Chapter 5: A Promise in the Dark
The silence after Otto left was a physical weight, pressing the air from the room. Gwayne remained at the window, his knuckles white where they gripped the stone sill. Naerys stood frozen near the table, the ghost of her uncle’s smile still clinging to her, a cruel contrast to the ice now in her veins.
“He will not let this go,” Gwayne said finally, his voice hollow against the glass.
“I know.” She walked to the hearth, staring into the embers. The memory of Daeron’s friendly face was already receding, replaced by the stark reality of her father-by-law’s words. Your value is your blood. “What do we do?”
He turned from the window. The firelight carved deep shadows under his eyes. “What we must.” He said it not with resolve, but with a weary finality that frightened her more than anger would have. “He will have the maester examine you monthly. He will have servants report on the state of our sheets. There is no more… interlude.”
The word ‘truce’ hung between them, unspoken and shattered.
That night, the routine was the same, yet everything was different. She washed, he washed. She put on her thin shift, he stripped to his breeches. The great bed awaited. They climbed in, each keeping to their own side, the expanse of cold linen a demilitarized zone. The candles were snuffed. Darkness, thick and watchful, enveloped them.
Naerys lay rigid, listening to his breathing. It wasn’t the even rhythm of sleep. It was controlled, tense. Minutes stretched into a hollow, silent hour.
Then, a rustle of linen. The bed dipped as he moved. Not away, but toward her.
She held her breath.
His hand found her shoulder in the dark, large and warm. His touch was hesitant. He didn’t speak. His fingers slid down her arm, leaving a trail of fire on her skin, then came to rest on her hip. He shifted closer. She could feel the heat of his body along her back, the coarse hair of his legs against her smooth skin.
“Naerys,” he whispered, his breath stirring her hair.
She didn’t know what to say. This was the duty. This was what was required. The thought should have made her sick, but her body, starved for connection and terrified of the alternative, betrayed her. A low, unwanted warmth pooled in her belly.
He turned her onto her back. His shadow blotted out the faint moonlight from the window. He leaned down and kissed her. It was not like the chaste kiss of their wedding night. This was deeper, searching. There was a desperation in it that matched her own. She opened her mouth beneath his, and he tasted of wine and bitter resolve. His hand came up to cup her breast through the linen, his thumb brushing roughly over her nipple. It peaked instantly, a sharp ache of sensation.
A small sound escaped her, a moan caught in her throat.
He took it as permission. His kisses grew hungrier, moving to her jaw, her throat. He fumbled with the tie of her shift, his usually deft fingers clumsy. He got it open, peeling the fabric down to her waist. The cool air hit her skin, followed by the heat of his mouth on her breast. He sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue circling, and the electric jolt of it made her arch off the bed.
“Gwayne,” she gasped.
He didn’t answer with words. His hand slid down her stomach, over the plane of her belly, and into the thatch of silver curls between her legs. She was wet. The slickness shocked her, shamed her, even as it spurred him on. He found her clit, a firm, circling pressure that made her thighs jerk.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin, his voice ragged. “You’re so wet.”
He moved over her, settling his weight between her thighs. He was hard now, a thick, insistent length pressed against her through his breeches. He kissed her again, deep and filthy, his tongue mimicking the thrust he was about to make. He broke the kiss, breathing harshly.
“I need… I need to see you,” he rasped.
He rolled off her, stood, and fumbled with a tinderbox. A candle sputtered to life on the bedside table. The small flame threw towering, distorted shadows on the walls, illuminating them in a pool of intimate, unforgiving light.
She lay exposed, her shift rucked around her waist, her breasts bare and peaked. He stood by the bed, staring down at her. His hazel eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. There was none of the gentle kindness she knew. This was a stranger, a man performing a brutal function. He unlaced his breeches and pushed them down. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and veined. He took himself in hand, giving a few rough strokes, his gaze fixed on her cunt.
“Spread your legs,” he said, the command quiet but absolute.
She obeyed, trembling. He climbed back over her, not with tenderness, but with a focused intensity. He positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging at her entrance. He met her eyes. The conflict was there, a storm in his gaze, but it was being drowned by a tidal wave of necessity.
“Dragon flame,” he whispered, a final offer of escape.
She shook her head, a minute movement. There was no escape. Not from this.
He pushed inside her.
It was a slow, burning stretch. He was bigger than he had been that first night, harder. He filled her utterly, a sensation that was as much invasion as completion. She cried out, a short, sharp sound. He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Alright?” he gritted out.
