghost in the tower, was a reminder of the outside world pressing in. Naerys nodded, the moment passing. She settled back into her pillow. “Goodnight, Gwayne.”
“Goodnight, Naerys.”
He blew out the candle. Darkness swallowed the room, thick and complete. They lay in the shared black, listening to each other breathe.
The sound of her genuine laughter echoed in Gwayne’s mind, a tiny, defiant beacon in the dark. It was a victory. Small, and fragile, and utterly meaningless to the powers that demanded an heir. But to him, in that moment, it felt like everything.
But to him, in that moment, it felt like everything.
A few nights later, the memory of that laughter had soured into a quiet, persistent anxiety. Otto’s visit was a stain that wouldn’t wash out. It lingered in the way the servants glanced at her belly, in the stiff set of Gwayne’s shoulders during supper with his father. The gilded cage had always had bars, but now she could feel them pressing against her skin, cold and unyielding.
They were in bed again, the same careful space between them. The room was dark but for moonlight filtering through the high window. They had been talking of nothing—the taste of the pear tart at dinner, a book Daeron had loaned her—but the real conversation hummed underneath, unspoken.
“He asked after you today,” Gwayne said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. He didn’t need to say who. “In the yard. He inquired about your health. Your monthly cycles.”
Naerys flinched as if struck. “He has no right.”
“He has every right, in his mind. He is the Lord of the Hightower. Your womb is now Hightower business.” The words were brutal, delivered with a flat resignation that was worse than anger. “I gave him the barest minimum. He was not pleased.”
She turned onto her side, facing his shadowy form. The linen of her shift whispered against the sheets. “What happens if we… if we never…”
“He will find a way to dissolve this. To set me aside. To blame you.” Gwayne’s sigh was heavy. “Or he will simply wait for one of us to die of misery, and solve the problem that way.”
The bleakness of it coiled in her chest, a cold snake. Survival, Gwayne had said. But this felt like a slow, parched death. She thought of his kindness, his stories, the way his hand had felt brushing her hair. She thought of the cliffs above the Sunset Sea, a freedom he’d lost too. A reckless, desperate courage bubbled up in her throat, born of fear and a confusing, deepening fondness.
“Gwayne,” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
She pushed herself up on one elbow. The moonlight caught the silver in her hair, painting her in shades of pearl and shadow. She leaned across the foot of space that felt like a chasm. Her movement was hesitant, shy, but deliberate. Before her nerve failed, she closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.
He froze. His body went rigid beneath the sheets, every muscle locking. She felt the sudden tension in his jaw, the stillness of his breath. For a terrible second, she thought he would push her away. Then, with a soft, almost pained intake of breath, he responded.
His lips moved against hers. It was careful, closed-mouth, the kiss of a man following a script. She tried to deepen it, parting her lips slightly, her hand coming up to rest tentatively on his chest. She could feel the strong, rapid beat of his heart through his linen shirt. He kissed her back, his hand rising to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. But the touch was gentle, brotherly.
Inside, Gwayne was screaming. He poured every ounce of his will into it, trying to force a response from his traitorous body. He thought of Naerys’s laughter, of her courage, of the terrible vulnerability in her eyes. He thought of his duty, his father’s cold stare, the legacy crushing him. He kissed her softly, then with more pressure, trying to lose himself in the simple physicality. Her lips were soft, pliant. She smelled of lavender and sleep.
He imagined the curve of a soldier’s shoulder in the training yard, the sun on tanned skin, a deep, easy laugh. He shoved the image away, disgusted with himself. Focus. He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a small, trusting sigh. The taste of her was sweet, innocent.
His other hand moved to her hip, pulling her closer. Her body was slight against his, her breasts soft against his chest through the thin layers of fabric. He willed himself to feel it, to want it. He ran his hand up her side, over the delicate ridge of her ribs, and finally cupped the full weight of her breast. She gasped into his mouth, a sound of surprise and hesitant pleasure.
