Work Text:
The village was beautiful and untouched by war.
Gwayne stared at the rows and rows of little houses, their roofs thatched by clay and dirt and bright with the color of the fields that surrounded them. Which was actually quite brilliant because they would be missed by the riders of dragons so high in the air. The little village would blend in with the surrounding area and remained as untouched as it is now.
A deep, rushing river ran alongside the hamlet, one that was so loud that he could barely hear himself think, let alone the words that Cole was trying to say. “Come again?” he bellowed over the roar of the water. Before Cole could repeat himself, they were interrupted by three approaching riders, who signalled at them to follow. Gwayne nodded at Edgar to stay back with the rest of the men and hurried after an already departing Cole.
The riders led them into a small wooded area, the sound of the river dampened by the thickness of the branches. A headache was starting to thud away at Gwayne’s temples but at least he could hear. “We are neutral to the war between green and black. Most do not find us anyways. You will be welcome to stay within our village for the night to rest and replenish yourselves, but you must move on before first light. I am Larsen and these are my brothers, Hocab and Trevar.”
Cole nodded thickly at the man who had spoken. “We give our thanks, good man. You are most kind. I am Criston Cole, and this is Gwayne Hightower.” There was no point in attempting to give false names due to the fact that the badge of the Hand was quite visible upon Cole’s throat and the flames of the Hightower were emblazoned on Gwayne’s chest.
The second rider, Hocab, nodded behind them. “You and your fellow commanders may stay at the inn if you wish. The rest of your men can set up camp within the forests for the night. We are holding our festivals tonight so there will be plenty of food and drink at the square.”
“Festivals?” Gwayne asked. He hoped it wasn’t a bizarre religious offering.
“Aye.” The third rider, Trevar, chimed in. “It is the one hundredth nameday of our grandsire -”
“He’s still alive?” Gwayne blurted out. His cheeks reddened as Cole scowled at him. “Apologies.”
“Not at all, Ser Gwayne,” Trevar chuckled. “Even though we do not get many visitors around these parts, the age of our grandsire does often gain that reaction.” He flicked his hand. “If one of you would like to accompany us into town, you will be directed to the inn and then the other can go back to their men -”
Cole immediately began to follow the brothers without another word, so Gwayne took that as his cue to go back. To his surprise, Trevar rode with him back to where Edgar and the rest of their men were waiting. “We have been allowed sanctuary for the night, but we must move on before first light.” He has to shout to be heard over the river’s harsh waves. Edgar signals at their men and they begin to move once again, taking the cues from each other to follow himself and Trevar.
Their mounts were left to feed upon the pastures, quiet prayers said in the hopes that the beasts would not wander off in the night. A few half pavillions were erected, but most men didn’t bother to build any shelter since they would be moving on in the early hours of the morning and not one cloud dotted the sky. There was no risk of rain tonight.
Cole had not returned yet. Gwayne supposed he was being taken to the inn and then would be introduced to the chieftain of this little village. He should probably make his way into the village as well. Trevar could guide him on where to go, and introduce him and Edgar to his elderly grandsire as well.
The men continued making their camps and Edgar nudged Gwayne’s shoulder, cocking his head towards the town square. “Shall we?”
Gwayne nodded at his childhood friend. “We shall.”
A huge firepit sat right in the center of the town square, golden flames already beginning their ascent towards the sky. A few wooden tables and vendors lined the road and his nose immediately caught the aroma of candied fruits and fried meats. His stomach growled so loud that Edgar heard it, the other man chuckling. “I do not think our lord commander would mind if we allowed ourselves one small meal before finding him?”
Gwayne let the other man lead him on and before he could even reach for the few coins he had left upon his person, the young lady who sat behind the table that held the plates of meats offered them a platter to share. She waved away any offer of payment. “Enjoy, sers.”
“Could you - could you possibly make a plate for our Lord Commander?” Gwayne nodded towards the array of small buildings. “He’s speaking with your chieftain right now. He should be along in a moment.”
