could I ask for a Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader- where the reader is on team black and he is obviously on green, And he sees her on dragon back during one of the battles heโs apart of ?
Pairings: Gwayne Hightower x Wife!Reader
Summary: at Rookโs Rest you find more than battle
WARNINGS: angst, hurt to comfort, reader is team black, reader is Rhaenyraโs sister, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, my man is desperate in this one
A/n: bring back men yearning pls
THE ROAR of dragons tore violently through the sky, and you felt it vibrate in your bones even before Cannibal spread his immense black wings over the battlefield of Rook's Rest. The air was so thick with smoke it burned your lungs with every breath, heavy with the acrid stench of ash, freshly spilled blood, and the metallic tang of clashing weapons. Beneath you, the battle stretched to the edge of the forest like a vast open wound carved into the earth: thousands of men fought amid agonized screams and frantic neighing, tattered banners whipped through the flames, while shattered catapults and overturned wagons littered the ground with splintered wood and lifeless bodies. From the sky everything seemed small, and yet you could make out every detail, every knight struck down, every blade sinking into flesh. Cannibal let out a low, rumbling growl, his massive body trembling beneath you, eager to descend into what, for him, was nothing more than a feast.
Your eyes were fixed on Rhaenys Targaryen. She had fought like a queen, like a legend destined to be remembered for centuries, and even from that distance you could see the fierce elegance with which she guided Meleys through smoke and fire. You had arrived too late. Fate had already chosen for her. You watched the enormous jaws of Vhagar close around the red dragon's neck with a brutality that stole your breath, the sound of bones breaking blending with Meleys' desperate roar, and for a moment time seemed to slow to a halt. Then the dragon fell. It dropped like a star devoured by the sky, crashing into the castle walls below in an explosion of stone, fire, and dust. The impact made even Cannibal shudder, and a towering column of flames surged upward, swallowing everything. You gripped the saddle so tightly your fingers ached, as a dull, savage pain tore through your chest.
Cannibal roared, and his cry echoed across the mountains and over the battlefield, forcing men and horses alike to pause for a fleeting instant. Even Vhagar seemed to stiffen. Atop the oldest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen slowly turned his head toward you. His single eye narrowed, immediately recognizing the dark shape of Cannibal emerging from the clouds like an omen of death. A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips. He knew you. He could read the fury consuming you better than anyone, because that same fury ran in his blood as well. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Brother and sister remained suspended above an army that continued slaughtering itself, watching one another like two predators deciding which would devour the other.
Below, Gwayne Hightower, the man who had become your husband only a few years earlier, found himself unable to breathe. He saw you emerge from the sea of smoke with a determination he had never forgotten, Cannibal's vast wings spread like a shadow capable of blotting out the sun itself. For a moment, the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, the noise of armor, and the crackle of flames all vanished. The world seemed to shrink until it held only you. You, who had once shared his bed in the silent chambers of Oldtown. You, who in rare moments of peace had spoken his name with softness. You, who laughed so quietly that he had to lean closer just to hear you. You, who now rode toward death. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He had spent the past weeks trying to convince himself he had forgotten you, that he had buried every feeling along with your broken marriage. He had told himself the war had erased everything, that oaths mattered more than love, that you now belonged to different worlds. And yet one glimpse of you was enough to shatter every lie he had so carefully built.
He still loved you. He understood it with brutal clarity as he watched you lean forward in the saddle, completely fused with your dragon. He could still remember the warmth of your skin against his, the scent of your hair when you fell asleep on his chest, the way you would look away whenever he tried to kiss you first, only to make him chase you with a laugh. In truth, he had always been the desperate one. He was the one who sought your lips with impatience, who chased every small gesture of affection as though it were a privilege. You never denied him, but you always made him earn it, and that was what he missed most. Not the caresses, not the kisses, but the constant need you had created within him, that hunger for your presence that no other woman had ever been able to satisfy. He looked at you now, smeared with ash, infinitely different from the girl he had married and yet exactly the same. Still capable of breaking his heart with a single glance. He wanted to meet you in the ashes of your yesterdays when life was easier, waiting where the light used to fall, recalling what you had when present felt empty. Learning how to miss you.