He squeezed gently, his thumb finding her nipple and rubbing it to a hard peak through the linen. She arched into his touch, a tiny, eager movement. Good, he thought desperately. This is good. Feel it. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her jaw, to her throat, leaving damp, cool spots on her skin. He could feel her pulse fluttering wildly under his lips.
He shifted, rolling half on top of her, his weight settling between her legs. He was hard, but it was a brittle, tenuous stiffness, maintained by sheer force of thought and the friction of his breeches. He ground his hips against hers, mimicking passion. She whimpered, her hands sliding into his chestnut hair, holding him to her throat.
“Gwayne,” she breathed, the word full of hope and nervous desire.
It shattered him. The performance became acid in his gut. The feel of her, the scent of her, the sweet, willing trust of her—it did nothing but underscore the vast, hollow absence within him. His erection flagged, wilting away despite the friction, despite his frantic mental commands. A wave of nausea rose in his throat, mixed with a fury so profound it turned his bones to ice.
He stopped. His mouth stilled against her skin. His hand fell away from her breast. He went utterly still, a statue of failure atop her.
After a long, agonizing moment, he pushed himself up and off her, rolling back to his own side of the bed. He lay on his back, staring blindly upward, his breath coming in short, sharp gusts. The cool night air rushed over the space where their bodies had been connected, a cruel relief.
“We should try to get some sleep,” he said softly. The words were sandpaper in his throat.
Naerys lay perfectly still. The heat of his body was gone. The places he’d touched—her lips, her throat, her breast—felt suddenly cold, exposed. Shame washed over her, hot and prickling. She had done it wrong. She was too hesitant, too inexperienced. She had misread his kindness for desire, and now she had repulsed him. She had failed, just as he had failed on their wedding night, and the blame was hers.
She swallowed hard, forcing the lump of hurt down. She must not let him see. He had enough to carry.
“Alright,” she whispered, nodding in the dark even though he couldn’t see. Her voice was small, but miraculously steady. “Sleep well.”
She turned away from him, curling onto her side facing the wall. She pulled the sheet up to her chin and closed her eyes tight, pretending. The silence was a physical weight, pressing the air from her lungs.
Gwayne felt the shift of the mattress as she turned away. He heard the forced calm in her voice. He knew, with a certainty that carved him hollow, that she believed the fault was hers. The guilt was a black, tidal thing, pulling him under. He had promised never to hurt her. He had promised her dignity. And now, in trying to give her what the world demanded, he had made her feel unwanted, inadequate. He had taken her courageous, shy offering and, through no fault of her own, made it into another source of pain.
He lay there, jaw clenched so tight it ached, listening to her pretend to sleep. The moonlight traced a path across the floor, indifferent. He had never felt more of a coward, or more trapped. The heir to the Hightower, powerless to consummate his marriage, powerless to protect his wife from the humiliation of his own truth. He stared into the dark, and the dark had no answers, only a deeper, more profound silence.
He stared into the dark, and the dark had no answers, only a deeper, more profound silence.
Dawn found them already awake, each pretending sleep until the gray light made the charade impossible. The space between them was a cold, formal country. They dressed in silence, backs turned, the simple acts of pulling on clothes feeling like the donning of armor. A servant brought a breakfast tray: warm bread, honey, boiled eggs, summer berries. They sat at the small oak table by the window, the food between them like a diplomatic border.
Gwayne watched her tear a piece of bread into tiny, precise pieces. She hadn’t looked at him directly since waking. “The berries look good,” he said, his voice too loud in the quiet room. “The ones from the Glass Gardens are always sweeter.”
“Mhm.” She picked up a single blackberry, studying it as if it were a strange jewel.
“I heard a ridiculous story from the steward yesterday,” Gwayne pressed, desperate to puncture the stillness. “About Lord Beesbury’s prize stallion. It seems the beast has developed a taste for imported Myrish lace. Ate an entire bolt worth a hundred dragons. The stable boys are now forbidden from wearing anything frilly.”