She nodded, nails digging into his shoulders.
He began to move. It was not the faltering, failed rhythm of before. This was purposeful, deep, driving strokes that pushed the air from her lungs with each thrust. The wet, slick sound of their joining was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He fucked her with a building, mechanical urgency, each snap of his hips driving her body up the bed.
“Gods,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight.”
His hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit again. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, filling thrusts and the sharp, bright circle of pressure. Pleasure, unwanted and acute, began to coil tightly in her core, intertwining with the ache of use. She turned her head, biting into the linen of the pillow to stifle her sounds.
He was losing himself. His breaths were ragged sobs against her neck. His thrusts grew faster, harder, less controlled. “Take it,” he grunted. “Take my seed. Fucking take it.”
The crude words, so foreign from his gentle mouth, sent a forbidden thrill through her. Her hips lifted to meet his, a involuntary reflex. He felt it, and a harsh sound of approval ripped from his throat.
“Yes. Come on. Come on, Naerys.”
The coil snapped. Pleasure tore through her, a wave of white-hot release that clenched around his driving cock. She gasped, her body bowing, a silent scream on her lips as the sensations racked her.
Feeling her convulse around him broke his last shred of control. With a shattered, broken cry that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, he plunged deep and held there. She felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release inside her, jet after jet, flooding her. He shuddered violently, his entire weight collapsing onto her for a moment before he caught himself on his arms.
They lay like that, joined, panting, slick with sweat. The candle guttered. The smell of sex and salt filled the air.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. The loss of him felt profound, leaving her empty and slick with his spend. He rolled onto his back beside her, throwing an arm over his eyes, his chest heaving.
The silence returned, but it was a different silence now. It was charged with the echo of raw, desperate flesh, and a humiliation that was shared, yet separate. He had done it. He had performed. So had she.
After a long while, he reached out blindly, his hand finding hers on the linen. He laced his fingers through hers, holding on tightly. His grip was desperate.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words cracked and dry.
She didn’t say it was alright. It wasn’t. She just held his hand back, staring at the dark canopy. The deed was done. The seed was planted. Whether it would take root was in the hands of the gods.
Weeks passed in a strange, suspended rhythm. The act in the candlelight was repeated, not nightly, but with a grim regularity. It was always the same: a silent, tense build-up in the dark, then the spark of flame, the hard, focused fucking, the mutual, shame-tinged release. They rarely spoke during, never after. Their friendship persisted in daylight—shared meals, quiet walks, her lessons in High Valyrian from a reluctant maester, his reports from the harbor. They were companions. They were allies. They were performers in a brutal nightly play.
She saw Daeron often. He was a spot of sunlight, his presence a balm. They critiqued tapestries. He taught her cyvasse, and she beat him soundly three times out of five. He spoke of his dragon, Tessarion, the Blue Queen, with a wistful pain she understood in her bones. He never asked about her marriage. His tact was a kindness.
One afternoon, they sat in the south gallery, a half-finished game between them. Daeron was frowning at the board, his silver hair falling over his forehead. “You’re ruthless,” he said, admiringly. “It’s all that dormant dragon blood.”
She smiled, but it felt thin. A familiar, rolling nausea had been plaguing her all morning. She pushed a piece forward.
“Naerys?” Daeron’s voice was concerned. “You’ve gone pale.”
“It’s nothing. The fish at breakfast, perhaps.”
He studied her, his violet eyes seeing too much. Before he could speak, the door to the gallery opened.
Otto Hightower entered, followed by the aged, robed figure of Maester Myles. The casual warmth of the moment evaporated. Daeron stood smoothly, offering a polite nod. “Lord Hand.”
“Prince Daeron.” Otto’s gaze swept past him to Naerys, who had also risen, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. “Lady Naerys. Maester Myles is here to conduct your examination.”
It was not a request. The monthly inspection. Her skin crawled. Daeron’s expression tightened, understanding dawning. He took a subtle half-step closer to her, a protective gesture that did not go unnoticed by Otto.
“Now?” Naerys asked, her voice barely steady.
“The matters of succession wait for no woman’s convenience,” Otto said, his tone mild and lethal. “Your chambers, please.”
The walk back was a march to the gallows. Gwayne was not there. He was out on the river, inspecting grain shipments. She was alone with the old man and his cold, pinching fingers.
