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As he walks, Criston can discern the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot, a cacophony that hammers inside his brain. It's the only sound that accompanies them as they march in defeat, like souls wandering through the Riverland’s forests.
The Blacks' trap has borne fruit, and that's the reason why they find themselves marching on without horses, only on their weary, aching legs, worn from the long stretches and the strain. The armor had only added extra weight, but it had made him feel like a knight, a warrior, dignity made metal. Now, he walks in common, dirty clothes, looking more like a beggar risking his life without remembering why it all began.
The handkerchief with the initials embroidered on it remains on his body, a constant offering, but Criston doesn't know if it still offers the same comfort it did before. All memories preceding the war are blurred and vague, and now his thoughts consist only of death, winning, even more death, his men, service to the nobles who will see him die without so much as lift a finger, repeat.
Is it worth it? Criston wants to think so.
He doesn’t remember what rest feels like nowadays, but that’s far from the priority at the moment. His gaze is settled on the path outstretched ahead, on setting the pace for the men who have faithfully remained by his side like an enduring force, a source of support that sometimes triggers a pang of inner guilt for dragging them toward an uncertain end besides him. Yet, he must repeatedly remind himself that this was his own choice. This war? Criston was the one who placed the conqueror's crown on the head of King Aegon II, and he wouldn’t stop when his cause is the only thing left to his name.
Not Cole the Dornishman. Not Cole of humble origins, just a steward’s son. Not Cole, the royal lapdog.
That thought sparks a sudden surge of energy and inner strength, driving him forward through the undergrowth. There isn’t room for exhaustion in a body hardened by the years of service extended behind him. His legacy.
Still, he keeps all his senses awake. That way he can notice when Gwayne's step behind him weakens, losing the rhythm they have been trying to keep. It's somewhat strange, since the man is who has most consistently remained to his side without fail. He doesn't currently look like a clumsy Reach nobleman, unable to survive in adversity like a raised palfrey amidst warhorses. There's something not quite right about his gait; he drags his left foot and winces in pain when he puts it down. It’s evident how Gwayne tries to hide it when Criston drifts his gaze towards him.
“A break,” the Kingmaker finally says, pausing beside a fallen log as his men rush to take advantage of the moment.
“I can continue, Lord Commander,” Gwayne replies immediately, somewhat forcedly, with a firmness that ends up coming across as downright frail. His body leans against a tree, and that's how Criston reaches the conclusion that something is wrong.
“I said we’re resting.”
“Well, suit yourself…”
Criston removes his pack, letting it drop onto the dry leaves with a crunching sound. Cold sweat clings to the back of his neck as well as his clothes, and the weather begins to foretell rain, so they mustn't delay too long. While the others stay busy with their own ministrations, Criston approaches Gwayne and places a hand on his shoulder without the need to ask for permission, exerting just enough pressure to make the man sit down on the log.
“Take off your left boot. Let me see.”
“Huh? It was just a misstep, Cole. There’s no need—”
“Take it off.”
Gwayne sighs with his forehead slightly wrinkled, although it’s worth noting that he’s a man who doesn’t look his age. Still, the changes are visible; at least to Criston, who once stared keenly on the other’s features. It’s strange to see a visage that was once cocky and lively give way to a man so thoroughly consumed by war. Remembering those early moments when he met him comes quite as a shock, and Criston wonders if Queen Alicent would recognize her brother upon seeing him. Perhaps not. Perhaps she would blame Criston for having destroyed him, or for playing a part in letting him destroy himself.
Gwayne's fingers drift almost clumsily as he unbuckles his boots, looking faintly obdurate, even. But when the leather gives way and Criston helps him carefully slide the boot off, a stifled groan escapes Gwayne’s cracked lips as the pain takes shape. Criston decides to kneel before him, with only one knee on the ground, and the sight he gets is enough to make him tense his jaw and frown deeply.
The white skin of Gwayne’s foot is swollen, distorting the slender shape it should possess, up to his shin which appears bruised from there to the ankle, with greenish traces also surfacing on the muddied skin. Upon touching it carefully, he finds the temperature hot. “By the Seven…”
Criston runs his fingertips along the edges of the swelling and feels Gwayne’s body tremble instinctively at the contact. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything? You’ve been walking like this for hours, Gwayne.”