“I would be glad too,” the girl agreed. He thanked her, and tried not to steal the whole platter from poor Edgar, ignoring his friend’s knowing stare. They walked along, Gwayne’s eyes searching for a familiar grey tunic, but did not see. His stomach swirled from the sudden food and a little bit of worry that he pushed away. Their men were moving into the square as well, taking cups of wine and mead that were offered up. Gwayne sipped at a cup that someone had pressed into his hand without even looking, almost coughing at the surprising and delicious taste of fresh blackberry juice.
“I haven’t had anything this fine since home.” Edgar gave him a knowing look, sipping at his own cup. “I think this is better, to be perfectly honest.”
A flush creased his cheek again. The way his cousin would rage whenever something was not up to par, when something was not the absolute best.
“Look - musicians.” He looked where Edgar told him and they could see other people joining those who had gathered, carrying out cases that obviously carried instruments of many kinds.
A lute came out first and he felt a small rush of longing for his young nephew. A few pipes followed, and then a handheld harp. The last to be unearthed was a fiddle.
They milled closer to the musicians. Gwayne watched closely as a second fiddle came out, one that was slightly larger than the first. The fiddle was set down upon a pile of soft linens, the musician helping her companion fix the strings on hers. Gwayne could not tear his eyes away from the instrument and he was still staring when the fiddler looked back at him. “Do you play, good ser?”
And then, he remembered the sadness. “A long time ago.”
“They often say that playing the fiddle is unforgettable, no matter how long it has been since you have touched one in particular.” She lifts up her own fiddle and offers it to him. “If you wish?”
Startled, Gwayne takes a step back. “Uh -”
Edgar dips his chin. “Go on.”
“I - I can’t -”
“Yes, you can.” Edgar leans in, voice at Gwayne’s ear. “Ormund’s not here. You are allowed to experience something that brought you much joy once again.”
The fiddle is pressed into his tired hands. He doesn’t push it away.
—
Gwayne wished he had seen it.
The look in Ormund’s eyes when he finished playing the sonnet and received the attention and applause from his own parents and the maesters. Even from the visiting Lord Bulwer and his children. Lord Bulwer’s eldest daughter had been brought to visit Ormund himself but she had had her silvery eyes fixed upon Gwayne the moment he had picked up his fiddle to play.
Not that Gwayne had noticed. He had paid no mind to young lady Bulwar or to her family members. The music had kept all of his attention for those few short minutes.
So he supposed he should have been surprised when a few hours later, they were alone and Ormund had snatched the fiddle from his hands and smashed it against the bookshelf.
Uncle Hobert replaced the fiddle the following moon.
Gwayne never picked it up.
The joy was gone.
Smashed to bits by a jealous and cruel boy that could not achieve what he wanted.
—
Chieftain Jorvan was a remarkably sharp man for one so far advanced in his years. If Criston had met him at any other time, he would not have made the guess that this man was celebrating his one hundredth nameday today. He stood at height with Christon and would have stood taller if his spine wasn’t slightly curved due to the cane he leaned upon. His hair was dark and speckled with salt, blue eyes as clear and wide as the open sky above them.
“It will be an honor to host you and your men for the night, Lord Commander. I do hope you understand why we do require you to move on before the sun rises on the morrow.”
Criston nodded. “Absolutely, my lord -”
Jorvan held up a hand. “We do not carry those titles here. Jorvan is good enough.” He passed Criston a cup. “Will you join me in a drink before we make our way down to the feast?”
Warmth slipped into Criston’s stomach as he sipped at the blackberry juice. “This is a fine refreshment, Jorvan.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Jorvan preened. “Do not tell me where you are marching next, of course, but can I ask what the journey has been like?” Criston opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by the second most beautiful sound he had heard in a very long while. “Ah, that will be the musicians. Although that does not sound like Merilee’s playing.”
