Heilir Hildar Til.

Some nights you managed it. Others, you lay upon your side with one hand beneath your cheek and stared into the darkness, remembering the weight of Gwayne’s arm across your waist.

Tonight was one of the latter. You turned beneath the blankets, pulling them closer around yourself. It had been months. Months since you had last felt his arms around you. Months since you’d heard his laugh echo through these chambers. Months since he’d kissed you farewell and promised, with that infuriating confidence of his, that he would return to you.

“I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”

You had nearly laughed when he’d said it. Now, you though you might have killed for the sound of his voice.

You closed your eyes trying to go back to sleep. Then came the sound. Three knocks. They were not loud, nor were they the sharp pounding of a servant at the door.

Three measured knocks. You frowned, who would be knocking at this hour?

You pushed yourself upright, gathering the loose folds of your nightgown around your legs.

Another knock. You crossed the chamber and opened the door. And then you forgot how to breathe. For a heartbeat, you thought you were dreaming.

There in the corridor before you stood Gwayne. Your Gwayne.

He was thinner. Gods, he was thinner.

His auburn hair was longer than when he left, tangled by rain and travel. The months have not been kind to him, giving him a harder, older appearance. His cloak was filthy, his boots covered with mud, and there was a fresh cut along his cheek.

But his yes—his eyes were exactly as you remembered. They found yours and everything in his face broke.

“My wife.” His words came out barely above a whisper.

Your hands flew to your mouth. “Gwayne? Is it really you?”

He swallowed and he stepped forward. You did not wait for him to say another word. You threw yourself into his arms. He caught you with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his arms closing around you so tightly that your feet nearly left the floor.

You buried your face against his shoulder. He smelled of horses, smoke, rain, leather, and the road. It was the most beautiful scent you had ever known.

“You’re home,” you whispered.

“I am home.” He repeated in that gravelly voice of his you loved so much.

Your fingers twisted into the back of his cloak. “You said you’d be home before I would have time to miss you.”

The strain in his voice you could tell he regretted saying those words to you. “I was wrong.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were starting to water. That frightened you more than the blood. Rarely did he show this kind of feeling.

“What happened?” you asked cautiously.

Gwayne’s jaw tightened and for a moment, he said nothing. Then his forehead came down against yours. “Everything.”

Your heart sank instantly. You reached up and touched the cut upon his cheek. “You are hurt.”

“Nothing worth fretting over. I have been worst.” He admitted.

“Gwayne….”

He gave you the faintest smile at the sound of his name. “There she is. The wife who worries.”

You frowned, “You must mean the wife who has spent the last few months wondering if her husband was ever going to come back to me.”

His smile vanished then. He caught your hand and pressed his lips against your knuckles.

“I truly am sorry for this.” He spoke.

You nodded, “Yes as you should be. You should have written or have sent some type of word to let me know that you were alive.”

“I tried.” He replied.

“You should have—”

“I missed you.” He interrupted.

The words stopped you cold. His thumb brushed over the ring he gave you all those years ago. “I missed you every gods forsaken day since I left you here.”

Your anger dissolved so quickly it almost hurt. You touched his face, lightly brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I missed you too.”

He closed his eyes. For several breaths, neither of you moved. Then he whispered, “I thought I would never see you again.”

You felt your throat tighten. “What happened?”

Gwayne stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He removed his dirty cloak and let it fall carelessly upon the floor. You had never seen him do such a thing. Gwayne Hightower was a man who could be particular about the polishing of his boots and of his sword. Tonight though, he seemed barely aware that he had feet.

“Ser Criston. He was a good man, but I do not know what took hold of him in the end.”

You stared at him urging him to go on.

“He means to find the Tully host.”

“In the Riverlands?” you asked.

“Where else would you find them?” His laugh was bitter after he said that.

 “We’ve been marching through mud and rain, half starved, with hardly enough men to fill a lord’s hall by the end. Every road led us to an ambush against smaller parties on their way to join their Lord Paramount. But they finally caught on to our tactics and returned what we started.”

He dragged a hand over his face. “We were sent onward when we should have withdrawn.”

“By Ser Criston?”

All Gwayne could do was nod, “Yes by Ser Criston.”

There was something in the way he said the name be it resignation, disgust, or fear. Gwayne sat heavily upon the edge of your bed.

“I looked at the men marching beside me,” he said quietly, “Good men. Men with wives. Sons. Daughters. Men who had already lost brothers.”

He stared at his hands, “And I thought, For What? For a war between a brother and sister?”

You came to sit beside him then and he looked at you. “I knew if I kept going with him, I would die.”

