#hotd 3

At first, when Gwayne regained the scraps of his own consciousness, he wasn’t sure if he should chuckle at his luck, thank the gods or cry out from the pain. He wished to do it all at once, and yet it seemed too difficult in his dreamy state. He was dizzy from blood loss and the herby scent in his bedroom.

All that occupied his mind, no matter if he was awake or fell into the grasp of suffering and delusion, was the memory of you. It was strangely comforting. Even as a little boy he imagined it to be the grand order of things in the world – a wounded or dying knight was bid to dream about his lady wife. Or a future one, that is.

Back then he imagined the woman of his life to be his friend as well. A trustee that he could lay his heart out for without worry. Someone who would listen and share. He thought about being gifted a bow made of lace that belonged to her when he left for one of his brave, knightly adventures…

But then he grew up, matured, and the ‘adventures’ turned into handling a pack of deathly outlaws that rummaged the nearby lands and the lady of his heart was a betrothed that he had only seen twice during one day.

The first one was in the dim morning before his departure. He watched you from afar, didn’t dare to speak or approach, but his eyes seemed to be glued to your figure. He wished that he would be able to turn and walk away, not wanting to stare at  a lady who wasn’t aware of being watched, but he simply couldn’t.

He wasn’t exactly enamoured, not in love at first sight as some said he should be, but he stood there at the top of the hill and his body refused to move. It was an awe of some kind, that for sure.

It has been barely a day after you traveled to Oldtown – sadly he couldn’t welcome you himself, leaving that job to his father – and the walls were apparently already choking you. That’s at least what he saw on your face when you strolled down the glade. Relief and calmness as if you were allowed to take a deep breath after a time of suffocating inside.

When the expedition that he was about to lead to take care of the rogues once for good was decided, he didn’t mind leaving at all. The order was given by his cousin just a few days before your announced arrival in the city and Gwayne felt a pinch of disappointment about that, but he did nothing to change the matter.

Not because he didn’t care about you as a future spouse, but because it was necessary. Someone had to put an end to the suffering of the smallfolk and attacks upon the Hightower caravans and the gods wanted it to be him. Simple as that. He didn’t think too much about it, but the idea of your possible approval made him bolder.

Perhaps you would feel safe knowing he was a man who could manage the lands of his family, his people. His thieves and murderers as well… It could be naive to think you even cared, he deduced, but there was a chance, right? You certainly deserved to feel safe. His mind was very strictly set on that and for a long while there was no hesitation in him.

And yet when he saw you there in the morning he truly wished that he could stay.

It was an ethereal sight in a way that he could not put into words exactly. Something chaste and pure that at the same time made him feel warm all over his body. He set his eyes on the silks, the light nightgown, not see-through at all but still delicate. The material shone in the pale sun in a way that made him want to touch it. Its ends got wet from the morning dew as it almost danced around you when you walked through the high grass.

He could clearly see when you stopped in worry and looked around, certainly feeling watched. He took a deep breath and straightened his back before moving into the castle. He had no business here, after all, scaring his dear lady. His wife-to-be…

You grimaced and pulled your cloak more over your shoulders. You thought that it was a mistake, even if the anxious feeling didn’t appear again.

You were indulging in your silly wants too much probably and too early after getting here. You could allow such things at home, even if you were always met with a punishment, but here? “Someone could think that you’re out of your mind”, said your father once during your travel here, lecturing about your customs that he called fussy and not suitable for a lady.

Well, even if it was indeed a mistake, it was a sweet one for Gwayne.

The sight stayed with him. Warmed him during the lonesome nights that he spent on the ground in his poorly made tent with his company. Usually he cared for his own comfort but now there was no time for making a better camp or finding an inn. Now he didn't care.

He wanted to go back as quickly as possible.

It was also the last thing that moved in front of his eyes before a mace crashed into his side and he let out a scowl worthy of a wounded animal.

You weren’t sure if it was the feeling of worry that settled under your skin or the thunder that roared in the distance that kept you awake. You didn’t peek in the mirror in the dim light of the candles but you could already feel how puffed your eyes were from the lack of sleep.

