"You are not the first to domesticate it.
Your shame: pretty as a house pet.
When will you put it down?"

111 AC

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The tourney grounds were an assault on Naerys's senses. The sun blazed unforgivingly overhead, baking the air until it felt thick enough to choke on, and the crowd was a sea of bodies, each movement sending waves of noise and heat rolling toward her. The unrelenting sound of thousands of voices cheering, laughing, and jeering all blended into a single, oppressive cacophony that made her ears buzz, and the stench of sweat, stale ale, and trampled grass clung to her nose, making her stomach churn. She could feel the scratchy fabric of her starched collar digging into her neck like a thousand tiny needles, and she tugged at her mother's sapphire ring, worn on a delicate silver chain, as if the cool metal might ground her.

Her eyes darted around, unable to settle. The flutter of banners, the gleam of armour catching the sunlight, the blur of knights preparing in the lists—all of it made her head swim. She tried to focus on her father behind her, droning on about his future heir, but his words turned to meaningless static in her ears, and her focus fractured into a hundred shards.

And if she was being entirely honest, she didn't care for his words at all. She still hadn't forgiven him for marrying her off to Willem Stokeworth, and his lack of acknowledgment of her sulking only deepened the wound. If her own father would not recognize her anguish, where did that leave her? He had not so much as asked her how she was or what her life had been like during the past few moons.

"Queen Aemma has begun her labours!"

At the king's final statement, Naerys shot to her feet as though the cushion beneath her had burst into flames, her motion drawing her sister's alarmed gaze. Rhaenyra reacted swiftly, clamping a hand around her wrist and wrenching her back down.

"What are you doing?" she hissed through clenched teeth as Viserys concluded his speech and the knights took to the field.

Naerys sat rigid, her chest heaving, her pulse roaring in her ears until it drowned out the deafening cheers of the masses. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came. She couldn't meet Rhaenyra's intense gaze, couldn't explain the panic clawing at her insides like a caged beast desperate to escape.

Something was wrong. Something was already wrong. The screaming had begun. 

"You cannot leave now!" her sister snapped, nails digging into her skin through the silken fabric of her sleeves. "Do you know what that would look like? The king's daughter, rushing off on a day like this? We have a duty to stay—for him, and for Mother."

Naerys shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. She couldn't stay. She had to go. She had to see her mother, to make sure she was all right. The thought of sitting there, helpless and ignorant, while the queen faced the dangers of childbirth alone sent icy dread flooding through her veins. Her thoughts spiralled, each one tangling with the next: What if something went wrong? What if she—what if she—

Every scenario multiplied until the familiar warmth of Rhaenyra's hand felt unbearable, crawling over her like something alive and undulating. She pulled against her, but the older girl held firm.

The tournament grounds erupted into life, the first clashes of lance against shield reverberating through the air, capturing the attention of everyone except Naerys. Mercifully, their struggle went unnoticed by most. But not Alicent, who leaned forward from Rhaenyra's other side.

"Is she alright?"

"She's feeling unwell, I think," Rhaenyra responded uncertainly, turning to look at her. "Naerys is always like this when it comes to Mother, you know how she can be."

Alicent gave the young girl a smile she hoped was reassuring. "Her Grace will be perfectly fine, you'll see. She's done it before, hasn't she, and has made a full recovery every time. This shall be the same, and she would want you to enjoy yourself today."

Then, in an attempt to distract her further, the Hightower thought of something else. "Have you heard about Lady Roslyn of House Staunton?" she began conspiratorially. "They say she's to be betrothed to Ser Cedric Flowers—just as soon as he earns his knighthood. Can you imagine? It's as though they're rushing her into it."

Rhaenyra's brows shot up, her grip still unyielding, keeping Naerys anchored. "Ser Cedric? Isn't he the one who fell from his horse in the practice yard last week?" she asked incredulously, making Alicent giggle. "Gods, they might as well marry her to the stable boy! At least he knows how to stay on a horse."

Alicent smiled faintly, a hint of colour rising to her cheeks as she continued. "And that's not the worst of it. The seamstresses say Lady Elinor has been wearing dresses two sizes too large, probably hiding a swollen belly."