Criston followed the old man to the window and looked out towards the town square. The bonfire that had been in the process of being built when he had ridden into town was now crackling with life, little sparks of gold and blue dancing upward into the air. He can see the outlines of his men gathered about, some eating from their plates and others drinking from cups. The musicians were gathered off to the right, all dressed in white and grey while there was a familiar blur of green amoung them.
“Is that not the man you were riding in with?” asked Hocab. “Your friend?”
The blackberry juice did not go down well at that next swallow. Criston wiped at his mouth, managing a nod. “Uh - yes?”
“Your friend has a fine talent,” Larsen sips at his own cup, quirking an appreciative eyebrow. A surprising swoop of anger slides through Criston. He shoves it away by turning away from Larsen. The sound of pipes joining Gwayne’s fiddle are a welcome distraction. “That would be Della.”
“What song is this, grandson?” Jorvan asked. “I am not familiar with it.”
Criston was. “It’s an ancient song from the Stormlands, about breaking free from old chains and being able to take flight.” Three identical pairs of eyes are staring at him. “Sorry?”
Jorvan chuckled. “No need to apologize, son.” The old man waved a hand and his grandsons slipped from the rooms, leaving the two of them alone in the candlelight. “Did any of my grandsons explain to you why we are neutral in this war despite being on the offset of territory that has been claimed by the Blacks?” Criston shook his head. “Because we view all life as something worth holding onto. It is of no concern to us whoever is seated upon the Iron Throne. This here?” Jorvan gestures to the room they are standing in. “This is our own. It has nothing to do with the Iron Throne. We built this thousands of years ago and it will continue to remain our own even if the dragons decide to blaze it to the ground.” The old man gave him a soft smile as he nodded towards the window.
Towards the bonfire.
Towards the music.
“Even in the depths of war, we will find joy wherever we can. Do you understand, son?”
His throat thick, Criston nodded. “I think so.”
“Very good.” The old man held out an arm. “Now if you would be a good lad and lead an old man out, I would be most grateful.”
—
The walk out to the town square was slow but steady. The music only got louder as they approached, the crowd having thickened considerably in his absence. Jorvan’s grandsons took the chieftain from Criston’s hands, leading their grandsire out to the seat of honor that had been set aside for him by the bonfire.
Criston gently pushed through the throng of bodies, startling slightly when a plate of food was pushed at him. “We’ve set this aside for you, my lord,” the girl said with a gentle smile. Criston nodded his thanks, taking the plate but not eating as his gaze found what he was looking for.
He always knew that Gwayne liked to be the center of attention. The man would not shut up during the entire time he had known him. But this…this was something else. Heat that was not from the fire flushed the other man’s cheeks as he continued to play, a shy smile pulling at his pink lips as the other musicians joined in with him.
As the song came to an end, those gathered broke into applause. Jorvan waved at Gwayne. “A fine song, my lord. Thank you for sharing it.”
Gwayne blushed, gently passing the fiddle back to its owner. “It was an honor to do so, Chieftain.”
And then his eyes met Criston’s across the fire.
Criston tilted his head to the side, towards the forest where their camp and their horses were waiting. The music began again, and Gwayne followed him, the two of them falling into easy step as they carefully slipped away together. Criston offered Gwayne the plate he had yet to take anything from. “That’s for you. I asked -” his voice cut off and he blushed.
So did Criston. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
They walked on, the light from the fire dimming behind them. “You never mentioned that you played. You’ve only talked about Daeron’s musical talents.”
Gwayne chuckled. “Uh, it has been a long time since I’ve touched a fiddle. I was surprised I remembered as much as I did.”
“The way you played, I would have thought that you were playing up until yesterday.”
“Well, I thank you for that compliment, Ser Criston,” Gwayne smiled bashfully. “It’s nice to hear it. The last time…” His voice trailed off, gaze becoming distant and lost in memory. “...music was always a joy for me. I was good at it. But then my cousin…well, he wasn’t and -”
Criston grasped his wrist. “Your cousin’s a fucking asshole.”
A real, gasping laugh broke out of Gwayne’s chest. “To that we can agree.” He leaned against a tree, shoulder digging into the bark.