He understood it completely the moment Cannibal lowered his head and plunged into a dive toward Vhagar. The sky itself seemed to crack under the force of the impending collision. Gwayne stepped forward without even realizing it, as though reaching out a hand might somehow touch you up there. "Don't do it..." he whispered, but his words were swallowed by the chaos of battle, lost to the wind and the thunder of dragons. No one heard him, not even you. Perhaps that was for the best, because he knew you well enough to understand that you would not have stopped anyway.
You faced your brother without the slightest hesitation. There was no fear in your movements, no doubt, not even the faintest trace of mercy. Only fury, fueled by the grief of Rhaenys's death and years of smoldering resentment. Cannibal opened his jaws, revealing rows of enormous, jagged teeth, and his roar made the air tremble before a torrent of black and red flame engulfed Vhagar. Aemond's dragon answered at once, unleashing a blaze so vast it resembled a burning wall. The two infernos collided in the sky, creating a storm of sparks and ash that rained down upon the battlefield like fire. Below them, men screamed and scrambled for cover, while terrified horses broke ranks, trampling friend and foe alike. Aemond guided Vhagar with precision, every command delivered through the slightest shift of his body, while you responded with equal instinct, as if Cannibal were an extension of your own will. The two dragons crashed into each other with devastating force, claw against claw, wing against wing, locking together in a violent dance that seemed to shake the very air.
It was an impossible battle. Gwayne knew it. Everyone did. Vhagar was the oldest, the largest, the most powerful of the living dragons. Every battle she had fought had carved scars into her immense body, shaping her into a creature that seemed made for war. Cannibal, for all his ferocity and wildness, was still younger, smaller, forced to make up with speed what he lacked in strength. And yet he did not yield an inch. He continued to assault Vhagar with relentless determination, forcing even the colossal dragon to recoil beneath the violence of his attacks. Gwayne followed every movement, his heart clenched in a vice. He saw you lean from the saddle as the wind lashed your ash-streaked hair, saw blood running down your temple without you seeming to notice, saw your eyes burning with rage. It was the same expression you had worn the day of your separation, the day he had spoken the words that destroyed you both, confessing that he would fight for Aegon. He still remembered the silence that followed, far more painful than any scream. In that moment, you had understood that something between you had broken forever.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Cannibal seized a fleeting opening in Vhagar's guard and lunged at the massive dragon's neck with savage ferocity. His jaws snapped shut with a terrifying crack, sinking his teeth into the ancient armored scales until they pierced through. The roar that erupted from Vhagar's throat was so powerful it made the sky tremble, a sound filled with pain and fury that echoed for miles and brought the battle to a stunned, fleeting halt. Dark blood streamed down the old dragon's neck, evaporating almost instantly in the heat of the flames. Vhagar writhed violently, trying to break free from the grip, while Aemond pulled hard on the reins, shouting commands in the tongue of Old Valyria. Cannibal did not let go. He tightened his hold with relentless determination, intent on tearing flesh down to the bone. Below, Gwayne held his breath, unable even to blink.
Vhagar crashed to the ground with brutal force. Her enormous claws sank into the blood-soaked earth, shattering stone, wagons, and bodies alike without distinction, while a wave of dust and debris rose all around her, forcing men and horses to retreat in panic. The thunderous beat of her wings swept away already-tattered banners, feeding the fires that devoured Rook's Rest, and her roar echoed through the broken castle walls. You did not hesitate for even a moment. You pulled sharply on Cannibal's reins, guiding him with the weight of your body, and the dragon understood your command before you spoke a single word. With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared back into the sky, leaving behind the black smoke and flames that reflected across his dark scales. You were finally satisfied.
Below, Gwayne Hightower followed your every movement without even noticing what was happening around him. The screams of soldiers, the clash of steel, the shouted orders, all of it reached him as though muffled and distant, as if he were submerged underwater. Only you existed. His eyes could not leave your figure as you slowly pulled away above the battlefield, higher and higher, closer to the smoke-blackened clouds. That was when something caught his attention. A short distance away, among the charred remains of a collapsed tower, an archer stood as still as a statue. He was filthy with dirt and blood, his face smeared with soot, his hands trembling so badly it seemed impossible that he could still draw a bow. And yet his gaze was steady, fixed on you. The arrow was already nocked, ready to fly. For one terrible instant, Gwayne saw clearly the path it would take. His body made the decision long before his mind did.