"Lady Elinor? But she's barely seen in public! Who could it be?"

"Oh, that's the scandal. They're saying it's one of her maester's assistants. Someone lowborn, no less."

Rhaenyra pressed her free hand to her mouth, her expression a mix of horror and delight. "She's risking her family's entire reputation for that? Most fathers would have her locked in a tower if she ever—" She broke off, suddenly glancing at Naerys, whose eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

Despite her sister's silence, the Targaryen girl tightened her hold, as if she feared Naerys might vanish the moment she let go. Meanwhile, Alicent, noticing the tension, placed her hand on the girl's bouncing knee, her simple gesture stilling it. At least if she was helping to assuage someone else's anxieties, she did not have to dwell on her own.

"And did you hear about Lord Byron's wife?" she probed again. "She's been sneaking into the sept every night with one of the novices."

"Oh, you would know, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra snickered. "Since you're there all the time."

"I am there to pray!"

"I never said you weren't."

"And besides. I have only ever seen them sit and talk until the candles burn down."

The Targaryen princess let out a chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief. "Talking? That's what they're calling it now? Next, you'll tell me she's reading to him from The Seven-Pointed Star.."

"She does that too!"

"It's strange though, isn't it? I wonder if Lord Byron knows or if he simply pretends not to."

The two girls exchanged a look of shared amusement, keeping up their amicable chatter to bind their young charge to their present reality, but Naerys's focus remained elsewhere. Every muscle in her body was clenched, her breath shallow and uneven. Each piece of gossip was a distant murmur in her ears, and she wanted to wrench herself away from their combined touch and retreat to the silence of her chambers. She wanted it to be quiet so badly, but her mind gave her no reprieve. 

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Gwayne Hightower sat rigid in his saddle at the edge of the tourney field, his knuckles tight around the reins as his horse shifted beneath him, sensing his nervous energy. His heart thrummed in his chest, a quickened tempo that he both dreaded and cherished. These moments—caught between terror and exhilaration—were why he craved the lists. The anticipation, the razor's edge before the calm focus that settled over him once the tilt began, was a sensation like no other.

Through the narrow slit of his visor, his gaze fixed on the royal stands. His sister was seated beside the king's daughters, and though the distance was great, he recognized the nervous fidgeting of her fingers. He knew what she was doing—plucking at her cuticles until the skin split and blood surfaced in tiny crimson beads. He had seen the aftermath enough times to know, and the sight stirred something unnameable in him: a mixture of protectiveness and unease.

It was their mother's habit, a ghostly echo from a time he could barely recall. He remembered the flick of her hands, the soft murmur of her voice, and how she'd wring her fingers raw when she thought no one was looking. But surely Alicent had been too young to remember her. How, then, did she manage to mirror her so exactly? It was as though the essence of their mother had imprinted itself on her, a fragment of a woman Gwayne struggled to piece together in his memories.

His attention faltered as movement in the stands caught his eye when the youngest princess jolted upright. Whatever the king had just said—Gwayne hadn't been listening—had clearly shaken her, and yet both Rhaenyra and Alicent held her down to her seat.

Before he could dwell on it further though, a shadow fell across him. He turned, and his breath caught in his throat. There, astride a warhorse as black as night, was Daemon Targaryen, his lance pointed in Gwayne's direction.

Despite the barrier of their helmets, Daemon managed to exude an air of casual disdain, his silver hair spilling over his shoulders and his mouth curved into a smug, knowing smirk. Through the opening in his visor, his lilac eyes gleamed with predatory amusement, and though they were seated at equal heights, the Rogue Prince had a way of making the young Hightower feel impossibly small, as though he loomed over him from some unreachable peak.

"For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!" the herald announced.

Gwayne swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he allowed himself a fleeting glance toward his father, seated among the high lords with an air of unshakable authority. He could feel the man's scrutiny, the subtle shake of his head, and the barely perceptible downturn of his mouth that spoke volumes. It was an expression Gwayne had come to know well—an anticipation of failure before the match had even begun. The sting of it, though familiar, burned anew, a reminder of the endless expectations he never quite met.

