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This was no living man, despite his ragged breaths, but the shell of one, bleeding from a thousand wounds. A corpse, Criston thought, waiting to die.
”Fetch the maester,” he commanded nonetheless, and a soldier ran to obey. He knelt beside the man and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him over as gently as he could. The man made a broken, pained whimper as he was moved.
His face was so bloodied that it took Criston a moment to recognize him. Gwayne. Gwayne, who he had given up for dead weeks ago, lay bleeding before him.
"Why would they do this?” asked a soldier behind him, shock in his voice.
“To send us a message,” Criston said. “The queen’s own brother…” His ruined form was a promise. This is what we will do to every one of you. If they had wanted vengeance, they could have slain him easily. Instead they had tortured him, and when he lay too close to death for further torment, they had left him where his comrades would surely find him.
Gwayne was saying something under his breath, delirious, and Criston strained to hear what it was.
”Mother have mercy,” he heard Gwayne whisper. “Please, make it stop…”
“Will he survive?” Criston was near-certain that he would not, but still he asked, perhaps out of hope.
The maester bowed his head. “I do not think it likely. His wounds…”
Criston needed no explanation; he had seen them. “Will he wake, then?”
“He may, but it would be a mercy if he did not. I would give him milk of the poppy, if our stores were not gone. I have done all I can to ease his pain without it, but it is little for one so grievously hurt.”
”How long?”
”Hours at most. Less, perhaps.”
"I wish to see him.”
”Are you certain? His wounds are grave, and he suffers greatly. Do you truly wish to see him in such a state?”
”It was I who found him,” Criston said, anger rising. “I know how he is wounded, what they did to him. And I wish to see him.”
”Very well,” the maester acquiesced.
Blue eyes opened, hazy and unfocused, and Criston could not bring himself to speak.
“Strange,” murmured Gwayne, “that I should dream of you.”
”Do you despise me so, even still?”
"No, ser, but my dreams of late have been near as bad as waking. This is a welcome reprieve.”
”It is no dream.”
”Is that not what a dream would say?” A spasm of pain wracked Gwayne’s body, then, and a wretched, strangled sound escaped him.
Slowly, Criston reached out. Mad, I must be mad, to even think of this. His fingers brushed across the side of Gwayne’s face. The other man’s breath caught in his throat, but he did not protest or flinch away.
”Now I know that I am dreaming,” he said. “Ser Criston would never…”
”Then you do not know me so well as you think.” The words came rushing out of him, even as he cursed his own foolishness.
“What do you mean?”
”Must I say it? Must I — shame myself further?”
”No,” Gwayne said. “No. It is her you love. Do not mock me by pretending otherwise.” There was a strange anguish in his voice.
He had loved Alicent, the gods knew he had. Even now, the favor he had asked her for was tucked into his sleeve. But Gwayne…
”I thought you dead,” he said. “I mourned for you. Far more than I would have thought.”
”Tell me the truth,” Gwayne begged, desperation in his eyes. He seized Criston’s hand in a weak grip. “You do not care for me. You cannot.”
“I have found that the heart cares little to be told what it cannot do.” Abandoning caution at last, he lifted Gwayne’s shaking hand to his lips and kissed it.
”You…” Gwayne whispered, shocked.
“I will go, if you wish it of me.”
”No,” Gwayne said, then clenched his jaw as another wave of pain washed over him. “Stay,” he choked out through gritted teeth. “Please.”
Once, Criston might have felt a sort of satisfaction, to see such a proud man reduced to this. Now, though, it sent a pang of sorrow through his chest.
”Easy,” he said softly, cupping the other man’s cheek with his hand. “It will pass.”
”Aye, it will,” Gwayne said, when the agony had subsided. “I am dying, am I not?”
Criston nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Speak of this to no one,” Gwayne said. “Let it — let it die with me.” He paused, breathing deeply. “I feel as you do. Have felt, for some time.” He met Criston’s eyes, fearful as though he half-expected to be scorned.
Criston leaned towards him, until their faces were mere inches apart. Gwayne’s gaze was locked on him still, but Criston hesitated, suddenly unsure.
In the end, it was Gwayne who closed that last distance between them, bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss. Criston wrapped his arm around the other man’s back, thinking to pull him yet closer, but Gwayne cried out at the touch. Criston pulled away, cursing himself for being so careless.
”Forgive me,” he said.
The ghost of a wry smile crossed Gwayne’s face. “There is nothing to forgive. It was not you who did this.”
”Still, I—”
“Please, don’t,” Gwayne interrupted. “I will not have you apologize. Not for this.”
Criston leaned in again, meeting Gwayne’s lips once more. They kissed far more deeply, and Criston let himself become lost, for long moments, in the feeling of it.
When they broke apart at last, Gwayne spoke. “I think — I think it will not be long now. The pain is fading.”
”Is there… anything you would have me do?”
”Stay,” Gwayne said weakly.
Criston took Gwayne’s hand in one of his own and began to stroke his hair with the other. Gwayne’s eyes fluttered closed, and he seemed to sink into the bed beneath him. Criston watched the rise and fall of his chest as it grew slower, then shallower.
”Rest now, Gwayne,” he whispered, bending to kiss the other man’s brow. When he rose again, Gwayne’s chest had stilled, and he felt tears beginning to pool in his eyes.