The aforementioned man looks away momentarily, swallowing hard as he tries to appear less guilty. It doesn’t work, of course. Criston feels a twinge of disappointment. If something goes wrong, if Gwayne were to lose his foot or even his leg, he knows he would feel guilt crawling over him like overgrown vines. It’s not that he hasn't seen quite the view before with his men, but the thought of returning Gwayne Hightower in pieces makes his stomach clench painfully.
“There was no time to stop,” Gwayne says, shrugging his shoulders before looking him in the eyes with resignation etched in that crystal-blue color. “And I am no burden.”
“I see,” Criston nods, licking his lips. “But a broken or sprained ankle doesn’t make you brave.” His answer is harsh, and he knows it, but a hint of guilt peeks through for forcing him to continue instead of diverting his path to Tumbleton as the man suggested. His own stubbornness makes sense—to him—but that doesn’t mean he’s happy to see a man under his guidance like this.
Criston is their commander. He should have noticed it sooner, how Gwayne's forced elegance gradually turned into an overexertion to keep up with the exhausting pace of the march. He doesn’t even have any idea when the injury might have happened.
“I didn’t want to be a bother, I suppose,” Gwayne replies quietly. And he's too honest. That's why his words leave him rather speechless.
Criston prefers not to answer, since he doesn't know what to say, and every scolding dies in his mouth tasting like ash. His mother used to be like that. Instead of scolding him for climbing trees and falling down and hurting himself like other mothers would, she preferred to focus on his injury, his pain, and offer a lesson later when the shock subsided. He misses her with a dull ache he has grown accustomed to over the years, so he turns his focus to Gwayne.
Pulling a dagger from a sheath at his side, Criston uses it to rip the sock when taking it off proves to be a problem. It’s agonizingly attached to the skin by sweat, moisture, and the injury itself. He tries to hold it gently, and Gwayne stays put while looking down to stare at him. Having his full attention creates a slight tension in the line of his shoulders, but it isn’t necessarily unpleasant.
Luckily, he has a wineskin in his bag that he had filled not long ago. With it, he wets a clean cloth before gently laying it against the knight’s burning skin. Gwayne lets out a gasp, relief mingling with the tension that was beginning to envelop them in its cloak.
“We need to wrap it before it cools down completely,” Criston says with unusual gentleness, his dark brown eyes fixed on the slighter man’s figure. “But it’s going to hurt, so you’ll have to bear it.”
Gwayne nods, still looking resigned. “Do it.”
Criston manages to produce an improvised bandage of white linen, and proceeds to wrap it around Gwayne's ankle and shin in a figure-eight shape, making sure to do so firmly enough to keep the foot in place without causing unnecessary pain. Even so, he hears the knight hiss in pain, seeing him clench his teeth and his face contort as the sharp agony washes over him.
He wants to apologize, but the words die in his throat. Heavy and slightly guilt-ridden. There’s nothing he can do, no procedure exists that wouldn't bring the man some measure of agony. Gwayne remains brave, and it’s a surprise that materializes deep in his chest as he finds some resilience in the nobleman he once considered prickly.
Moreover, there’s something strangely intimate and close about it. Criston is kneeling between his legs, so close he can hear Gwayne's labored breathing, and the warmth peeking between them, as well as the fact that they’re alone together in a momentary blanket of care and camaraderie. Gwayne's attention remains incessantly fixed on him, on his movements and his expression, and a tingling sensation runs down his neck and hands at such intensity.
The commander isn’t used at holding the attention of nobles, not when he has nothing to offer them. But there’s something very honest about being able to offer simple care to someone like Gwayne, and receiving a naked, honest, and frank appreciation in return. When Criston raises his gaze after finishing, those blue orbs are still upon him. The moment leaves him frozen for a few seconds before he has to clear his throat.
“It’s done,” he says in a voice lower than usual, still holding the southerner’s heel. His body remains kneeling with his other hand resting on Gwayne's knee to keep it steady enough. Criston still feels warmth emanating from the man’s body, and it worries him, but he doesn't know if it's due to the weather, the situation, or something extremely serious that should alarm him.