He had known this moment might come, but the reality of facing Daemon—dragon rider, war veteran, and Targaryen prince—felt insurmountable.

Steady yourself.

As the Rogue Prince spurred his horse to the far end of the field, Gwayne guided his mount toward the royal stands with measured deliberation. The crowd blurred into a faceless mass, and his chest tightened as he approached the railing where his sister sat. He had intended to ask Alicent for her wreath. It was expected, and she had always been his most steadfast supporter, but as he opened his mouth, the words that tumbled forth were not what he had planned.

"If I may be so bold as to ask for the second princess's favour."

The words lingered in the air, surprising even himself. For a moment, he wondered why he had spoken them. Perhaps it was the sight of Naerys, trembling and frantic, that had moved him to act, an impulsive urge to offer her some distraction from whatever torment plagued her. Or perhaps it was his own yearning to step out of the shadow of familial expectation and try something—someone—different. Let Alicent's favour grace another knight; she deserved better than a brother whose victory was anything but assured. Knights seeking favour often sought wives too, so maybe his gentle sister would finally be courted by someone kind before their father could offer her up to whoever he deemed worthy enough.

At first, it seemed as though Naerys hadn't even registered his request. She remained frozen, and it was Rhaenyra who nudged her forward, whispering something he couldn't hear. The dark-haired princess's wide, startled eyes finally settled on him, and the flush that rose from her throat to her cheeks was immediate and vivid. She stared at him, as though searching for words, and the moment stretched, almost unbearably. It might have been endearing if his impending doom hadn't been looming right there.

Lacking a wreath to offer, she finally reached up, fumbling for one of the blue ribbons woven into her intricate braid. The motion was tentative, as though she wasn't entirely sure of herself, and with trembling fingers, she tied the ribbon around the tip of his lance, the silk trailing delicately in the breeze. Once done, she stepped back and offered a small, awkward bow.

"I wish you luck Ser Gwayne."

He inclined his head in gratitude, swallowing the knot of nerves lodged in his throat. "Thank you, princess."

The odds, however, were not in his favour.

The first charge brought a collision of lances that thundered through the air. Gwayne's weapon splintered against Daemon's shield, shards flying in all directions. To his astonishment, Daemon's lance suffered the same fate, and for a fleeting moment, hope surged in his chest. Perhaps this would be the day he defied expectations. The day his father would not turn his back in disappointment.

But hope was a fragile thing.

The second charge came like a storm. The Hightower leaned into his mount, his focus narrowing to the point of his lance aimed at the Rogue Prince. 

Then it happened.

Daemon's lance dipped in a sudden, deliberate motion, the polished wood aiming not for his opponent, but for his horse's legs. The world twisted violently as the impact struck, sending Gwayne's horse crumpling beneath him with a sharp, pained whinny.

The fall came too fast.

One moment he was surging forward with all the momentum of his steed, and the next he was airborne, the saddle slipping out from beneath him as he hurtled toward the unforgiving ground. He landed hard, face-first, with a sickening clash of steel and flesh. His helmet flew off, leaving his unguarded face to scrape against the coarse dirt of the tourney grounds. Pain seared across his cheeks, the gritty earth tearing into him.

He lay there a while, the weight of his armour pressing him down, every inch of his body throbbing. The groan that escaped him was ragged, equal parts frustration and pain. Lifting his head, he managed a fleeting glance toward the stands. His father's bearing was as he feared—a stony mask of disapproval, while Alicent's tearful, aghast face pierced him far more than Daemon's lance ever could.

His horse's pitiful neigh broke the air beside him, and Gwayne let himself drop back down, his vision blurring against the swirling dust. The humiliation burned just as hotly as the pain in his body. This wasn't a defeat. It was a spectacle. A calculated, ruthless display by the Rogue Prince, and he was the unwitting object of his ire.