In the bedchamber, behind a screen, she lay on the bed as instructed. The maester’s hands were clinical, pressing her belly, his expression inscrutable. He asked curt questions about her moon blood. It was late. Only by a few days, but late.
“Open your mouth,” he said. He peered at her tongue, her eyes. He took a vial of foul-smelling liquid from his bag. “Urinate in this.”
Humiliation burned her cheeks, but she obeyed. He took the vial, added a pinch of powder from a different pouch, and swirled it. They waited. The silence was broken only by Otto’s slow tapping of his finger on the arm of his chair.
The liquid in the vial turned a milky, opaque blue.
Maester Myles nodded once. “It is as we hoped. The lady is with child.”
The words landed like stones in still water. A child. An heir. A new pawn forged from fire and stone. She felt a dizzying rush of emotions—relief, terror, a sudden, fierce, and wholly unexpected surge of possession.
Otto stood. A satisfied, grim smile touched his thin lips. “Good. Very good. You will be attended closely, Maester. Ensure she wants for nothing. Her health is paramount.”
He left without another word to her. The maester packed his things and followed. The door clicked shut.
Naerys sat on the edge of the bed, her hands splayed over her flat stomach. Inside her, something new and fragile had begun. A piece of Gwayne. A piece of her. A piece of this cursed union. She didn’t know whether to weep or laugh.
She was still sitting there when Gwayne returned just before dusk. He came in smelling of river mud and fresh air, his face relaxing into its usual gentle expression when he saw her. Then he registered her posture, the strange stillness in the room.
“What is it?” he asked, dropping his gloves on a table.
She looked up at him. “The maester came.”
His face went carefully blank. “And?”
“The test… it turned blue.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. The information processed. His eyes flickered to her abdomen, then back to her face. The relief that washed over his features was profound, but it was immediately followed by a complex, unreadable anguish. He had succeeded. The pressure was off. They had made a child, a being born of duty and desperate, nightly grunts in the dark.
He walked to her, knelt before her where she sat on the bed, and took both her hands in his. He pressed his forehead to their joined fingers. His shoulders shook, once, with a suppressed sob.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the words muffled against her skin. “Thank you, Naerys.”
She lifted a hand and placed it on his chestnut hair. They stayed like that, knight and hostage, husband and wife, friends bound by the most fundamental and complicated of ties, as the last of the daylight faded from the room. The game had changed. The board had a new piece. And now, they would have to learn how to love it.
And now, they would have to learn how to love it.
The month that followed was a strange, quiet unraveling. The relentless schedule of conjugal visits ceased. Otto’s scrutiny did not lessen, but it changed, transforming from a demand for action into a prison of vigilance. Naerys was monitored, coddled, and weighed like a prized broodmare. Her nausea came in waves, her breasts grew tender and full, and a new, subtle curve began to soften her abdomen. The physical evidence was a shield. For the first time since her arrival, her body was her own fortress, not a battlefield.
Gwayne treated her with a deference that bordered on awe. He brought her ginger tea unprompted, dismissed servants who bothered her, and once, famously, sent the master of horse away for suggesting a ride might be ‘invigorating.’ He was her staunchest protector, yet a palpable distance remained. They were allies in a shared conspiracy, but the ghost of those perfunctory, candlelit fuckings hung between them. The duty was done. What were they now?
One night, a month after the blue vial, they lay in the dark talking of nothing. The rain lashed the tower in sheets, a sound that sealed them in their own private world. He had made her laugh with a story about a stubborn mule on the docks, and she had countered with a memory of Syrax sunning herself on Dragonstone. The laughter felt stolen, precious.
She turned her head on the pillow to find him already looking at her. His hazel eyes were soft in the gloom, tracing the line of her cheek, the fall of her silver-gold hair across the linen.
“What is it?” she asked, her smile fading into something quieter.
He didn’t answer. He just leaned over and kissed her. It was not the desperate, hungry kiss of obligation. It was slow. It was questioning. His lips were warm and impossibly gentle, moving over hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
She broke the kiss, breath catching. “Gwayne. You don’t need to. The maester confirmed it. I’m already with child.”
“I know,” he whispered, his voice rough. His thumb brushed her lower lip. “I want to.” He searched her face. “Do you want to?”
The question hung there, simple and immense. It wasn’t about heirs or duty or watchful fathers. It was about the space between them in this vast bed, and the loneliness that had started to curdle even in their kindness. She thought of his hands, always careful, and his eyes, always watching over her. She thought of the fragile thing growing inside her, part of him, part of her.
