Chapter Text
For a pious man, Ormund Hightower’s hands had a queer tendency to wander. And in doing so, they often found things that were best left alone.
Oh, did his hands ever wander in the practice room back home, in starlit Oldtown. Level your hips, he’d said, steadying Gwayne with a firm touch. Shoulders tight, he’d add, touching him there, too. You need not look a fool to hold the Fool’s Stance, cousin.
Though most would have deemed these private lessons an honor, Gwayne saw them for the mockery they were likely meant to be. For he knew well enough that he made a fine sword, even if his older cousin claimed otherwise. Father thought it too, but Gwayne would sooner piss on that.
Only through battle can one be made divine, Ormund used to tell him. He said many an odd thing just to run his mouth, and Gwayne had long since learned not to heed his words, lest he waste a lifetime trying to unweave them. More than his musings, Gwayne was interested in the knight’s skill at arms, renowned across the Reach and far beyond. If truth be told, every time Gwayne walked into that practice room, he felt as though he might just walk out less a hand, or mayhaps an organ. But he much preferred it so, as he had always loved a gamble.
No matter how clever the man, all of them were made of patterns. Throughout their time together, Gwayne came to know a lot about his cousin’s quirks and habits, watching his footwork and the subtle language of his body. His owlish eyes and the measure of his strikes. He had plenty to learn from this man, he was sure of it. In a few moons’ time, Gwayne reckoned he might even best him in battle, and strip him of that ever-present smile.
And so he kept up his training, allowing Ormund’s hands to wander under the guise of instruction, if only to reap the fruits of his favor. But when Gwayne felt those same hands close around his throat, he found himself at a loss for what should come thereafter.
“Get up now, green boy.”
It all happened so fast, it almost seemed untrue. Just as Gwayne was about to deliver a thrust to the side, Ormund tripped him with a quick leg sweep and proceeded to mount him, casting his darling sword aside. Not because he had to, but simply because he wanted to. Swordplay, Gwayne would come to find, was not where the other’s true passions resided.
“If you expect a fair fight from every opponent you cross, why, you might end up dying before your time. Not all men are as fair as I.”
So this was it, then. In the zeal of their dance, Gwayne had failed to notice that the real game was afoot, and he would not be spared the mockery this time. He might have been quicker to react had he not had the wind knocked out of him, whilst those sturdy hands pressed deep into the meat of his neck, hunting for the arteries. The shock of it was too great, and panic had begun to set in long before his judgement got a chance to follow.
Beyond the window spread the loveliest dusk, begging for reverie, yet there he found himself at life’s edge, with Ormund’s weight upon him and no one else coming to aid. Gwayne had always been stout of heart, but the sudden loss of air tarred his mind with dread, made all the worse by his vision blurring and his ears starting to ring. Truly, he'd never imagined he could die of anything but a sword’s edge — and by his kin’s hands, on top of that. To his green mind, that had always been Targaryen business.
“Now, Gwayne, what ought a knight do?” Ormund said, a smile in each syllable. “How can one break free from this?”
To his merit, Gwayne tried tucking in his chin and striking at Ormund’s elbows, even if it came to little more than a clumsy flailing of limbs. And the worst of it was that Gwayne could feel his cousin hold back from crushing his throat, choosing instead to aim for the blood flow. Somehow, that was all the more insulting. Ever so faintly, Gwayne heard him tut amidst the blur, pressing down even harder, growing larger than life atop him. Perhaps there was no practical lesson to be learned from this, but one of true humility.
Soon enough, Gwayne could focus on naught but the gallop of his heart, striving to keep his spirit as Ormund’s eyes remained on him, blue and cold, just like Father's. Never had he thought he would be reduced to this, he who swore not to shrink nor cower before any man. And never had he thought his world should pale and narrow to Ser Ormund Hightower, patron of the virtuous.
The man was everywhere about him — the smell of him, the sound of him, the press of his member against Gwayne’s body. And for a brief moment, Gwayne wondered how it must have felt to be on the other side, to have another’s breath within his grasp. For one who ends a life becomes at once Mother and Father, Warrior and Stranger, judge and warden of the passing. It could well be why men returned to war, just to feel a little closer to the ones they prayed to at night.
Slowly but surely, dark spots spread across Gwayne’s vision like the empty cells of honeycombs, and he felt himself go limp in Ormund’s hands, despite his errant squirming. And then, all of a sudden, there was nothing.
For a few seconds’ time, there was nothing else but blackness, and cold, cold death running its fingers through his hair.
When he came back to his senses, he gasped for air as if he were drowning in the Honeywine. His neck had been freed from strain, and his own hands felt cold and damp, aching for the grip of his sword. The bloody room kept spinning around him, and before he could even reach for the steel, he found Ormund still sat on top of him, always and forever smiling.
“My, how intriguing,” his cousin taunted. “I never took you for a lecherous dog.”
Gwayne was too far gone to catch the meaning of those words, not until he followed Ormund’s gaze down the length of his body, where the worst of all had come to pass. For there he saw the shape of his manhood stand to attention, straining against his breeches. Precisely when and why it happened, he could not say.
By force of will alone, Gwayne tried not to grow ill at the sight of it, feeling dread rise up in him once more. If that was not enough, he feared — if only for one torturous moment — that his cousin might touch him there too, or do gods know what else to pester him. But it seemed he'd thought too far ahead, as Ormund simply got up without further ado, wiping his hands on his costly leathers. Not of sin, but of sweat alone.
The two of them stood still then, regarding one another as though each had caught the other stealing. By all means, Gwayne felt he had to say something to draw attention from himself, for he could never, ever let Ormund get the wrong impression. Words made poor defenders, knowing not the truth they served.
“May this drag you to the seven hells and back,” he swore, his voice too weak to hold much poise.
“Mm. I doubt it will weigh much,” Ormund countered, without a vestige of remorse.
In a quick sweep of the hand, he sheathed his sword and cocked his head to the side, offering his cousin some salt for the wound.
“I will be expecting you for supper. Goose and turnips, I hear. And sausage, too.”
That was that, with not much hope of respair. Gwayne did not hear the door close behind Ormund when he left, nor did he care much in the moment if anyone should raise hue and cry upon finding him. Eventually, he let his head thud back against the floorboards, burning hotter than the sun upon the hills. Splayed out on the ground like that, he was but a pile of gristle cast from the great beyond, for having dared not die a warrior.
At the time, such betrayal seemed beyond all reckoning, his kin’s as well as that of his own flesh. Oh, how he loathed his cousin, for the vile things he did under the eyes of the Seven, only to then turn and bruise his knees in prayer. It was almost as if he spat upon their family’s honor and used Gwayne’s loyalty to wipe it clean. Others fucking take him. Others take them both.
When one climbed high enough through the ranks, Gwayne supposed he cared little where his spittle fell. And there he was at the very bottom, a green knight in the flower of his age, seldom touched by another. Easy to guide, and just as easy to bend. Woe to him, and to his bright ideals.
What a waste of a beautiful day that was. He might not have noticed it before, but the room carried the sweet smell of flowers drifting in from outside, well tended in their lovely garden of greed. His lady mother had worn that same scent once, when they buried her in the sacred soil of their home. He could not bear thinking of such things now, not with his arousal yet apparent, and his spirits in a whirlwind.
Gods, he really should not have come here. Should not have dwelled here, nor allowed this place to dwell in his heart. Yet despite himself, he did, and sundown found him with a heavy mind and a sinking gut.