The crowd roared, some in shock, others in cruel amusement, but Gwayne only heard the pounding of his own blood in his ears as he was dragged away to be tended to.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

The match between Gwayne Hightower and Daemon Targaryen was the only one Naerys paid attention to—or at least tried to. She squinted down at the field, struggling to focus as the blinding sun glared off polished armour, adding to the building pressure between her eyes. 

The creature was back, or so it seemed.

It slithered into her mind like a shadowy serpent, discordant and shrill, just beneath her thoughts. And gods, the screaming. That was the worst part; a disembodied voice that howled inside of her, wailing for something she didn't even know how to give. Her temples thrummed, and she wanted to dig her nails into her very skull, to carve her way through to the unrelenting itch buried deep within her brain, unreachable and maddening.

Then, the match ended in an instant.

Gwayne's horse seemed to have crumpled beneath him, and the young knight was flung violently to the ground. Naerys flinched, vaguely aware of the collective gasp of the spectators, but her concern for the Hightower boy was smothered by the violence inside her own head and the overwhelming scent of copper that had nothing to do with the injured knights. 

Meanwhile, the Rogue Prince pranced triumphantly around the field, revelling in the cheers of the spectators as he came to a stop beneath their stand, his satisfaction palpable even at a distance. Naerys's gaze flickered toward her sister, who turned to her with a fierce glare that served as both warning and command: Stay put.

Then both Rhaenyra and Alicent rose, clasping hands as they made their way to greet the victor, while behind them, a quiet commotion had broken out as Otto Hightower leaned in close to the king, their hushed conversation lost to the clamour. Naerys could not focus enough to hear what they spoke of, but when her father rose to leave, she leaped at the chance. 

She stood immediately, her movements hurried, and though she avoided looking at Otto Hightower, she could feel his gaze on her, appraising and heavy. It lingered too long, as if he were dissecting her intentions in that calculating mind of his.

She didn't wait to find out what conclusions he drew.

Her feet carried her swiftly out of the stands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she scampered through the nearest exit. Her intended destination had been the queen's chambers, but a sliver of guilt nipped at her heels and led her down an unfamiliar path instead. She moved toward the tents behind the tourney field, where the maesters were tending to the wounded. The air was thick with the tang of sweat and blood, the mingled groans of injured knights cutting through the bustle. She hurried past men peeling off layers of armour and tunics, the clatter of metal on wood accompanied by colourful profanities and ribald remarks about the day's matches—or the ladies in the stands.

Naerys kept her gaze firmly on the ground, her hands raised to shield her ears. Every noise grated against her nerves, amplifying the crawling beneath her skin. She quickened her pace, focusing on finding the one she sought rather than dwelling on the murmurs that followed her, some carrying the queen's name, others Rhaenyra and Alicent's. The words brushed against her like nettles, and though she wasn't one to pick fights, she dared not linger. The creature fed on chaos; she feared what it might do if it caught even a whisper of provocation.

At least the hunger had not made itself known yet. 

Lucky for her, she spotted him soon enough. Though he had discarded his armour, Gwayne Hightower's hair caught the sun like polished copper, a beacon among the drab tents. He sat grimacing on a splintered wooden bench, his jaw tense and shoulders hunched. A maester hovered beside him, dabbing at the angry scratches that carved across his cheek, and the collar of his tunic was stiff with dried blood, the carmine shade crusting the fabric like an accusation. But it wasn't the wounds that made her falter. It was the look on his face.

He saw her, and his demeanour darkened even further.

Naerys froze several paces away, her fingers instinctively picking at the edge of her sleeve, worrying the small pearls sewn into the fabric. What had she come here for? She tried to recall the reason, but her thoughts skittered like dry leaves in the wind. To check on him, of course, so she could ease Alicent's worries later. But to ask if he was alright seemed ridiculous; anyone with eyes could see he was not. Perhaps that was why he scowled at her so, as though he could see just how much of a fool she was.

Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out.

"Are you alright?"

She winced immediately. Of course, he wasn't alright. The evidence was written across his features, and she cursed herself inwardly for her lack of forethought, her lack of composure, for speaking at all. She turned to leave, but then he spoke. 