You weren’t the only one who felt deeply disturbed. Your dear, loyal servant joined you in your chamber somewhere around midnight with a hushed apology and begged so you would let her stay by your side. There’s something eerie about this night, milady, she said, something very wrong about it, I tell you. Even if you wished to scold her for her superstition, you felt it too.

So you spent the night together, calming each other by soft conversations and hushed laughter. 

Finally when the colour of the sky turned from deep black into grim blue, you could hear someone run through the corridor. You were unused to the sounds of the High Tower; the echoes often morphed into the sounds coming from the port, never failing to make you shiver or look over your shoulder. And yet still you could recognize that something was wrong now.

There was surely some confusion downstairs from the chamber that was given to you and you could even tell apart a few familiar voices.

Your servant scoffed and told you not to eavesdrop under the door as it’s ‘unladylike’.

“And being uninformed isn’t?” You muttered back, causing the good girl to roll her eyes.

“Fine,” she said and bowed in an unserious manner, “fine, my dearest lady. I will go check it for you.”

And she did, even though you could tell that she was even more anxious than in the night. Perhaps there was really something bad in the air…

Waiting for her to come back you moved to the window and watched the first light and last drops of the night’s rain.

She ran back inside as if something was burning behind her. She almost tripped into a nearby cabinet, barely managing to close the door before raising her voice.

“Otto Hightower wants to see you. It's about the young ser, m'lady!” She made a dramatic pause to take a breath.

“Ser Gwayne?”

“Aye! Some say he's dead,” she reported.

It almost made you drop the gown that you tried to wrap around your shoulders. You gulped hardly, feeling a knot growing in your throat. 

Gods. Over the day you have spent in Oldtown you rushed your thoughts away from him, always indulging in too much worry. You found it impossible to approach the matter with calmness, so you simply decided that it will all solve itself when you finally face him for longer. Why panic about the things you cannot change, after all?

You pitted the poor knight deeply when you heard about his condition, but you kept your hopes. You weren’t given any details about his injury anyway upon the request of your father and the ‘good will’ from Lord Otto.

But if the young Hightower was gone, or at least in critical state, then what would happen to you? You got used to being a lady in a strange town, waiting for her future husband, even if the title grew bitter on your tongue, but now? Not even married properly and already tied to a dead man…

Your maid noticed your trembling look, almost sick. She was pale herself but she moved to help you with your cloak and rubbed your shoulders.

“We have to rush, m'lady,” she instructed gently

You breathed the morning air, trying to calm yourself. “Yes… As you say.”

Moving through the staircases of the Tower you could spot how unfamiliar it was in comparison to its looks during the day. Night still lingered in the corridors, despite the first rays of the sun. You understood the seriousness of the situation – at least you thought so – and yet you regretted not taking the time to put on your gown. You shivered from the cold, wearing only your nightwear under the cloak that at least protected your dignity.

There was something pleased in the eyes of your lord father when you finally joined him and Lord Otto Hightower. As if he was glad you look a bit disheveled. A look of a woman who truly tried to rush. You weren’t sure if it was a display of your devotion to the marriage, but if so, then so be it. Faked one, surely, but only you would know. You and your servant, that is.

“You took your time, girl,” he greeted grimly. Apparently it was his rule to always scold you, always say you could do better even if he knew it was impossible.

“I–” your voice died in your throat when you spotted the worried looks of people around. You decided to merely bow to your father before turning to Lord Hightower. “I offer my apologies if I made you wait too long, my lord.”

You knew it was better to pretend you were absolutely oblivious. Jumping in with questions about Gwayne’s health would surely be improper.

He welcomed your words with a calm half-smile, but you could tell he was deathly worried. His typical compostured face stayed the same and yet there was fear in his eyes.

“It is about my son,” he said slowly, as if it pained him to use his voice. “His condition turned worse, my lady, and he asked for–”

“He's not dead then?” It broke out of your mouth before you could bite your tongue. Gods, you cringed at the awful silence your words caused and could almost hear your father’s jaw clenching. “I–I feared the worst, forgive me…” you tried to explain.