It was as if he moved on instinct alone, adrenaline suddenly surging through his veins. In a few strides he reached the man, slamming into him hard enough to make him stagger. But the archer's fingers had already released the string. The arrow flew regardless, slicing through the air with a thin, deadly whistle, so fast it was almost invisible. Gwayne lifted his gaze at once, unable even to breathe. He felt his heart pounding so violently it hurt, as he followed that slender line of death climbing into the sky.
The arrow that would have surely struck your heart hit your shoulder instead. Even from that distance, he saw your body jolt from the impact. Blood splattered across Cannibal's black scales, staining the already dirtied fabric of your clothing, while your face twisted in a sudden grimace of pain that made his stomach tighten. Your body wavered dangerously on the dragon's back. One hand reached desperately for purchase on the saddle, the other instinctively grasped the wound. For a long, endless moment, it truly seemed as though you might fall.
Gwayne felt a scream rise in his chest, but he could not release it. It remained trapped there, choked into nothing more than a broken breath. "No..." he managed to whisper, his voice so weak it was swallowed instantly by the wind.
Then he saw you react. With sheer stubbornness, you clenched your teeth and slowly straightened in the saddle. Your hand trembled as it grasped the shaft of the arrow lodged in your flesh, but you did not try to pull it free. You simply pressed your palm against the wound in a desperate attempt to slow the blood that continued to run down your arm. Cannibal, sensing your pain, let out a low, uneasy growl, but continued to climb, obedient to your commands. Gwayne released a trembling breath he had not even realized he was holding. He had saved you. He had changed the course of that arrow. He had betrayed his men, his oath, his very house. He had done it for you. He had chosen you. He watched you grow smaller and smaller against the gray sky, his chest rising in uneven, ragged breaths, unable to find a rhythm.
And then he saw you fall.
Your hand slipped. Your fingers, weakened by blood loss, slowly lost their grip on the saddle. Gwayne's eyes widened. For a moment, he convinced himself you would recover once more, that you would seize the reins again, that Cannibal would correct his flight. You were strong, the strongest woman he ever knew. But it did not happen. He watched you slip from the dragon's back in slow motion. Your body separated from the saddle and hung suspended in the void for a fraction of a second before being swallowed by the sky.
"No." This time the word left his lips with more force, but it was still too small, too fragile to reach you.
His heart seemed to stop. Gwayne took a step forward, then another, without even knowing where he was going. He kept staring at the sky like a madman, reaching out a hand in your direction, as though the distance between you might suddenly vanish, as though wanting it enough could make it so. But you were too far away, too high above him. And he was only a man, with a sword too heavy in his hands and too much love in his heart, bound to a ground that would never let him reach you. He watched you fall, powerless to do anything at all. Your hair scattered in the air, and from that distance your face seemed strangely serene. At peace, as if the war and all its suffering had suddenly been stripped away from you. Then your body disappeared beyond the veil of smoke and low clouds, swallowed by a void Gwayne could not see.
The noise of battle returned all at once, crashing over him with unbearable force. Everything felt too loud, too close. Gwayne stood frozen in the chaos, his eyes still fixed on the place where you had vanished. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his sword nearly slipped from his grasp, held only by a strength that was no longer there. He could not move. He could not even think. He saw the moment again and again in his mind. He had tried to save you. He had seen the arrow. He had acted without hesitation. If he had not struck that archer, the shaft would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly. And yet it had not been enough. He had only changed where the wound landed. Only delayed the inevitable.