“I can see that. It could have been worse…” Gwayne tilts his head, the hint of a smile trying to curve the corners of his lips, but the curve doesn't quite materialize. He's tired, Criston can surmise. “Thank you.”
Criston observes him, with his haughty, sharply defined Hightower features, and his coppery-blond hair that shines even amidst the dirt that surrounds them. Everything about him is a facade that contrasts with the more hardened men who accompany them, and perhaps that was what led him to dismiss him in the first place—alongside Gwayne's unnecessary comments upon meeting him. It had been easy to anticipate a difficult relationship ahead of them, especially after their initial arguments with their contrasting opinions and methods, yet the truth is that the knight has become something akin to a comrade.
The Lord Commander feels naive for seeing it that way, especially at his age and after all he has been through. Trusting someone is a risk he's already found quite difficult, and he tries to avoid it with his curt answers and defensive attitude. Now, to his horror and surprise, it’s revealed to him as a somewhat blurry vision that he has given Gwayne Hightower something more than just trust. He wonders if he's still the same idiot who offered a life devoid of luxury and riches so many years ago when he thought he found love, and his vows suffered from it.
Even as he recalls that memory with bitterness and an ache as dull and persistent as a lingering bruise, Gwayne keeps his gaze fixed on him, even thanking him for his actions with a hand gripping his shoulder.
Yet, Criston cannot overlook the obvious. It's noticeable in the way he himself frowns, in his lips joined in a thin line. It’s hardly a fitting expression for the Hand of the King, but it is what it is. “You should have spoken up before your foot got into that state. We’ve been marching for days. If Daemon’s army were to arrive, you wouldn't have been able to fight like that.”
The right corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitches into a wry smile. “Says who? I’m no cripple, my friend.”
“No, you aren’t. But you put yourself at risk anyway, when survival is what matters.”
“Is it? Is it really—for you?” Gwayne raises an eyebrow, and Criston's reproach can only die on his lips. After all, the answer to such a question is perhaps too complicated, and he is not ready to offer it.
Not yet, when at night all he can think about is whether he's doing the right thing. If remaining true to one's convictions is worthwhile, and if there is still an honor, safeguarded within, that can be maintained as an intact dignity that clings to death without fading.
Gwayne finally lowers his gaze for a moment. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I know it. It’s hard for me to admit sometimes, but your head is in the right place.” He considers this for an instant. “Sometimes.”
That manages to bring out a hint of a genuine smile from Criston, something that appears rarely in recent years, and even more so now that Aemond's abandonment is sown between his ribs like a throe. He lets a few seconds of silence pass, his hands still resting on the other man’s leg, before he speaks again. “Why hide it?” he asks with complete straightforwardness and honesty. “Did you think I’d leave you behind?”
He watches closely as a short laugh escapes Gwayne’s lips, revealing a flash of unexpected bitterness. Criston doesn’t expect to glimpse something like that in him. “Oh, no, no. You are far too honorable for that, Ser Criston. I don’t know if that is a virtue or, perhaps, your greatest flaw. You would have carried me on your back had it been necessary, or stayed to die nobly by my side.”
Criston chooses to ignore the heat rising in his own face.
“And would that have been worse than being honest?”
“Perhaps,” Gwayne replies immediately, averting his gaze before continuing with that sincerity that lacks sarcasm or that flowery way in which the rich nobles of the capital speak. “In a way, I do not want your pity. I do not want you to have to carry me or for me to become a burden on your conscience.”
His words feel heavy, at least to Criston, and that is why he remains silent for a few moments while he considers the closeness between them. He hadn't realized it, the way he was still holding Gwayne's leg, his hand somewhat tense on the warm skin of his calf. Furthermore, the man is still leaning on his shoulder, and it's a pleasant weight that he doesn't recall ever having experienced before. Although his closeness to other men has been extensive in the training and battle fields, Criston is no idiot, and he can notice a difference that leaves him slightly dizzy.
“You aren’t a burden,” he finally replies, his voice coming out raspier than expected from the brief silence. That's why he clears his throat and allows his eyes to focus on Gwayne's, vivid in their blue hue. “You may hold a title, be the Queen’s brother and all that, but out here, none of that matters—not really.”
It's not about comforting him, because it's actually more than that. Something more personal, perhaps, and it comes quite naturally to Criston. “You’re the man who’s had my back since we left King’s Landing.”