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her again, and this time she gave herself to it. She opened for him, letting his tongue slide against hers, tasting the faint remnant of wine and the essential flavor of him. It was a deep, searching kiss that dissolved the last of the distance. Her hands came up to thread through his chestnut hair, pulling him closer. A low noise vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, unfettered want.
He shifted, his body covering hers, the solid, welcome weight of him settling between her thighs. She wore only a thin sleeping shift; he was in his breeches. The rough fabric scraped her inner thighs as he rocked against her. She could feel him, hard and urgent, through the linen. She arched into him, a moan slipping from her lips into his mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathed, tearing his mouth from hers to stare down at her. His eyes were wide, almost wild. “Naerys.”
He fumbled with the laces of his breeches, his hands trembling. He freed himself, his cock springing thick and heavy against her belly. He pushed the hem of her shift up to her waist. The cool air touched her skin, then the scorching heat of him as he positioned himself. He nudged at her entrance, already slick and ready for him.
He entered her in one slow, deliberate thrust.
She cried out, her head falling back. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that was now familiar yet utterly new. This wasn’t the harsh taking of before. This was a claiming, yes, but one she was actively giving. He held himself deep, buried to the hilt, and shuddered.
“Gods, you feel…,” he gasped, unable to finish.
He began to move. His thrusts were deep and rolling, a steady, building rhythm that made the bed frame creak. Each push dragged a sensation through her core, a fusion of pressure and dizzying friction. She wrapped her legs around his hips, heels digging into the muscles of his back, pulling him in deeper.
“Harder,” she heard herself whisper, the word filthy and true.
A groan ripped from him. He obeyed, his pace quickening, his hips driving into her with sharper snaps. The wet, rhythmic slap of their joining filled the room, a raw music. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. “You’re so fucking perfect. So tight around my cock.”
The obscenity, now spoken with reverence, unspooled her. Pleasure coiled, tight and hot, low in her belly. She could feel every vein of him, every pulse as he moved in her. Her nails scored down his back.
“Gwayne, I’m…,”
“I know. I feel it. Come for me. Let go.”
He shifted his angle, grinding deeper, and the coil snapped. Her climax tore through her, a violent, shuddering wave that clenched around his driving length. She sobbed, her body seizing, vision spotting with white light as pleasure radiated out to her very fingertips.
The frantic clenching of her cunt around him was his undoing. With a raw, broken shout, he drove into her one final, brutal time and held. She felt the hot, liquid rush of his release pulsing deep inside her, flooding her, marking her in a way that felt possessive and profoundly right. He shook with the force of it, his whole body trembling as he spent himself.
He collapsed, carefully, most of his weight on his arms but his forehead resting against her shoulder. They lay gasping, slick with sweat, still joined. The rain hammered the window.
Slowly, he softened and slipped from her. But he didn’t roll away. He moved over her, his hands sliding under her hips. He turned her onto her stomach with a gentle urgency.
She understood, pushing herself up onto her knees. He settled behind her, his hands roaming the new swell of her belly, then gripping her hips. He entered her again from behind, and the feeling was different, deeper, animalistic. The angle was relentless. He fucked her with hard, driving strokes that pushed her forward with each impact. There was no tenderness in this posture, only a raw, primal need to connect, to fuse.
“Yes,” she moaned into the pillow, the word muffled. “Gods, yes. Like that.”
He grunted, his thrusts becoming punishing, a steady, piston-like rhythm that chased a second, brighter peak. The friction was exquisite, overwhelming. She came again, a sharper, shorter climax that made her knees buckle. He followed instantly, his rhythm shattering into frantic, shallow jerks as he emptied himself inside her a second time with a guttural cry.
He stayed there for a long moment, pressed against her, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. His breath scorched her skin. Then, he placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of her neck. Another. A trail of them along her spine as he gently pulled out and guided her down onto her side.
He gathered her into his arms, pulling her back against his chest. His hand splayed over her belly, his thumb making slow, absent circles. Their skin was sticky, the sheets were damp, and the room smelled of sex and rain. She felt his lips brush her shoulder once more.
No words were left. None were needed. The quiet that settled between them was no longer empty. It was full. It was theirs. His breathing deepened and evened out behind her. She closed her eyes, fitting herself against the curve of his body, and let the sound of the rain carry her into sleep.