A cold, unbearable emptiness began to consume his chest, hollowing him out from within, stealing the breath from his lungs. His knees nearly gave way beneath him, and he had to drive the tip of his sword into the ground to keep from collapsing. He felt his heart tightening more and more, as though an invisible hand were crushing it without mercy. All his life, he had tried to be the man others expected him to be, a good knight, a worthy son of his house, a man faithful to his oaths. And he had failed. He had tried to be a good husband too, when he had still had the chance, but he had failed at that as well. Every choice he had made, every sacrifice he had endured, seemed to have led him inevitably to this exact moment. You had fallen anyway. The arrow had reached you anyway. And he had not been able to stop it.
He slowly raised a hand to his face, brushing at his eyes as though wiping away the tears threatening to fall might also erase the image of what he had just seen. But the memory of your body falling into the void remained etched behind his eyelids with brutal clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vivid it became, the heavier the weight of guilt pressed against his chest. Perhaps this was his punishment. For the selfishness that was planted in the human body. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for his greed. He had wanted both, had demanded to keep the honor of his house and, at the same time, the love of the woman he had lost. He had believed he could serve two masters without losing anything. And the gods, as they always did, had claimed the price of that illusion.
Night fell slowly over Rook's Rest, swallowing everything in its darkness, erasing every trace of the battle. The last cries of the wounded had faded one by one, replaced by the low crackling of fires lit among the ranks of the victorious army. Tongues of flame flickered in the night wind, casting brief light upon exhausted faces smeared with dried blood, soot, and dirt, eyes reddened by fatigue and war, hands still unable to stop trembling after hours spent gripping a sword. The acrid smell of smoke lingered everywhere, mingling with that of burned flesh, worn leather, and blood soaking into the ground. Here and there someone laughed; others drank in silence, staring into the void with hollow gazes, too drained even to speak. The crows had already begun gathering in the trees at the edges of the battlefield, patient and still, waiting for morning to claim their feast.
Among the soldiers, the same words passed from mouth to mouth, whispered beside the fires. They said the battle was over, at least for that day. They said Vhagar had survived, though gravely wounded, and that Cannibal had vanished into the sky, never to return. But above all, they said that you were dead. That after falling from your dragon's back, you had plunged into the lake beyond the forest, swallowed by the black waters without leaving a trace. Some even claimed they had seen your body disappear beneath the surface. Others swore no one could survive such a fall. Each time your name was spoken, it was followed by a satisfied laugh. To many, you had been nothing more than a traitorous princess who had met the fate she deserved.
Gwayne Hightower, however, could not believe a single word of it. He simply could not. Sitting a short distance from the others, his back resting against the rough trunk of a great oak at the edge of the encampment, he stared straight ahead without truly seeing anything. His cloak was still stained with mud and dried blood, his armor scratched in several places, barely reflecting the flickering light of the nearest fire. His hands lay motionless on his knees, as still as those of a statue. Around him, the camp slowly drifted to sleep. Some soldiers continued recounting moments from the battle, their voices thick with exhaustion and wine. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else wept, believing no one was watching. The blacksmiths gradually extinguished their makeshift forges, the stablehands checked on the last surviving horses, and little by little every sound seemed to fade, becoming muffled and distant. Gwayne had the distinct sensation of standing behind an invisible barrier that separated him from the rest of the world. His body was present, but his mind remained suspended in the sky, in the exact moment he had seen you fall.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, it took only the briefest closing of his eyes for it all to begin again. He saw the archer. The arrow leaving the bowstring. The moment he struck the soldier in a desperate attempt to deflect the shot. Then he saw the bolt reach you anyway, burying itself in your shoulder with a violence that stole his breath. He saw the blood staining your dress. Your hand clutching desperately at the wound. Your fingers slowly losing their grip on the saddle. Your body tilting ever so slightly. And finally, the fall. Again, and again, and again. Each time, his stomach twisted painfully, forcing him to bend forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyelids until it nearly hurt, as if physical pain might erase what tormented his mind. But it did not work. The image remained there, seared behind his eyes with unbearable clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vividly it returned, as though the Gods liked the way it devoured him from within. All he could do was relive it and hope, somehow, to earn forgiveness for his sins.
