Chapter Text
There was much to dwell on as Gwayne trudged to Tumbleton, trying to push Ser Criston Cole and their disasterous campaign behind. It didn't do him any good to ponder all the time wasted in the mud and misery, nor to agonize over the friendship lost. A man —one he had come to admire— likely sacrificed to an avoidable fate.
It was easier to think of Daeron. His nephew waited for him, kind-hearted and gentle-souled, though pulled in two directions, by two very different hands. To see Daeron would be a joy, a simple relief, his sister's image in male form. It had been long since he'd last seen his face, and heard Daeron's rare laugh.
On the tail end of that thought trailed his cousin, Lord of Hightower, Voice of Oldtown. Gwayne was too tired to grimace, though something under his skin danced and crawled. Gwayne had told Ser Criston he wished to return to Ormund's side some time ago, to aid him in his campaign, though now the reality of the matter clawed at his insides like a furious bear.
His cousin had always worn his crown well; the crown of the eldest son of the eldest son of the Hightower line. It was not something Gwayne ever begrudged Ormund. No. There were other things to begrudge.
He did not want what Ormund had, and Gwayne was content to be next in line should Ormund ever fall.
They had been raised side by side in Oldtown; number one man and man number two. Gwayne could stand in Ormund's long, heavy shadow without resentment, because to eclipse his pristine cousin only meant misery of a different sort.
The burning sensation of water filling his lungs, a hand controlling the back of his head as he struggled to resurface, preventing him from doing so. The hard thwack of the flat of ones blade against his rear during a stumble in a duel. The glower across the room at the ball while Gwayne danced with the girl Ormund liked. The kiss of knuckles at his mouth thereafter.
Gwayne knew his place, and growing up in Oldtown, Ormund never let him forget it.
In Tumbleton, it would be no different.
~*~
{
Ormund Hightower stood before his rabble of young lordlings in the making, chest puffed out and chin up as he looked down upon them all. At a mere age of six and ten, Ormund Hightower held all the bearing of a man who had earned glorious titles in battle, which Ormund had not done quite yet, needless to say. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he cast his hawkish gaze across them all. "This is a test of manhood. A test of glory. A test of who is worthy."
The other lads stood before him with pale, sweating faces, and behind Ormund loomed a roaring plunge down to the Whispering Sound below. The water was a deep, dark blue, and tips of white pearled at its edges as it flung itself against rocks. The smell of it carried salt on the wind from the ocean beyond.
Gwayne stood at the back of the gathered minions, the shortest of the lot, still only at three and ten. He didn't want to stare down into the water below, many feet from where they stood on a rocky cliff edge. His cousin, as it were, was on yet another crusade to test the iron and balls of those around him. Gwayne wished to disappear.
One of the other lads took a step closer to the edge, peering over and down. The whites of his eyes seemed so bright as he stared at the fall. "Isn't there a choice....to not...jump?"
Ormund's voice was reasonable —too reasonable— and that made Gwayne's skin crawl with unease. He didn't have to see his cousin to know what that voice meant. "There is always a choice, Merrick. Just know, depending on what you choose, I may brand you a craven." A meaningful pause took place. "In fact, I might as well brand all of you craven."
With trembling hands, Gwayne slowly undid his clothes, dropping them to the floor, stripping to his underthings as the other boys attempted pleading with Ormund, whom he knew could not be pleaded with. There was no swaying his cousin from his course, not when he'd put his mind to some daring 'quest'. If Ormund wanted to see them all jump, well, that's what would have to happen.
Perhaps if I go first, he'll think me better than the others, Gwayne thought, trying to push his fear into a box in his mind. He bit his lip and looked to his cousin, only three years his senior. He might find me brave.
It would be nice to have Ormund be proud of him.
The arguing continued while Gwayne steeled himself in the background.
"How can I rely on the lot of you when I become Lord Hightower?" Ormund said with caustic calm. "I ask but a simple thing, and yet you stand as terrified women. The reek of shame is not so easily forgotten, mind you." His eyes narrowed briefly, and his nose wrinkled as though he had smelled something foul.
"Ormund, come on-"
"There are rocks down there-"
The look in Ormund's storm-colored eyes, the way his fingers twitched over the hilt of his sword told Gwayne all he needed to know, and so he stepped past the group of boys and headed to the edge without pause. His cousin had a habit of swinging that sword as though it were a poleaxe, and Gwayne didn't feel like dealing with that today, no ser.
Someone gasped. Someone else cursed under their breath, but Gwayne didn't stop. He didn't look to his cousin, because he knew Ormund was watching. Gwayne leapt into the Whispering Sound, because he'd rather take his chances there than with whatever his cousin would unleash if no one did as he bade (and soon, his patience for disobedience was remarkably thin).
The fall stole Gwayne's breath before he even hit the icy water below. The prickle of the cold bit at his flesh as he sunk under the surface, clawing at him as he swam back up, gasping for air.