Lord Otto shook his head and offered a comforting expression.

“He is not dead, no,” he assured. “He wishes to see you.”

Your breath hitched and you caved under the need to look at your father.

“Me?” You repeated.

“You are his betrothed, after all.”

You nodded in obedience, certainly not willing to argue in such a position. Fair, you were his betrothed but he only saw you once… You were sure you could never forget the way he looked sitting on his horse, bowing his head when he spotted you. Well, you never imagined he could be as impressed by your presence as you were with his.

Your father was deeply offended when he first heard that Gwayne was to depart from the city just a day after your arrival. You were much more dull about it, listening to the stories of a band of murderers, rapists and thieves who deserved to be banished or hanged with little interest.

From what you've been told the young Ser Hightower made it all about his dignity and skills, tracking them for many days that you spent in an unfamiliar city. You wished you could detest him in the depth of your heart. It would somehow be comforting if you were allowed to hate him for showing so little interest in you, and yet your own nature didn’t let you.

It was flattering when someone said he left to impress you, wanting to prove that he could not out protect his city but also you, as a wife. But it meant nothing in the face of the facts. If all the careful plans went well, you would already be his… And here you were. Not yet a wife, still with your father and with a husband-to-be on the edge of death.

Your hopes and dreams weren’t grand, not unreachable. Just that he would be a friendly soul… Apparently the gods decided it was too bold anyway. Like you were being punished for ever wanting a good fate for yourself.

You followed the men that led you to Ser Gwayne’s bedroom that you have avoided during the last days. You were too afraid of being spotted and too afraid to hear groans of pain coming from inside.

“My lady,” Otto approached you again. “Please, keep it in your mind that my son is…” He didn’t finish, clearly troubled by his own thoughts. With a shake of his head he placed a hand on your shoulder. “We shall pray for his recovery and that's all we can do. Do not take the things he might say to your heart and don't treat his promises seriously.”

What a strange thing to come out of a worried father’s mouth. Whatever he might have meant by that, you nodded.

“As you say, Lord Otto.”

“Please,” he said, opening the door for you and letting you pass.

You almost jumped in place when the heavy oak wood shut behind you with a whack. It was nothing, you told yourself, just facing a wounded man, but it sure felt like walking into lion’s jaws.

The place was dark for many days now due to the thick drapes. It carried this specific aura of a tomb, if you were honest with yourself. Something half-dead, a bit forgotten and worrying. You allowed yourself to breathe in the scent of herbs, candles and something unfamiliar. Something… manly, perhaps.

You wanted to speak up, greet the resting man, but the first thing you noticed when you looked at the bed was how evenly his chest raised and fell. His face was pale beyond comprehension but calm, with his eyes closed.

Gods be merciful…

You heard the whispers that even when he was conscious his mind wasn't really here and now they have sent you to him. He was no dragon and you were no sheep on a slaughter but you felt equally out of place.

Even if it was the truth that he had asked for you, he fell asleep again, so what were you supposed to do? What if he's scared by waking up to the sight of an almost unfamiliar face? What if it would harm his fragile health now?

But you couldn't walk out like that. What would you say to his father? That the sight of his almost vulnerable figure on the bed scared you too much?

That would be a lie too pathetic that could set a bad light on you. You weren’t scared of him, anyway. He looked in that peculiar way that makes others want to care for the sick and poor. It crossed your mind that you would feel humiliated if the roles were turned. If it was you on the big bed, covered in damp, bloody dressings and only a linen shirt, and him standing over you.

You sat next to him on the bed slowly, clearing your throat in hopes he would wake up. He reacted with a small grimace, but that was it. With a deep sigh you released some of your nerves and looked around before your eyes returned to him.

You noticed that his hand laid on the sheets, close to you. Not sure what possessed you, you decided to brush it gently at first. His skin wasn’t as cold as you imagined it to be. Quite the opposite, actually. Emboldened by how it felt against your touch you moved to pick it up and lay on your palm. With a gentle squeeze you looked up at his face.