A long, trembling breath slipped from his lips as he slowly ran a hand over his weary face. Beneath his fingers he felt skin caked with dirt and dried blood, and the cut he had taken across his cheek during the fight. He was exhausted, but he knew he would not sleep. Around the fires, some soldiers drank to their victory. They had accepted your death with a readiness that made him sick. They called you a traitor. They laughed, imagining your body dragged to the bottom of the lake. Someone even claimed that Cannibal had abandoned you, unable to save his own rider. Gwayne had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to tear it, just to keep himself from rising and striking the first man who dared speak your name with such contempt.
Dragons fell, and their riders died. It had always been so. Ever since the Dance of the Dragons had begun, every battle had claimed its toll of fire and blood. It was the fate of those who rode such creatures, everyone knew it. Everyone accepted it. But that simple truth did nothing to comfort him. Because to him, you had never been merely a rider. You were not just a Targaryen princess. You were not simply a name destined to appear in the songs of bards.
You were his wife. The woman before whom he had spoken vows he believed eternal. The girl he had learned to love long before politics, war, and the duties of your respective houses forced you apart. You had been his home, his refuge, his greatest weakness and even greater undoing. Even after your separation, even after finding yourselves on opposing sides, he had never stopped thinking of you. He had tried to convince himself otherwise, of course. He had told himself that time would heal every wound, that distance would extinguish that feeling that picked at his chest. But every attempt had failed miserably. You had remained his greatest regret. His ruin. And, despite everything, you were still his only love.
When the last fire in the camp dwindled to a bed of reddish embers and even the final conversations faded into silence, broken only by the snores of sleeping soldiers, Gwayne knew he could not remain still a moment longer. He rose slowly, careful not to make a sound. His joints protested from the strain of the day, but he did not notice. He adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, left his sword sheathed, and walked away without looking back. He moved between the tents like a silent shadow, avoiding the sleeping men and the sentries who watched the forest with heavy eyes. Each step carried him farther from the camp and closer to the place where you had vanished. He did not truly know what he was searching for, perhaps only a body to mourn, a grave before which he could kneel. Perhaps he needed to see with his own eyes the final proof of your death, because a part of him stubbornly refused to believe it.
The forest welcomed him with silence. The trees towered high above his head, turning the moonlight into thin blades of silver that barely pierced the dense weave of branches. The ground was damp, covered in leaves and moss that muffled his steps, while the wind stirred the treetops, producing a constant rustling like an incomprehensible whisper. Now and then a broken branch cracked beneath his boots, or a nocturnal creature fled through the underbrush, but otherwise the forest seemed to hold its breath with him. The air was far colder than in the camp, damp and heavy. Each breath filled his lungs with a painful sensation, yet he kept walking without slowing. His heart beat faster with every step, feeding a hope he desperately tried to smother, for fear it would destroy him.
When at last the trees began to thin and the lake appeared before his eyes, Gwayne stopped instinctively. The water lay still as a black mirror, so dark it seemed bottomless. The moon reflected upon its surface in trembling fragments, barely disturbed by the wind, while a thin mist began to rise from the shore. No sound came from the water. No ripple. No sign to tell what had happened only hours before.
Gwayne swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Please..." he whispered hoarsely, not knowing whether he was praying to the gods, to the lake, or to you. It was a desperate plea, spoken without even realizing it.
He began to walk slowly along the shore, his eyes darting frantically from one point to another. He searched every reflection, every log carried by the water, every dark shape lying among the stones and reeds. His hands trembled so violently that he had to clench them repeatedly to keep from losing all control. The farther he went, the more despair grew within him. He was ready to throw himself into the lake without a second thought if only he glimpsed a fragment of your cloak beneath the water. He did not care about the depth, nor the cold. He did not even care about dying. He only kept searching for you, with the same stubborn determination he had always had when it came to you.
Then, suddenly, his gaze stopped. You were there, lying on the shore, motionless, just a few steps from the dark water. Your hair, still wet, spread in disarray over the damp grass like threads of silver in the moonlight. Your clothes were soaked with water and blood, clinging heavily to your body, while one of your arms lay abandoned at your side. For a long, endless moment, Gwayne stood completely still. His heart nearly stopped, and terror seized his throat so tightly he could not even breathe. From that distance he could not see the rise and fall of your chest. He could not tell whether you were breathing. And his greatest fear, the one that had driven every step he had taken toward the lake, rose up once more to devour him. He feared he had arrived too late. He feared the gods had made a mockery of him.