"Is he alive?!" Merrick was saying from above-
Ormund's voice cracked like a horsewhip, his voice taking on a new manic pitch. "I said JUMP, you lily-livered cunts!"
It wasn't long before others joined Gwayne in the icy plunge, shouting as they leapt from the cliff, likely narrowly escaping Ormund's unleashed wrath. Gwayne just hoped his cousin remembered that he jumped first, he did as he was told, he did so without complaint-
The effort was all for naught in the end, because disaster struck, as disaster often does in these situations. Ormund hit his head under the surface, —sheer unluckiness— and Gwayne barely managed to drag his heavier cousin ashore.
Ormund seethed as the maester oversaw his recovery in Oldtown, his eyes hard and flinty with some unseen humiliation that Gwayne had apparently inflicted upon him by saving his life in front of the others.
The other boys don't speak to Gwayne the rest of the week, ostracizing him from their activities, lips shut tight at the pleasure of their young lord-in-waiting.
They only welcome Gwayne back into their circle when Ormund does, and not a moment sooner.
}
~*~
"He was awful to you, earlier." Daeron looked distinctly uncomfortable as they sat together in what now passed for Gwayne's room in Tumbleton, a chess board between them. His nephew was wringing his hands as though they were wet rags and Daeron a washerwoman. "Those things he said..."
{The false empathic look, paired with 'I'm sure you found solace with some of your brothers in arms'}
Gwayne stared at the floor, counting the cracks he found there. "Put it from your mind, Daeron. It was meant to humiliate me, not you. Long has he missed throwing his knives at me, in my absence. That is all that was. His idea of fun. A warm welcome home, if you will."
Daeron looked like he might want to cry about it, but Gwayne smiled and shook his head. "You think I jest to make you feel better, but I swear, I do not." Ormund's idea of fun often hurt.
"It isn't right." Daeron's hand hovered over the chess piece before darting back.
Gwayne sighed, recognizing the signs of someone holding back. "It's a good move, and you are not playing the man you think you are playing. Play it, go on. I'll not be injured."
A small hint of red slid over Daeron's cheeks. "Yes, Uncle. Sorry, Uncle." He moved his piece into place, claiming a checkmate. He looked up worriedly, a shy expression on his face, studying every inch of Gwayne's sleek features, seeking displeasure that he would not find.
It took all Gwayne's effort to not say a thing in response. Ormund's conditioning was hard at work here, and Gwayne wasn't certain he had the energy required to undo it tonight. Normally, Daeron knew how to balance Gwayne and Ormund, but Gwayne had been away for too long, and it was clear that Ormund had slithered into Daeron's ribcage like a sickness. Gwayne knew the feeling all too well.
"How long shall you remain with us?" Daeron pressed, sitting back in his seat.
"I will get my rest, though I plan to return to Oldtown, as I said earlier." Gwayne shook his head, trying not to dwell on another man on a fruitless quest to die in glory. Ser Criston, you fool. "There is no place for me here. I belong in Oldtown. Perhaps in a week."
"Please. Please stay longer," Daeron whispered, looking forlorn and lost. He kept a hushed tone as though fearing Ormund's ears might be in the bloody room. "It's better when you're with us. And you've been gone so long."
Gwayne looked towards the dancing flame of a nearby candle, the shadows playing over his features. You mean it's better when I stand between the two of you, he thought. It's better when Ormund has his eye on tormenting me rather than him trying to terrorize you into what he thinks you should be. I get it, I understand.
It's hard to be bitter over it; Gwayne has had a lifetime of dealing with Ormund. Far longer than Daeron. One cannot expect a young boy to contend with the subtle cruelties of a man grown, a man experienced in the finer art of control and manipulation.
Gwayne has seen the evolution of Ormund since their shared boyhood, and absolutely nothing surprised him anymore.
There came a sharp knock at the door, and one of the guards stepped within. The bearded man looked directly at Gwayne. "Lord Hightower has requested your presence for a late night libation in his chambers."
Daeron stood upon hearing the request, the nervous twitch of a rabbit. Gwayne remained seated, idly palming one of the chess pawns. His jaw shifted, though his body did not.
The man bowed his head slightly upon seeing Daeron stand like a dog summoned by its master, perhaps embarrassed to see Ormund's latest puppet behaving so. "Just Ser Gwayne's presence has been requested, Your Grace."
Daeron looked at Gwayne sharply, face pale and pinched.
Holding in a sigh of annoyance, Gwayne stood slowly, as though he had all the time in the world. He did not jump for Ormund Hightower, not anymore. "And I shall readily oblige him." The knight bowed and left the room, assured Gwayne would find his own way. And he would, when he was ready.