“Tis not something we do often,” Criston offers with a small grin.
“Very true - look at that, we are doing it again!” They both laugh, and Criston feels lighter than he has in years. “Might I ask…I was not expecting you to be there at the fire. I assumed you’d simply retire for the night?”
He tells him about his conversation with the chieftain and his grandsons. “We could hear you when you started -” he gestures haphazardly at Gwayne’s empty hands. His cheeks pinken up. “I knew it was you even before I saw you, I - it’s been a very long while before I had heard or seen anything that beautiful.”
“Give me that,” Gwayne suddenly takes the still uneaten plate of food from his hands and gingerly sets it down upon a soft patch of grass. A hand grasps the front of his tunic as he rises back up, pulling him in.
There’s a surprising ferocity to the way that Gwayne kisses. Almost harsh; claiming.
They break apart if only for a need of oxygen, gasping into each other’s mouths for a long moment. Gwayne’s arms were draped around Criston’s shoulders, their foreheads pressed together and slick with sweat. “You’re - allowed to want things, Gwayne,” Criston’s mouth brushes against his as he speaks. “If you want to play your blasted fiddle, then do so. It’s yours. You’ve reclaimed it. It will always be yours.”
“What if…” Gwayne tilts his head back to look into Criston’s dark eyes. “I want more than just the fiddle?” Criston quirked a brow and the corner of Gwayne’s mouth slid up, a light of hope settling within the blue depths of his eyes.
A sweet ache settled in Criston’s chest. One that he had felt more and more as time went on. As they marched on to what was going to be their inevitable end.
His hand slid up to gently cup Gwayne’s cheek, scarred thumb brushing at the curve just underneath his eye. Their noses bumped together, and for just a moment, in that stillness, they breathed.
“You’re allowed to want things too, Ser Criston.” Gwayne’s voice was soft…searching.
“I do,” Criston murmured. His thumb stroked back and forth. “But there is fear.” The admittance lifted a startling weight from his chest and he suddenly felt a fresh breath enter his lungs. And then he understood what Jorvan had told him. “I think I would be a bigger fool than I already am if I wasn’t afraid.”
Gwayne hummed. “Are you afraid now?”
Criston shook his head. “Perhaps on the morrow. But now…now I want this.”
He steals the breath from Gwayne’s lungs with each new kiss that follows.
—
Merilee greets them with a cheerful wave when they arrive back at the bonfire. “Ser Gwayne! Ser Criston! Please join us again!”
They do as the young fiddler orders then, Gwayne startling when she presses her instrument into his hands and holds a finger to her lips, eyes giving a silent instruction to wait. Jorvan pulls himself from his seat, hands pressed to the shoulders of his grandsons.
Once silence is reached, Jorvan begins. “Those who live amoungst us know of this tradition but since we have many visitors this evening, I shall give an explanation for what is about to occur.” His silvery gaze glances upon the gathered men, upon the happy and relaxed faces. “This night is not only a celebration but also a night of renewal. During these hours, when the moon is at its highest, we cast parts of ourselves into the fire and let it burn away to start again. It could be anything. A trinket that you have held onto, even a lock of your own hair. Cast it into the fire and let it pass from this realm and into the next. Start again in the now.”
Criston’s hand slipped into the pocket of his surcoat where the favor had found permanent residence. He lifted it up, fingers brushing the embroidered A and each careful stitch.
From his right, Gwayne started to play another song. One that he did not recognize this time, but was still as beautiful as the one from before. The fire crackled and sizzled as little things began to fly, landing within the embers and being burned away into nothing.
Just like Jorvan had said.
The favor finds its own place among the logs. The flames find the A first, and he watches with an almost enraptured expression as it burns away.
When he looked away, his eyes immediately found Gwayne.
The other man’s eyes were closed, his face completely relaxed as he played the music that was now his again.
And this moment was Criston’s.
Even if the world burned away in dragonfire, this moment would always exist in the glowing infinite and would always be his.