Ithil🍂

The night was bitterly cold. The forest sprawling at the foot of the mountain lay asleep beneath a veil of darkness. Only now and then did the wind stir the treetops, setting them whispering softly to one another in the gloom.

Ser Gwayne Hightower awoke with a start, as though some unseen force had shoved him from a dream. He sat upright on his narrow camp cot, and for several long moments could not remember where he was. His heart hammered so fiercely that pain spread through his chest.

Fire. The same dream again. Crimson dragonfire flooded the heavens, turning the sky into a sea of flame. People screamed. Trees burned. Knights burned. And he could do nothing but watch as the world was consumed before his eyes.

Gwayne ran a hand across his face. “It was only a dream,” he murmured to himself. Yet even now, he could swear the scent of smoke lingered in the air.

He rose and stepped out of the tent. The camp lay asleep. Guards kept watch beside dying campfires whose embers glowed faintly in the darkness. Somewhere beyond the circle of light came the distant whinny of horses.

Gwayne crossed to a water barrel and plunged his hands into the icy water. The cold shocked his senses and cleared his mind a little. He splashed water over his face, letting the droplets trail down his skin. When he straightened, the weight on his chest felt slightly lighter.

Still, he had no desire to return inside. He did not want to lie awake again, staring into the darkness. He did not want to think about the war. About the men who spoke endlessly of honor, only to put entire villages to the ashes. About the way the world around him was slowly losing its human face, shedding its last traces of mercy and becoming something colder, harsher, and far more cruel.

Gwayne was devoted to his family. He loved the Hightowers. He loved Oldtown. But sometimes it seemed to him that only monsters remained around him. And the most frightening part was that many no longer noticed. They called cruelty a necessity. He could not. Because of that, he often felt like a stranger among his own kin.

Gwayne wandered deeper into the forest, not entirely sure why. He listened to the voice of the night the rustling leaves, the distant sigh of the wind threading through the trees. Then, suddenly, the forest opened before him. A small clearing lay ahead, and beyond it rose the dark silhouette of a mountain. He settled onto a large stone and lifted his gaze to the sky. The stars were unusually bright tonight, scattered across the heavens like shards of silver. For a moment, he found himself thinking that the world had once been simpler. Once, good and evil had not been so hopelessly intertwined.

A sharp crack echoed through the night. Gwayne froze. From the direction of the mountain came a strange sound, as though something immense were shifting among the rocks. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Then he heard a deep, rumbling growl. The blood in his veins run cold. Out of the darkness emerged the head of a dragon.

The dragon was already looming above him. An orange glow flickered in the darkness. Fire. The last thing he would ever see.

Its golden-yellow eyes blazed in the night. The beast stretched its neck, and a plume of hot vapor burst from its nostrils, curling through the cold air like ghostly smoke. Gwayne slowly backed away. The dragon let out a low, menacing growl and lunged forward. Gwayne turned and ran. Branches lashed at his face. Loose stones slid beneath his boots. Behind him, he could hear the thunderous impact of the dragon’s footsteps and the earth-shaking roar that echoed through the forest. Then, suddenly, his foot caught on a root. He fell hard. His head slammed against a rock. Sparks exploded across his vision. The world tilted and swayed around him. Dazed, he struggled back onto one knee.

“No!”

A woman’s voice shattered the night. The glow vanished. The dragon’s fire died before it could be unleashed. Gwayne lifted his head. And saw her.

She emerged from behind the rocks at a run. A slender figure, her silver-white hair gleaming beneath the moonlight. The pale light traced the contours of her face, and for a fleeting moment Gwayne forgot even the dragon standing before him.

She was beautiful but not with the cold, untouchable beauty sung of in ballads. No. There was something alive about her, something warm and fiercely real.

“Back.”

Her voice rang out, firm and commanding. The dragon growled in displeasure, a deep rumble vibrating through the clearing, but it obeyed. Reluctantly, it took a step back.

Only then did her gaze fall upon Gwayne’s clothes. Upon the sigil embroidered there. She froze. At once, wariness flared in her eyes.