Your heart stopped but he continued. “And I realized….” He reached for your hand. “I did not want to any longer.”

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Because of the war?”

His gaze softened. “No, because of you.”

Your eyes burned then trying not to let the tears fall that have been threatening the moment you laid your eyes upon him again.

He lifted your hand to his mouth and placed a kiss upon each knuckle. “I have spent months trying to convince myself that honor was worth more than everything else.”

His voice broke slightly then. “I do not believe that anymore.”

You leaned toward him. “And you came home.”

“I came home.” Echoing your words.

“To me.”

“Always.” He spoke softly.

You kissed him finally. It was not graceful. It was not the sort of kiss poets wrote about. It was desperate. Months of loneliness poured into it. His hands came around your waist, pulling you into his lap as though he feared you might disappear as if this were a dream. You cupped his face between your hands. He kissed you again, slower this time as if savoring the moment.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “You are real,” he murmured.

You laughed softly through the tears that finally broke. “I should hope so.”

“I dreamt of you.” He whispered.

“Often?” you asked.

“Every night.”

Your breath caught. He rested his forehead against your shoulder. “Sometimes I would wake in the mud and reach for you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the loose sleeve of your nightgown, touching the bare skin of your arm. “And then I’d remember how far away you truly were.”

You ran your fingers through his auburn hair. “I did the same if I’m being honest.”

His eyes darkened instantly at your admission. “You did?”

You blushed from the heat of his gaze alone. “Sometimes.”

A slow wicked grin appeared on his face. “Did you?”

“Do not look so pleased with yourself.” Swatting your husband’s arm.

“I have been away at war for months. Surely, I am entitled to a little vanity. Especially when my wife has admitted she longed for me after all these months.”

“You are entitled to nothing.” You teased.

“Not even a kiss?”

You pretended to consider it. “Hmm perhaps one.”

And so, he kissed you more than once. You could not help but smile against his mouth. “That was more than one.”

“I am a soldier. I have poor counting skills.” He jested.

“You were never poor at counting.”

His eyebrow rose. “Oh?”

You felt heat rise into your cheeks again. “Do not make me regret welcoming you home.”

His arms tightened around you as if not wanting to let you go. “I have regretted many things these past months.” His voice softened. “Coming home is not one of them regardless at what they may say about me.”

You kissed his forehead. He rested his head against your shoulder again. For a long while, neither of you spoke. You simply held him. Your husband. Alive and home in your arms.

Eventually, you whispered, “Will you stay?”

He lifted his head, “I am not going anywhere.”

“You simply cannot promise that.”

His hand settled over your heart then. “I can promise you this. Tonight, I am here and the day after I will be here.”

“And what about the day after that?” you asked and he couldn’t help but smile. “You are becoming demanding.”

“I think it is the least of what I deserve. I have waited a very long time for you to come back to me.” You said

“I know.’ He spoke. He kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I intend to make up for every loss moment.”

Your breath caught once again. There was something warm in his eyes now,something that had not been there when he’d first entered the room. You knew that look. You had missed that look almost as much as you’d miss him.

“Gwayne…”

“Yes, my love?”

“You are simply filthy.”

He glanced down at himself then. “Ah. Yes, seems that I am.”

“You smell like your horse, and you tracked mud all over the floor.”

He looked down at himself and the trail of mud that led to your shared bed.

“I am going to call for the servants to bring you a bath.”

“Yes, my lady.” He answered.

“And then we are going to sleep.”

He smiled, “Yes, my love.”

“And?”

He leaned closer. “And what my love?”

“I believe you know what I desire.”

His smile became slow and wicked from your admission. “I believe I do.”

You pushed lightly against his chest.

“We must get you your bath.”

He caught your wrist before you could move away to call for the servants.

“Will you join me?” he asked.

You stared at him. “Gwayne.”

“I have spent months sleeping beneath the stars and in the mud, eating hard bread, and being shot at by men who would very much like me dead.” He kissed your palm. “I think I’ve earned a bath with my wife.”

“You are shameless Gwayne Hightower.”

“Yes, but I have missed you.” He spoke.

You softened then, “I have missed you too.” Placing another kiss upon his lips.

He stood, ushering you to call for a bath with a wicked grin. There was no chance you two would be getting much sleep tonight.

For the first time since he had left Oldtown, you saw something resembling peace settle across his face. And when he kissed you again, you understood something.

War might have taken months from you. It might have taken friends, certainty, and whatever faith Gwayne once placed in men like Ser Criston. But it had not taken this.

It had not taken him.

And when the door finally closed behind you both from the servants setting up for this long overdue bath, the Hightower’s beacon continued to burn above Oldtown.

A light in the darkness.