Gwayne lunged forward, breathless, running along the uneven shore of the lake without regard for the slippery stones, the low branches that scratched his face, or the mud that slowed his steps. The only thing he could see was you. Every beat of his heart felt like a blow struck directly against his ribs, so fast it stole his breath. When he finally reached you, he dropped to his knees beside you, splashing water and mud across his cloak. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to convince himself that you were truly there. He stared at you with a terrified expression, as if a single wrong movement might make you vanish before his eyes. Then his hands, trembling uncontrollably, moved slowly toward your face. He brushed your forehead gently, as though he feared even the pressure of his own fingers. He caressed your cold cheeks, still damp with lake water, tracing the line of your jaw down to your neck in a desperate attempt to feel a pulse. A strand of silver hair, stuck to your skin, covered part of your face. He moved it aside with infinite care, letting his fingers linger briefly in your hair in a gesture so familiar it almost hurt him. How many times had he done the same in your chambers in Oldtown, when you fell asleep beside him with your face hidden against his chest? How many times had he watched those strands spread across the pillow, convincing himself that such happiness would last forever? Now that same hand trembled too violently to even touch you.
He was already sinking into the abyss of despair when it happened.
A faint breath, barely perceptible, slipped from your parted lips, breaking the silence of the lake. It was the slightest whisper, so weak that another man might not even have noticed it. But Gwayne felt it, felt it with every fiber of his being. His eyes flew open in disbelief as the world seemed to halt around him once more. He remained motionless for a few seconds, almost afraid he had imagined it. Then your chest rose slightly, in a slow, labored movement, but enough to shatter, in a single instant, all the pain that had suffocated him until then.
A broken sound escaped his lips before he could stop it, something between an incredulous laugh and a choked sob. Tears stung his eyes, but he made no attempt to hide them. "You're alive..." he murmured softly, as though he feared that speaking the words too loudly might frighten the gods into taking back what they had just spared him. He was definitely a selfish, selfish man. "You're alive..." he repeated, this time with his face bent close to yours, as if he needed to hear the words from his own lips to truly believe they were real.
Urgency immediately replaced his astonishment. Gwayne roused himself, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and without wasting another moment he seized the edge of his cloak. With a sharp tear, he ripped a long strip of fabric from it, ignoring the sound of the cloth splitting. His fingers were clumsy, made awkward by fear and cold, yet he tried to press the makeshift bandage gently against the wound still bleeding on your shoulder. The arrow was gone, likely broken during the fall or lost in the waters of the lake, but the blood continued to seep slowly, soaking your already drenched clothes. Each time the fabric darkened with red, Gwayne's heart seemed to tighten further. He lifted you with the utmost care, slipping one arm behind your back and the other beneath your legs just enough to move you away from the shore. He drew you against his chest, trying to shield you from the cold night and the damp ground. At once he felt the weight of your body yield against him as he had never felt before. Your breathing, weak but present, broke against his armor and passed through the fabric of his tunic to reach his skin. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
"Stay with me..." he whispered, his voice breaking as he lowered his head until it brushed against your forehead. "Please... stay. Don't leave me now."
For several endless moments, he feared you had not heard him at all. Then your lashes began to tremble softly. Your eyelids lifted with agonizing slowness, as if even that simple movement required immense effort. Your eyes, still clouded with confusion and pain, wandered aimlessly before finally settling on his face. You looked at him for a long time in silence, your expression lost and distant. It was as if you were trying to remember where you were, or perhaps simply trying to understand whether he was real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Gwayne held even his breath, terrified that this fragile connection might shatter.
You continued to stare at him. Your lips parted slightly and, in a voice so faint it nearly blended with the wind through the trees, you asked: "Am I dead?"