“Hightower”

The word left her lips almost like an accusation. She took a step backward. Gwayne quickly raised his hands.

“Wait. Please.” His voice came out rough and strained. “I mean you no harm.”

She said nothing. Behind her, Sheepstealer remained motionless, his massive form half-shrouded in shadow. The dragon’s pale eyes never left Gwayne, watching him with the patient vigilance of a predator deciding whether its prey was worth sparing. The beast’s nostrils flared, releasing slow streams of steam into the cold night air. For several long seconds, neither of them moved. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath.

“I never meant to disturb you.”

A faint, rueful smile touched Gwayne’s lips. Suddenly, his head began to spin. The clearing swayed before his eyes. His vision blurred. He took a step forward and staggered.

“Careful!” Rhaena rushed toward him.

She caught him before he could fall, but he was far heavier than she expected, and for a moment they nearly tumbled to the ground together.

“Forgive me,” Gwayne murmured weakly.

She shot him an irritated look. Only then did he feel the warm trail running down the side of his temple. Blood.

Rhaena sigh. “Sit down. You’re injured.”

One brow lifted despite his dizziness. “You intend to treat me?”

“If I wanted you dead,” she replied flatly, “I would have let the dragon finish the job.”

Gwayne could not help but smile. For the first time in what felt like an age, he was speaking to someone who said exactly what she meant without games, without careful courtly lies, without hiding behind pretty words. Strangely enough, he found that comforting.

They sat beside a small fire not far from the mouth of the cave. Rhaena fetched water and began cleaning the wound with careful hands. Her touch was surprisingly gentle. Gwayne found himself watching her. The way her brow furrowed in concentration. The way the firelight danced across her features. The way strands of silver-white hair slipped over her shoulders, gleaming like moonlit silk. She was young. Yet there was a weariness in her eyes that belonged to someone who had witnessed far too much pain.

“Are you alone here?” he asked quietly.

The faint softness in her expression vanished at once. “Yes.”

“Why?”

For a long moment, Rhaena said nothing.

The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the clearing, Sheepstealer shifted, the sound of his breathing deep and steady. At last, she spoke.

“Because it’s safer this way.”

Gwayne studied her face.

“For whom?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the flames. When she answered, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“For everyone.”

The words settled heavily in the night air.

Then she began to speak about Sheepstealer. And something in her changed. Her face softened, growing brighter, more alive. The shadow that had lingered in her eyes seemed to retreat for a while. She told him how the dragon loved sleeping on rocks warmed by the sun. How, on one memorable occasion, he had slipped and fallen into a stream, then spent the rest of the day glaring at the water as though it had personally insulted him.

As she spoke, Gwayne found himself paying less attention to the fire and more to her. To the light in her eyes. To the curve of her smile. And he caught himself thinking that she was beautiful. Far more beautiful than any lady he had ever known at court.

At last, she finished tying the bandage and set the strip of cloth aside.

“There,” she said. “At least now you won’t bleed all over the forest.”

Gwayne carefully touched the bandage at his temple.

“My lady, you have just saved my life and then tended my wounds besides. I fear I am greatly in your debt.”

A faint smile flickered across her lips. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Perhaps for you. From my perspective, it appears considerably more serious.”

The smile widened ever so slightly.

“You knights do enjoy exaggerating your injuries.”

Rhaena laughed softly. And at the sound of it, Gwayne went still. He had already noticed that she was beautiful. But when she smiled, something changed. Something warm lit her features from within, making it suddenly difficult to look anywhere else.

“What?” she asked, catching him staring.

Gwayne blinked, as though pulled from his thoughts.

“Forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I imagine it’s rather rude.”

“What is?”

“To stare for so long.”

To his surprise, he saw a faint flush touch her cheeks.

“And what exactly were you staring at?”

Gwayne hesitated. Then he smiled.

“I was trying to understand something.”

Rhaena folded her arms.

“And what would that be?”

Gwayne smiled.

“How is it that the most dangerous person I’ve met in a very long time also happens to be the most merciful?”