“You cannot die,” you whispered at first, testing the sound of your own voice in the overwhelmingly silent room. Then you spoke up firmly. “You can't die, my lord, because I refuse to go back home and remain by my father's side. That is simply not happening, so you must–”

His hand seemed to turn even warmer in your hold and twitched. Before you could realize that his fingers wrapped around your wrist you heard a snarl. Then the man fell into a fit of laughter, making you stand up in shock, but his grip kept you close.

The laugh turned into cough rather quickly and you consider it his punishment for scaring you. Even though he was fighting to take a deep breath in his weak state, he never dropped his hand from yours. He brushed it in curious affection, like he was testing the feeling of your skin, just like you did with his, just less boldly.

“You've fooled me,” you muttered, still shaken up. “I thought you were asleep.”

It was an instinct when you moved to fix the pillow Gwayne was resting on. He offered you a grateful smile and tried to sit up a little when the cough left. His deep blue eyes met you. With utter seriousness, for the first time. They were bleaker, much more tired than when you saw them for the last time in the courtyard as he sat on his horse proudly.

His voice was different too, but you weren’t about to lie and say that the husky undertone didn’t make you shiver.

“And you almost fooled me into thinking that you don't care about my health, just your own comfort,” he said slowly.

You weren’t sure if he was mocking you or naming his true accusations.

“I… my lord, that is–” you tried to explain, but he smiled again, brighter this time and squeezed your hand again.

“I'm jesting, my lady,” he cut in to end your internal panic.

His jaw clenched and he let out a grunt when he tried to shift and make himself more comfortable. He looked over his body in the bed under the covers with the sight of a man truly tired of his own disposition. “I pray you can forgive me for making you wait so long,” he spoke up a bit quieter. Bitter, like he was angry with himself. “I never imagined it to go that way.”

“There is nothing to be forgiven, my lord,” you assured.

If you weren’t convinced about it before and harboured some harm, then it disappeared the moment you saw how sorry he looked.

“I hurt you, though, with my recklessness–"

“It is not your fault, my lord. I just hope that the man who did it to you was punished.”

He smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes. He paid for it, you have my word.” He shook the cold look off of his face quickly and moved your touching hands closer to his lap. “And please, my lady, call me by my name.”

“Well, Gwayne.” You nodded slowly and tested it on your tongue.. “You sound…”

“Not as out of my mind as they say?” He offered when you struggled to find the right words. You read some mischief from his face. One corner of his lips twitched up. “Did they scare you by telling you that I can't control my drooling or forgot how to speak the common tongue?”

You shook your head. It was hard to understand his good mood in such a weird position but you guessed it couldn’t go better than that.

“They just said you are unwell,” you explained. “In body and mind.”

“In body and mind,” he repeated, almost giggling. “Well, I won't bore you with how rugged my body feels, but my mind is quite alright. Even if my head feels like it crashed with the grand bell in the sept.”

You stared at him for a while, tormenting him with silence and cracked a smile eventually. “Aren't you cheeky?” You muttered, rather pleased with what a man Gwayne seemed to be.

You didn’t imagine him too much, but you would never guess he would be so… serene.

“Cheeky?” He laughed again. “You not only offend your future husband but also a suffering man. Anyway, it is better to be cheeky than cruel, my lady, even if you might find it similar.”

You felt too troubled to answer that immediately. 

“Your father worries a lot,” you informed, lightly hinting that it could be his share of cruelty.

Clearly he spotted it because he rolled his eyes, still with a smile.

“Yes, I can tell,” he said.

“He truly thinks you might die.”

“But I might die, indeed,” he argued. “He’s right to worry.

Oh, you saw dying men before and he wasn't one of them, that was sure. Not now when he spoke to you, joked and mocked.