Those words pierced his heart. Gwayne shook his head immediately, leaning closer to you. One hand remained firm behind your back, the other still cradled your face as if he feared you might vanish at any moment. "No." The answer came too quickly, broken by emotion. "No... you're here. You're alive." He swallowed hard, but the words poured out of him uncontrollably, dragged forth by weeks of silence and a guilt he could no longer contain. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, lowering his gaze briefly before searching for yours again. "I'm so sorry. I... I didn't meanโ I saw that man. I thought that if I could stop him..." His voice broke. He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady the tremor in his chest. "If I hadn't intervened, maybe... maybe the arrow would have taken a different path. Maybe you wouldn't have fallen. Iโ" He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to continue. "I can't stop thinking about it."
His hands instinctively sought yours. They always sought your. When he finally managed to lace his fingers with yours, he was almost startled by the contrast between the warmth of his own skin and the cold that had overtaken yours. They were freezing, so cold it frightened him. He held them with the utmost care, as though afraid of hurting you, then slowly brought them to his lips. He pressed a long, trembling kiss upon them, just as he had done countless times during your marriage. It was a gesture that had become an involuntary reflex of his love. Every time you were sad, every time you were afraid, every time he returned from a long ride and found you waiting for him, he would take your hands and kiss them in that exact same way. Now he did it again, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his heart in pieces.
You were so pretty even like this. His pretty girl.
"It's my fault..." he whispered against your skin, almost unable to look at you. "You fell because of me. I made you fall. I don't even know how to ask for your forgiveness, my love."
You watched him for a long time without interrupting. There was no anger in your eyes, only an infinite weariness, made deeper still by the pain of your wound. Slowly, with an effort that broke his heart just to witness, you freed one hand from his grasp and lifted it toward his face. Your fingers trembled visibly as they reached his cheek. You touched him lightly, with a caress so gentle it felt like the brush of a feather. Gwayne remained completely still, holding even his breath. It had been so long since you had last sought his face. "You need not to apologize..." you murmured, your voice barely audible. A faint smile appeared on your chapped lips. "You were only protecting your family. Just as I do."
He lowered his gaze slowly, letting his forehead rest against yours. What an angel you were, he thought not even the fairest maiden could ever hope to be like you. What monster he was to ruining you like this, rotting you until your core. "It shouldn't be this way..." he whispered bitterly, gently stroking your still-damp hair. His fingers moved through those strands with the same tenderness as before, as if every gesture might carry you back to when you had been happy. "We shouldn't be on opposite sides. We shouldn't be forced to choose." He lifted his eyes again to meet yours. "You too are my family."
His hand lingered on your face for a few moments more, caressing you hesitantly. It was as though he were touching you for the first time, and yet as if his body remembered perfectly every line of your face. His fingers traced slowly along your cheek, the curve of your jaw, until they came to rest near your lips. The most beautiful lips he so loved kissing. For a moment, it felt to him as though he were back in your chamber in Oldtown, he could almost hear the rain against the windows, smell the burnt candles and the warmth of the sheets. For a few heartbeats, the war ceased to exist. There was only the two of you.
He leaned down toward your face, and finally he kissed you. That kiss carried every unspoken word, every night spent longing for you, every wrong choice that had led you both to that lake. His lips trembled slightly against yours, as though he feared it might truly be the last time he would ever be able to do so. They were soft despite being chapped by cold and exhaustion. And you, despite the pain coursing through every part of your body, let yourself fall into him, into his arms, against his chest. That was where you belonged, in his arms. Gwayne held you a little tighter, one hand finding your waist, careful not to touch your wound.
How he loved kissing you. How he loved when you clung to him as he was your savior. His heart always exploded in an hundreds of sparkles, making him dizzy with your taste. He felt so drunk of you, feeling you everywhere. Yet Gwayne wanted to feel you even more, merge his body into yours, flesh into flesh. He wanted to burn into you. He wanted you to kiss him forever.
He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. Why he wanted so much? Is he allowed to wanting?
Itโs was so hard not to when you touched him so, looking like the prettiest dream.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches. Your breaths still mingled in the cold night air, your foreheads nearly resting against each other, lips still chasing. His eyes could not leave yours, as though he feared that looking away might cause him to lose you again. He remained there, motionless, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. He could not let you go. After believing you dead, after watching you fall from the sky, after thinking he would never hear your breathing again, separating from you now felt simply impossible.