Rhaena snorted softly.

“The most dangerous?”

“You command a dragon.”

“I don’t command him.”

“I don’t know about that. When I saw him a few minutes ago, he seemed quite prepared to carry out any order you gave.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You were simply his dinner.”

“Ah, so that was the problem.”

Gwayne nodded thoughtfully.

“I was beginning to think he disliked me personally.”

That earned him a genuine laugh.

“Trust me,” Rhaena said, shaking her head, “Sheepstealer dislikes everyone personally.”

Rhaena laughed again. This time, the sound rang out louder, freer. And to Gwayne’s surprise, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction at having caused it. More satisfaction than he probably should have. So much so that he failed to notice he was staring once again.

“Again,” Rhaena said.

“What?”

“You’re staring again.”

Gwayne let out a quiet laugh. The firelight painted gold across her features. The moon turned her silver hair into threads of pale light. Her eyes reflected the flames between them.

For a moment, neither of them looked away. Then, for the first time that night, he allowed himself to say a little more than wisdom advised.

“ I may have to confess.” he said softly.

A flicker of curiosity crossed her face. “Confess what?”

His gaze remained fixed on hers.

“That I enjoy looking at you.”

Gwayne immediately understood he had spoken too directly. But it was already too late to pull the words back. For a brief moment, silence settled between them.

Gwayne kept his gaze on the fire, then suddenly spoke:

“You know, when I left camp tonight, I thought this night would be dreadful. But it turned out far better than I could have imagined.”

She understood what he meant. And that realization made her heart betray her beating a little too fast, a little too loud in the quiet between them.

The first signs of dawn were not the rays of the sun, but the birdsong rising somewhere high among the trees. Rhaena heard it before Gwayne did and instinctively lifted her head. The sky above the pine crowns was no longer as black as it had been only hours earlier. To the east, a dull grey light was slowly spilling across the horizon, and with it came a strange heaviness in her chest. The night was ending.

Gwayne noticed the change as well. He shifted his gaze from the fire to the brightening edge of the world and let out a quiet sigh.

“It seems I should return.”

Rhaena nodded, though in truth she did not want to hear it. She liked him there. More than she should have.

Over the past weeks she had grown used to solitude long days among rocks and forest paths, with only Sheepstealer for company and her own thoughts for conversation. And yet the presence of another person someone who did not look at her with fear or pity had turned out to be dangerously pleasant.

Gwayne stood. He was so tall that even beside a dragon he did not seem small. Rhaena suddenly realized she had been stealing glances at him all evening at his posture, his broad shoulders, the calm steadiness of his voice. Even now, with a fresh bandage wrapped around his temple and his cloak stained with earth from his fall, he looked as though he had stepped out of the pages of old knightly ballads.

“Thank you, Lady Rhaena,” he said. “For saving my life. For not letting your fearsome beast eat me. And for keeping me company tonight.”

She gave the faintest smile. Damn it, Gwayne thought. She truly was beautiful. Not in the cold, distant way some Targaryens were said to be. No there was something different in her. She did not smile often. But when she did, it felt as though the world itself grew a little brighter.

“Next time, I’ll bring you food.”

“Gwayne…”

“And clean clothes.”

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“I should.”

“You are impossibly stubborn,” she said.

Her heart quickened. His gaze was too warm. Too steady. And worst of all she had no desire to look away from it. When he extended his hand, she almost instinctively placed her own into his. His fingers closed gently around hers. Unlike many of the men she had known at court, he made no attempt to impress through force or arrogance. There was a natural courtesy in every movement, something effortless and unlearned.

Gwayne slowly lifted her hand and pressed a light kiss. It was barely there soft, almost weightless. Yet the touch sent a faint shiver through her entire body, as if the world had tilted by the smallest degree and never quite settled back into place.

“Such a young lady has no place among forests and cliffs,” he said quietly.

She offered a sad smile.

“I don’t know where my place is.”

He fell silent for a few seconds, looking straight into her eyes.

“If it helps, Lady Rhaena,” he said at last, “neither do I know where mine is.”