Gwayne lets his hand fall, slides it along the extension of Criston's arm, and it's a touch that manages to anchor him in a certain way. It feels close and strangely welcome.
“Just that?”
The question throws him off a bit, since such a forthright approach isn’t expected. Gwayne tilts his head as he regards him with such an intensity, it consumes something unspoken. Criston feels the need to lick his lips, undergoing the touch that still remains attached to his arm. He doesn't even attempt to move it, preferring to keep the moment intact from any gesture that might ruin it. That's why air accumulates in his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe properly.
It's... difficult. Amidst his guilt and devotion, it’s hard to find the right space for what the days on the march have made him experience. It erodes his defenses, and he struggles to explain what it is that he finds in Gwayne's orbs, and why his touch feels so personal, like a short-term burn that spreads and becomes quite addictive.
“You are my… companion in this,” Criston says after a minute of silence settles between them, so subtle that his voice is enough to break the spell that kept them silent and looking at each other. Inexperienced and perhaps even clumsy. Or at least, that is how Criston feels. He has no doubt that Gwayne knows more than he lets on. There is so much he doesn't know about the man—and it irks him greatly. “I won’t let you get hurt.”
It might sound hypocritical coming from him, and the look Gwayne gives him confirms it. But none of that matters. They are close, he is tending to his companion’s ankle as best he can. They might die tomorrow, but the important thing is that he won’t let Gwayne get injured because of his own irresponsibility. Or his pride.
Almost as if he could read his mind, Gwayne sighs, and for the first time in a long minute, he looks away from him. “I know how it sounds, and it isn’t pride. I command the Oldtown City Watch, yet all of this—this entire war—has shown me just how… insignificant we can be. I’m merely the son of a second son. I’ve lived well, a lavish life, and is it all to end… here? Dying for a cause that already feels so far away to me?”
His words may feel treacherous, but Criston understands... only halfway. After all, what can a nobleman truly know about the hardships of life?
“All men die. Dying for honor and for my vows is the only thing left for me. And for you?” Criston asks with a gentleness that even surprises him, but not as much as when he notices his thumb making circles in delicate caresses against the knight's leg.
Gwayne's expression also softens, and he tightens his arm even more in a way that feels almost affectionate. “I’m sorry. I know I sound like a pampered prick. And that is exactly what… I want to erase. I’d rather walk on this ankle as it is than see you look at me as a sham unfit for war—someone who has done nothing but get in the way.”
The Lord Commander can only frown, drawing in a deep breath of the surrounding air until his lungs are full. He senses Gwayne's natural musk, the sweat that envelops them with the grime clinging to their bodies. But there is so much familiarity that he wishes to remain sheltered in that essence.
Gwayne’s words are so raw. No one at court has spoken to him like that, as if his judgment or attention were the only thing that sustains someone's axis. The other man's breathing also appears accelerated, and that is a comfort, however strange it may sound.
“You aren’t. I don’t see you that way—at least, not anymore,” Criston offers in honest reply. It comes from deep within, from what one knows to be true, beyond egos and falsehoods. Even if it comes out as almost a whisper, just for the two of them. “If you knew what I’ve seen in you these past few days… the strength you’ve shown… you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Gwayne.”
Gwayne closes his eyes for a moment before letting his head fall forward, and the movement allows their foreheads to almost meet in an electrifying, warm bond. He shouldn't find it so comforting, but for Criston it has the same enveloping serenity as a tent with pillows after days of sleeping on branches, dry leaves and dirt. He even detects a slight tremor in the knight’s body, and that makes him hold perfectly still. For his sake.
If Criston can offer himself as a refuge for someone, he wants it to be someone like Gwayne.
“Stay like this for a moment,” Gwayne asks, and Criston appreciates the soft, hushed tone coming from the man so close to his face. “Just a moment.”
His reason tries to fight it, to interpose itself between them and urge him to stand, take up his sword, and maintain the distance his rank demands—as he knows full well he should. But Gwayne's warmth, his vulnerability, the strange need to take care of him keeps him anchored as an immutable constant. There, motionless, close, is more than someone like Criston has allowed himself over the years.
They remain like that, wrapped in the silence of the forest, and Criston would not have it any other way.