“Can you keep a secret, my lady?” He asked and his eyes brightened when you nodded even if he wasn’t really waiting for that. “The maesters… They ask many dull questions that I don't wish to answer. They make me feel like I’m going mad, so naturally that slows the recovery, am I not right?”

“I suppose,” you mumbled unconvinced.

“See? It's easier to pretend I’m a little worse than I truly am and not have to speak.”

You blinked, looking at him in silence for a while. Gods, what a menace… You were going to absolutely adore that man.

“People are frightened for your life,” you tried to reason, keeping your composter despite the wish to actually burst out laughing.

“As am I,” he said stubbornly. “Or was, at least…  Well, do not think I take it lightly.”

“I guess… I guess what matters is that you are better now, Gwayne. It makes me happy.”

“And it makes me happy to finally be able to speak to you. I can’t name the anger I feel for how wrong the arrangement turned out.”

“It’s not so tragic,” you disagreed. “It is merely postponed, I imagine.”

“Yes, I hope so. Could you open the drapes, perhaps? I would like to see you, my lady, if you don’t mind,” he asked with gentleness that offered you the chance to refuse if you wanted.

You grew nervous nonetheless. “It is barely bright outside.”

He heard the anxiety in your voice.

“No worries, my lady,” he spoke up and you could hear him joking again, “I don't have my father's judging eyes, you have my word.”

“Won't the light bother you?” You asked to make sure before pulling on the heavy material that covered the windows.

“Not if you do it slowly. Please.”

You could spot the carefulness that he watched you with. He didn’t study nor rate you, no. He simply took you in, noticing all the small differences that he couldn’t see when he watched you that day on the glade.

You were growing restless under his gaze but it was him who turned away first. He looked down rather unexpectedly, his cheeks painted with a blush.

“Do you…” You cleared your throat. “Well, do you like what you see, Gwayne?”

He wanted to say that he did and knew it for a long time now. But wouldn’t that be too bold? Wouldn’t you think that your looks were all that he cared about?

“Naturally,” he finally answered, something terribly bashful in his voice. “I don’t want to show lack of respect by saying how unbearably beautiful you are to me…”

Unbearably beautiful? You almost smile to yourself at how weird it sounded. He realized it to.

“That might not be the luckiest choice of words, I’m afraid. Forgive me. I’m still just a wounded fool in the presence of a lady, after all,” he said to distract you from his embarrassment. “Would you sit with me for a while longer, my lady?”

“Of course,” you agreed. “And you should know that I see no fool in here.”

“Aren’t all men fools?”

You would agree if your throat was used to such declarations. You were raised to be a good woman; good daughter, and a lady. You would blush at admitting something so true.

You occupied the place next to him, and Gwayne slowly reached for your hand again. “If it’s alright?”

“It is,” you assured and offered it to him.

He cleared his throat. “Do you know why I wanted to speak to you?”

“I have no idea. Except for making me laugh, it seems…”

He cracked a smile before turning serious once more.

“I wanted to make a promise,” he explained. “To end your worries if you have them. I won't die because it would burden you. People would speak, some would say we already married in secret before my death which would make finding another husband difficult if not impossible… I do not wish to make you go through that.”

It sounded funny from the mouth of a man who was clearly not dying now, and still it was incredibly thoughtful. Overwhelmingly so.

“That is kind of you, Gwayne.”

“Not kind, just… Just proper, I imagine,” he corrected.

“Not many men would care about it.”

He shrugged and his face turned even more pink, even if he bore it proudly, not escaping from your eyes anymore.

A knock and the sound of the door opening interrupted you.

You saw an old maester who held some clean water and bandages to change the dressings on Ser Gwayne’s wounds.

“My lady,” he spoke to you in a lecturing tone. “It is time for young Ser Gwayne to rest. He's still very–”

He was interrupted by the ser himself who shifted up a bit and face the man.

“Oh, I feel much better,” he offered with sincerity that made you feel warm inside, “since I was told by my wife that I'm not allowed to die.”

You looked to your feet at the quote of your first words to him and stood up from his bed.

“Your wife, my lord?” Asked the maester with clear trouble on his face.