With his hands clasped before him, Daeron looked up at his Uncle with eyes like rain; dreary and hopeless. It reminded Gwayne of the swamps and forests traveled with Criston and his men, and his chest ached. He gave Daeron a bland smile that he didn't feel. The boy was so kind; Gwayne had not told his sister just how good of a heart the lad had. "Why must you look at me as though I go to the executioner?"
His nephew swallowed visibly. "He is cruel to you. Perhaps worse than he is to me."
You have no idea, nephew. Not the slightest.
"Never fear nephew." He placed a calming hand on Daeron's shoulder. "Our cousin may have raised you as a son, but I grew up with him as a brother. There is no game the Lord of Hightower plays that I do not already know." Gwayne knew every quirk, every microexpression, every type of smile, and frown, and laugh. The sound of a bitten off gasp, close to his ear, shameful, reviled and never spoken of, never once.
"...but...earlier..."
"Hush." He placed both hands on Daeron's shoulders, imbuing warmth into his voice. The boy always did well with praise and gentle tones. "Tis but a drink with my cousin whom I have known for as long as I've known myself."
I know the distinct quality of his bark and his bite.
~*~
Ormund was sitting when Gwayne arrived at his quarters. There was a goblet near him, a soft haze on his face, making him look like he might be an approachable sort of man in a tavern, were it not for those stormy eyes. He'd not been able to wait to open the wine while Gwayne steeled himself in the privacy of an empty hall, where Gwayne had breathed hard and deep, trying to push all the soft parts of himself into a box where they couldn't be hurt.
The firelight from the roaring fireplace cast a pleasant glow on Ormund's painfully familiar features. He leaned back in his chair, eyes half mast. "Get lost on your way, did you? A wonder you made it out of the Riverlands at all."
So it began. Gwayne closed the door behind him, voice dry. "A wonder."
Daeron was not here, not now, and everything spoken would be far uglier. The layers and thinly veiled insults would no longer be needed.
Ormund had always let his words fly like arrows, and Gwayne had become so used to the impact that he almost didn't feel the pain.
"At least you're presentable now." Those eyes were a heavy weight on his skin as they traveled across him, seeking fault. "Tsk. Still rolling in the filth with boys. Or whatever you suffered in those forests. Such tragedy." Ormund made a subtly snide expression, watching his blow land, waiting to see a reaction that Gwayne would not give. "Unruly, you are. Chaos that must be held down before it implodes."
Next to Ormund's unyielding rigidity, perhaps he might seem chaotic. Though, it might be that Ormund liked to control everything in his sphere of influence. That often included Gwayne.
Gwayne didn't know why he spoke the next words that he chose. Maybe because of Ormund's precise cruelty earlier. Maybe because he's so fucking tired. Maybe it's nice to be ugly back, the thrill of seeing what he might get away with...and what he won't get away with. "Yes. And you still pretend to be above such things."
That stilted smile slipped across Ormund's lips, appearing easy, being anything but. Steel lurked in his gaze, and the skin around his eyes tightened subtly. "What, pray tell, are you referring to?"
Gwayne's shoulders tightened, and his temples pounded with blood as he held Ormund's intense gaze. "Nothing." He lifted his chin. Pushed confidence into his voice. "I meant nothing by it. My tongue is foolhardy from lack of rest."
Those eyes trailed his face, and Gwayne remembered what it was like, to be chaos held down, under the warmth and strength of that body. The unspoken thing, forbidden —never forgotten— rotting with shame in the back of their minds.
His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together, fighting down a feeling he couldn't put a name to.
His cousin continued to determine his response to the subtle slight he was possibly too drunk to unravel. Thankfully. To throw a fit or be civil, the coin was being tossed in real time. Gwayne knew the moment the decision had been made as Ormund's shoulder's lost their tension and his eyes lost that manic gleam. "Come. Sit. Have some wine with me, cousin. I grow weary of drinking it by myself these nights. Everyone is so boring and timid here." Ormund recovered himself, brushing away the unpleasantness for later. Always later, because Ormund never forgot an insult he met, real or imagined. "Besides. It's been months since we last spoke. Since you flounced off to King's Landing." He waved a dissmissive hand, his rings gleaming in firelight. "And whatever bog you found after."
Gwayne grinned at him without mirth and took a cup for himself, finding a place on the long lounge beside the fire.
"So." Ormund smiled at him politely from across the intimately lit chambers. He steepled his hands in front of him as though about to give some long, horrid sermon, as he was wont to do. "Tell me of your exciting adventures, dear cousin." The smile turned into a smirk. "You can leave the bits about the pillow-biting out."
Choking on his wine as the sudden barb hooked itself to his heart, Gwayne glowered. When he could breathe without coughing, he rasped, "If it pleases you."
"It does." Ormund lifted one eyebrow expectantly, and Gwayne could only dance to his tune like a puppet that had never quite forgotten the feel of its masters fingers on its strings.