"My thanks for your concern, princess," Gwayne remarked sarcastically, his tone harsher than intended, "However, perhaps you might refrain from giving any favours out to anyone else in the future, considering the sort of luck it has brought me."

He shouldn't have spoken. He knew that the moment the words left his mouth, and the bitterness surprised him, but the indignity of the day had left a rancid taste in his mouth. Then, under his breath, he muttered, "I should have just asked for my sister's like I always do."

Unfortunately for him, Naerys heard every word.

She had her back turned, so he couldn't see her face, but a stillness settled over her that sent a flicker of regret through him. He should have apologized immediately. It was beneath him to speak with such disregard for another's feelings, and no doubt Alicent would have his head for treating the girl so cruelly.

But right now Gwayne Hightower was not just a knight sworn to honour and chivalry; he was also a young man nursing a bruised ego and the stinging shame of a very public defeat, before the eyes of every notable house in the Seven Kingdoms. And who had bested him? Not just any man, but Daemon Targaryen—uncle to the girl now standing before him.

His pride had been trampled into the dirt of the field, and with it, his hopes of earning even a modicum of approval from his father. The sting of Otto's inevitable scorn was sharper than the scratches on his face, and he could already picture his curt dismissal.

Gwayne's face pulsed repeatedly, the wounds from the match burning hotter with every passing moment, and his vanity couldn't help but dwell on the marks they would leave behind. It put him in a foul mood, a mood that latched onto Naerys as its first and only victim. The sight of her had been an unexpected affront, particularly the faint whiff of pity in her gaze. It was all too much.

He opened his mouth, whether to issue another scathing remark or an apology, he didn't know, but before he could decide, the girl whirled around.

Her expression stopped him cold. He had never seen her like this before, with her lips curled into a scowl, and her glower pinning him in place.

"It was Daemon you were up against," she returned contemptuously. "Do not blame me for your performance. All the luck in the world cannot compensate for a lack of skill"

Gwayne blinked, stunned.

Naerys's words cut through the haze of his anger, leaving a deep and sudden silence in their wake. For a moment, she looked as though she might say more, but then her countenance hardened and she ground her teeth to dust instead. His words had hit a nerve she wasn't prepared to face. The allegation, veiled though it was, had struck the tender, festering spot between her ribs where her deepest insecurities lay, but for him to voice it aloud, to confirm her worst fears, sent the creature reeling, its teeth bared, ravenous for a new morsel. 

The last straw came when the maester tending to him turned to face her and Naerys mouth dropped open. 

"You should not be here, princess," the maester began kindly enough. 

But he had no face. He spoke with a mouth that was not a mouth, attention drilling into her through indents in his face where his eyes should have been. 

"Your place is not here," he repeated.

"Princess...you are bleeding." Gwayne stood hastily, reaching out to her. His initial resentment was replaced with immediate concern for her state, but he did not seem to sense anything wrong with the maester. 

Naerys did not respond, and belatedly she became conscious of the scarlet stream dripping from her nose, only when she tasted the foul taste of metal on her lips. Absentmindedly, she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve, staining the bright fabric, and then, with her eyes still on the eerily smooth face of the grey-robed man before her, she hiked up her skirts, and turned on her heel. She didn't care for Gwayne's startled call after her or the way the other knights stared as she swept past.

She needed to see her mother. She needed her mother to smooth over her raw edges, to kiss her and tell her all the things she wanted so badly to believe about herself. 

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A/N: we're finally getting into Gwayne's psyche in regards to Otto and Alicent a bit (Alexa play daddy issues). I watched the tourney scene like a dozen times tryna pick up on Otto's microexpressions lol but I hope you like my take on their dynamics overall :)

More gwaynaerys once they're a little older I promise (try not to hold it against him for being a prick here, he is just a teenage boy who just had his ass handed to him in public lol). but the next chapter should be interesting (depressing). Major trigger warnings for the whole Aemma childbirth scene from the show as well as other gore and psychosis.

As usual, the validation monkey in me would love to hear yalls thoughts on the chapter, so leave a comment please and thanks <33 appreciate all the support and interaction!!