honey, tell me, are you good at stayin' still?

Gwayne is determined to help Criston find a way to live in a way that satisfies him in this world.

There are some days, though, where Criston’s hands shake just as Gwayne’s leg trembles. Where he cannot try out new things. Where he must sit there and try to find a way to accept that some days, life hurts, and it is not a reflection on himself, not a measure of his own fault and the Seven punishing him, but rather his body telling him that he is allowed to rest and recover.

And sometimes, those are days like this. Days when the seeing the sunrise at the top of the tower feels entirely out of the question.

But there is one way to get to the top—a way that Ormund never would have allowed.

Running the tower is about beating your opponent. About showing that you are stronger. About showing that you can win the battle and the war alike.

But Gwayne doesn't want to be at war with Criston. He doesn't want to prove that he is better.

He just wants to prove to Criston that life, that light, can always been found. That the dawn will always come.

And so Gwayne doesn't give a shit how they make it to the top of the tower—just that they do.

Notes:

Title is from "Staying Still" by Noah Kahan.

Hello, folks! Wanted to take a quick second out of my current Daeron/Rhaena fic to write a quick little fun fic for Gwaynston for Gwaynston week. This combines a couple of prompts: Day One's "You owe me a sunrise" and Day Two's "Chronic Pain." As someone whose chronic pain flared up BAD this last week, this felt rather cathartic to get to write.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

I've lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway.

When they're more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they're burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children —they live.

Death usually has to take life away.

I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive.

So we live past hope.

If I can find hope anywhere, that's it, that's the best I can do. It's so much not enough. It's so inadequate. But still bless me anyway.

I want more life.

-Tony Kushner

The fact of the matter is that the top of the Hightower is impossible for Gwayne to reach on his own nowadays.

That is a bit of a problem for the Lord of Oldtown, of course. The Lord Hightower should be able to reach the top of his namesake.

But with Gwayne's leg the way that it is, that is a tall order to make. A tall request to fill—pun intended.

But there is one thing that can get him to the top: a vow, made by exhausted, aching lips.

At that moment, when the sun rises over the Seven Kingdoms, hundreds and hundreds of miles… I hope to show it to you one day.

Gwayne had realized shortly after he'd spoken the words that he was speaking to a dead man walking. That Criston Cole was the Stranger more than the Warrior, that he had been marching not in the name of the Hightowers but in the name of death itself.

There would never be a chance to run the tower with Criston. There would never be a chance to show Criston the sunrise.

In the end, Gwayne had been right, in his way. He would never get to run the tower with Criston. He would never get to race a Kingsguard up the steps.

---

The rivermen had wanted to kill Criston. Had wanted to shoot him clean through. But Gwayne and Daeron had managed to, in some strange way, convince each other to leave Tumbleton, and they had had to make it past Ormund, but they had done it, eventually—albeit with Gwayne paying the price of his leg being burned in their flight to escape when Ulf had turned up on Silverwing as they were flying away.

But eventually, they’d arrived to the field where Oscar Tully and Roderick Dustin had had Criston Cole and his men surrounded.

The Winter Wolves and rivermen did not have a dragon on their side, since Daemon Targaryen was back in King’s Landing, and they’d managed to get Criston away with only a single arrow injury to the hand.

But it was Criston’s sword hand, and that had led to Criston having to reevaluate his entire life. He was not able to fight anymore.

Criston had wanted to put a sword through his chest in that moment, staring down at his hand, staring down at the wreckage of what he had dedicated his entire life to.

But Gwayne had pressed his hands to Criston’s shoulders, ignoring how much it made his leg ache to put too much weight on it, and looked him in the eye and said, “We just saved you from tossing away your life, Criston Cole. You are not allowed to throw it away again.”

Criston had glared at him. “You do not get to order me around,” he had sworn, and Gwayne remembered Criston’s words regarding service. About how Criston had been more willing to die unbent, unbroken, glorious, than as a servant, a rejected mistress, a ghost clinging to the memory of life in his veins.

“What service could I ask of you save to live?” Gwayne asked, and it was the hardest request that he could make of a man who wished to die, he knew it, but he would use the life-debt to do it. To refuse the patron god of lost causes his mission.

Gwayne was tired of war. He was tired of watching good men die. He was tired of power and ambition and glory wreck the people around him.

So if he had to use the life-debt to make Criston Cole realize that he could live outside of the war, outside of knighthood, outside of duty and glory, then he would do it.

Gwayne would do anything, if it meant that he could keep the two people that he has grown to care about alive.

“Throw away the Hand of the King. Resign the Kingsguard. Live. That is all I ask of you. And I understand that it is the hardest thing that you shall ever do, but grit your teeth and do it anyway.”

It was a challenge. A fight that Criston Cole clearly did not want to wage. There was an arrow in his hand that he shall have to fight against the pain of.

But Criston Cole had met Gwayne's gaze, and he had been unable to look away.