He offered the anecdote like a peace offering, hoping for even a flicker of her real smile. Naerys’s lips twitched, a mechanical movement. A polite, hollow approximation of amusement reached her eyes and died there before it could truly live. “How extravagant for the horse,” she said flatly, before putting the berry, uneaten, back on her plate.
The hurt was a living thing in the room, cloaked in her impeccable manners. Gwayne felt it like a shard of glass in his gut. He had done this. His failure, his inherent lack, had built this wall. He could see the girl who laughed at the story of the turnip song locked behind a portcullis of humiliation, and he had thrown away the key.
A firm, cheerful knock echoed at the door. Before Gwayne could call out, it opened. Daeron Targaryen stood in the threshold, a slice of sunlight from the hall haloing his silver-gold hair. He wore a simple green tunic, his posture easy and open.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked, though his smile suggested he didn’t much care if he was. His violet eyes swept the scene—the untouched food, the vast distance between them at the small table—and his smile tightened, just slightly, at the corners.
“Not at all,” Naerys said, the words rushing out of her. She stood so quickly her chair scraped on the stone floor. “We were just finishing.”
Gwayne watched her. Her movements were suddenly fluid, alive. The stricken, frozen creature of moments before was gone, replaced by a woman clutching at a lifeline. She smoothed her skirts, a faint, real smile touching her lips for the first time that morning. It was not for him.
“You promised me ugly tapestries,” Daeron said, leaning against the doorframe. “The south gallery awaits. I’ve been told there’s one of a sheep that looks profoundly dissolute.”
“A dissolute sheep?” Naerys asked, a genuine laugh—bright and startled—escaping her. The sound was a physical blow to Gwayne’s chest. “Now that I must see.”
“Then come on.” Daeron pushed off the frame and offered his arm with a theatrical flourish. “Let us go judge the textile crimes of our ancestors.”
Naerys was already moving toward him. She paused only for a second, turning back to Gwayne with that polite mask firmly back in place. “Thank you for breakfast.”
And then she was gone, her hand on Daeron’s arm, their light, chatting voices fading down the hall. The door swung shut, muffling the sound of her laughter—real, unforced laughter—once more.
Gwayne did not move. He stared at the closed door. The silence in the room was no longer just the absence of sound; it was a presence, thick and accusing. He looked at her plate, the shredded bread, the solitary, rejected blackberry. He looked at his own hands, clenched on the tabletop.
A wave of clarity, brutal and absolute, washed over him. It wasn’t just that Daeron was kind, or familiar, or shared her blood. Daeron could look at her and see a woman, not a duty. Daeron’s body would not betray him, would not betray her, with a cruel, silent indifference. Daeron could probably make her smile without having to mine his memory for pathetic jokes about horses and lace.
They should have married her to Daeron.
The thought was a sucker punch, leaving him breathless. It was the obvious, elegant solution he’d been too blind, too trapped in his own doomed narrative, to see. A Targaryen princess, married to a Targaryen prince. A union of blood and name that would have satisfied the realm without this grotesque pantomime. She would have had someone who could desire her, who could give her children, who could look at her without the ghost of a squire from the Arbor haunting his every touch.
She would have been happier. She would have been whole.
And he would be… what? Free? The thought was ashes in his mouth. He would still be here, in this tower, the deficient son, the legacy’s broken vessel. But at least he wouldn’t have to watch the light in her eyes die by his own hand. At least he wouldn’t have to see her flinch from his kindness because it was a constant reminder of what he could never give.
He pushed back from the table, the legs screeching in protest. He walked to the window, bracing his hands on the cold stone sill. Below, in a courtyard dappled with sun, he saw them. Daeron was pointing up at a high window, saying something that made Naerys tilt her head back, her silver hair cascading down her spine. She was smiling, her face turned toward the light, unguarded and beautiful.
Gwayne watched, a voyeur to his own failure. He had promised her an ally. He had promised her safety. But in that moment, he understood the cruelest thing he had done was to give her a glimpse of companionship while knowing he could never offer her a true marriage. He was just another keeper, the gentlest of her jailers, and his kindness was the cruelest lock of all.