---

They had pulled out the arrow once they'd gotten to a safe distance. Tessarion’s fire had cauterized the wound, making sure that no infection kicked in, and Gwayne had wrapped it in bandages, trying not to think about how it felt for his fingers to ghost across Criston's skin.

Criston hadn’t spoken to Gwayne for the first couple of days of their trip westward to the Hightower, away from Tumbleton, away from King’s Landing, away from the duty that Criston had once sworn his life to, away from the Queen that he had once seen as the Mother, away from the white cloak that he’d left in the dirt.

He had spoken to Daeron along the way. He had listened to the prince, and Gwayne had gritted his teeth and not pushed things, because Daeron was finally smiling and lighting up a bit with someone to talk about Dornish history with that wasn’t Ormund Hightower with his grasping hands and need for control, someone who didn’t try to find a flaw in every thing that Daeron did, someone who wouldn’t fly off the handle if Daeron dared to question him.

Criston was remarkably patient, almost as if he had some experience teaching and working with teenaged boys—and Gwayne wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Alicent had mentioned in some of her letters Criston working to train her sons in King’s Landing.

And Gwayne had tried to ignore the light that had been steadily burning in his chest for so long, since somewhere in the Riverlands, in between the muck and the leeches and the way that Criston Cole's dedication and honor and faith despite all odds had unravelled some sheen from Gwayne's arrogance, replacing it with respect and admiration and even attraction, like a moth to a flame.

Gwayne knew that Criston would never return his affections. That Criston Cole was dedicated to duty—and eventually, death—above all else.

That even now that Criston had agreed to live, that he was developing some sort of fondness for Daeron, that didn't mean anything for Criston having any sort of fondness for Gwayne himself.

But Criston not speaking to Gwayne hadn’t stopped Gwayne from doing his best to make life worth living for Criston.

Gwayne had gritted his teeth at the pain in his own legs. He’d rinsed them in the cold water of the streams and rivers when he could, to take the edge off of the burns, and he’d gone to collect turmeric and lavender and what few other herbs he could remember could take the edge off of Criston’s pain.

And he’d brought them back to the campsite, where he’d mixed the turmeric into Criston’s portion of the food, where he’d snuck the lavender into his gloves when he took them off to bathe in the river.

Gwayne had no idea if Criston saw him do it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care if he did. He was going to help Criston learn how to live, learn how to ease his own pain, learn how to actually like life, even if Criston didn’t want such a thing.

---

You can see the Hightower from so far in the distance that it almost feels like it’s mocking you on the horizon. You walk towards it, day after day, and you barely get any closer.

Your legs are burning. You are on your last legs. You do not know how you can keep going when your skin is on fire and your muscles are on fire and your world seems like it will only burn as bright as the beacon on the Hightower in the moment that you fall and burn yourself.

You feel like giving up. You feel like giving in. You start to understand how a man can become the patron god of the lost cause, why men at war start to pray to the stranger.

But when you’re at the top of the tower yourself, when you see the world stretching out beyond you, when you see the dawn—you understand that the world is both far bigger and far smaller than you ever thought it to be. That this view was always worth it. That the sun will continue to rise, and so can you.

This is what you have to hold onto as you’re walking towards Oldtown. Not the prayers that bite at your lips, the Seven that seem to have abandoned you long ago—or perhaps you abandoned them, with your sinful inclinations, with your abandonment of your vows, with your ghosts—but the light on top of the tower.

---

There was one day, though, when they were about two-thirds of the way to Oldtown, where Gwayne wasn’t sure if he could make it any further.

Daeron had been flying mostly on Tessarion while they rode their horses. Far away, a war was being waged between blacks and greens for control of the throne, but here, the only dragon was one that helped light their fires and their way.

And Gwayne’s burned leg couldn’t take it anymore. The riding, the walking, the aching.

Gwayne didn’t have a leg anymore. He had a lump of flesh, butchered by the road, by the burns, by the pain ratcheting up his leg until Gwayne was having a hard time remembering why he himself wanted to live.

They stopped, that night, and Gwayne knew that he needed to keep going, but he didn’t know how he could.

Criston looked at Gwayne, who refused to complain about his leg, who refused to give in, who had learned a lesson or two from Criston about willpower and stubbornness and the way that a chin tilts when it hits the end of the line but refuses to be stopped by a roadblock.

And Criston had sighed and had gone into the forest and he had come back with a solid tree branch. Had held it between his feet to brace it while he carved it just enough up the side using his good hand to fashion a top that a man could brace his hand against.

When Daeron had seen what Criston was doing, he’d come over and had helped, had braced it, had carved some of it—though he’d let Criston do the final stroke, finishing the project that he’d started, because he understood that Criston needed this, needed to be allowed to dedicate himself to this work.

“Here,” Criston had said, the first words he’d deigned to speak to Gwayne since Gwayne had made him live past the ache, “Use this to walk until we can get back to Oldtown and get you milk of the poppy.”

And in that moment, as he’d taken the walking cane from Criston, finally able to take some of the weight off of his burned leg, Gwayne had seen the light on the horizon. He’d seen the beacon on the Hightower.

---

Nowadays, Gwayne’s leg trembles, and so does Criston’s hand. That is the price that was paid to escape Tumbleton for Gwayne, and the rivermen for Criston: matching scars, burns for Gwayne’s right leg, a crippled right hand for Criston.

Now, Gwayne cannot get anywhere without his cane, and Criston has had a long, hard journey training to get his left hand to work properly. He is still working at it. Most days he finds it a struggle.

But he is able to teach Daeron how to spar. He is able to try out activities that are normally only able to be tested by indolent nobles in their leisure, such as music or reading or attending mummers’ plays and puppet shows and the like.

Criston is not good at indulging himself. He is not good at allowing himself to decide what he wants rather than what honor asks of him.

He was prepared to die, whether in service as a Kingsguard or in glory during the Dance of the Dragons. He had never contemplated what life could be like after the war, because there was never going to be a life after the war.

But here he is, living here in the Hightower, seeing a new world dawn without a white cloak on his shoulders.

And Gwayne is determined to help Criston find a way to live in a way that satisfies him in this world.

There are some days, though, where Criston’s hands shake just as Gwayne’s leg trembles. Where he cannot try out new things. Where he must sit there and try to find a way to accept that some days, life hurts, and it is not a reflection on himself, not a measure of his own fault and the Seven punishing him, but rather his body telling him that he is allowed to rest and recover.

And sometimes, those are days like this. Days when the seeing the sunrise at the top of the tower feels entirely out of the question.

But there is one way to get to the top—a way that Ormund never would have allowed.

Running the tower is about beating your opponent. About showing that you are stronger. About showing that you can win the battle and the war alike.

But Gwayne doesn't want to be at war with Criston. He doesn't want to prove that he is better.

He just wants to prove to Criston that life, that light, can always been found. That the dawn will always come.

And so Gwayne doesn't give a shit how they make it to the top of the tower—just that they do.

So Daeron and Tessarion drop Gwayne and Criston off at the top of the Hightower.

After Gwayne and Criston slide off of Tessarion's back—Criston going first so that he can offer out his good hand to catch Gwayne as he lands, in the same way that Gwayne is there to help write Criston's ravens when his hand aches too much to hold a quill—Criston says, "Are you coming as well, Your Grace?"

But Daeron doesn't get off of Tessarion's back. He just smiles at both of them. "I'll come back in an hour or two. I think you two could use some alone time, don't you think?"

Gwayne rolls his eyes at his nephew's cheek as Tessarion flies away, leaving the two of them alone. Daeron is far bolder now than he ever was under Ormund. Daeron knows what he’s doing when he leaves the two of them alone.

But just as Gwayne was willing to burn his leg in order to get Daeron out of Tumbleton so that Daeron could live his own life, so that Daeron could come to understand that he could be someone outside of Ormund's hold, Daeron wishes for both Gwayne and Criston to have the same chance at seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

So Gwayne sits down on the stone ledge surrounding the top of the tower, all the way around the beacon. "I did promise you a sunrise, did I not?" Gwayne asks.

Criston looks at Gwayne and slowly, the corner of his mouth turns upwards. It's not much—Criston doesn't really do wide smiles, Gwayne has come to learn, and thus appreciates the small ones all the more—but it is something as Criston proceeds to sigh and sit down next to Gwayne on the ledge to face the east.

Out this direction, in the far distance, is King's Landing. Is the castle and king that Criston once dedicated his life to.

Gwayne did not lie when he told Criston that you could see all the way across the Reach from the top of the Hightower. The world is so vast up here that it is easy to get lost in it.

And all of it, now, is illuminated by the sun cresting gold over the top of the horizon.

Gwayne smiles at Criston. “See?” he asks, “Told you that you could see hundreds and hundreds of miles when the sun rises."

Criston arches an eyebrow. "You are the most stubborn man I have ever met, Ser Gwayne, you do know that, right?"

That's Lord Gwayne, now, Gwayne could correct, but this is Criston Cole, once Kingmaker, now self-maker, and Gwayne doesn't wish to hear Gwayne call him by the title of his birth. The knighthood that he earned is more than enough.

Instead, Gwayne says, "I do believe that I am looking at such a man, Ser Criston," a teasing smirk on his lips.

Gwayne offers out a hand. "Only the most stubborn man in the world could live past his own death like you have."

"Only because you were the one who convinced me to do so," Criston says, and his voice is soft, the softest that Gwayne has ever heard it, and Criston looks at Gwayne like Gwayne has been looking at him, ink-dark gaze softening, warming with the gold turning it amber in the sunrise, and he's leaning in, and reaching out take Gwayne's hand in his, entwining their fingers together, and—

And Criston Cole's mouth tastes of the dawn. Of new chances. Of the way that those who were once dead men walking can learn to finally live, warmth in their mouths, light on their lips.