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Gwayne's breathing had not steadied after the battle, collapsing in a chair and struggling to calm himself. The dragons were no longer tangled in the sky, the sounds of battle had become sounds of screams and the smell of smoke. He had no idea where he was relative to any of his men, he was just somewhere in the bowels of Rooks Rest, having taken the keep while the soldiers fled in terror from the fire and blood falling from the sky.
Where was the King? Where was Prince Aemond? Where was Cole?
The Lord Commander -- the Hand -- whatever title he might prefer was more of a pain than anything, but he found his throat tightening at the prospect of anything happening to him. He had seen him fall, but was he…
He needed to focus. They would camp where they were, to take stock of the injured and remind those shattered in the castle that they remained and had won.
It hardly felt like a victory, Gwayne thought as he ripped away pieces of his dented and scorched armor, and he felt his senses return to him. "Where is the Lord Commander?" he demanded of whoever seemed the least maddened by shock that was close at hand. "Where is Cole?!" His voice was catching in his throat as no one satisfyingly answered his question.
"He's with the king, ser," someone finally said. "They fetched the Maester to tend to him. I believe they mean to bring him to the keep…"
Impatient, he lurked through the halls of the keep as his men rallied, tended wounds and handled prisoners and those who had knelt. He could go back out there…but he didn't…he didn't think he could. He didn't think he could see the body of a dragon, find the shattered remains of the Queen Who Never Was, and not lose his mind. He missed Daeron and Tessarion something terrible.
There was a flurry of activity towards the front of the keep; a deep voice maester called for assistance, soldiers marching and the stern urging of care bouncing off the stone.
"Hightower?!" a familiar, harsh voice called.
Now he was racing through the halls, following the echo of Cole's voice, feeling half a child at the anxious beat of his heart. Cole found him first, and shoved him into the nearest empty bed chamber, the door slamming behind him. He was free of his armor, but the smoke and blood of battle still clung to him.
"Where is my nephew?" he demanded.
"The King has been injured in the battle. We must return to King's Landing as soon as we can move him," he said, stiff and distant, even as he closed the gap between them, bafflingly tangling his hands in Gwayne's hair. "I thought you dead."
Time seemed to slow around them as he tried to step back from this sudden imposition on his space. "Cole --"
"I thought you dead and it troubled me," he continued.
"We're not dead, Cole," he said, his voice going soft despite the need to get away sinking into him, hooking his hand around Cole's wrist. "What are you --"
"Gods forgive me," was all Cole said before kissing him firmly on the mouth, pushing him back two steps until he stumbled against the bed.
Gwayne was pinned there, the larger man suddenly on top of him. Questioning this development wouldn't satisfy either of them, he thought, returning the kiss and pulling Cole in closer. " Criston ," he said, breathless, when they both pulled back for air.
Dark eyes -- Dornish eyes, gods help him -- considered him hungrily. There was exhaustion baked into the lines on his face, but the desire was there too. He leaned in for another searing kiss, moving down his neck, sucking a bruise on the front of his throat. "You are infuriating," he murmured into Gwayne's hair.
" I'm infuriating?" he muttered, catching his lips again. "I got you this castle didn't I?"
Criston was rocking against him, hard and chasing friction, tugging at the fabric of his tunic so he could run his hands up Gwayne's sweat covered torso.
Gwayne tugged at the laces to Cole's breaches, reaching between them to stroke his cock experimentally, gauging his reaction.
Cole hissed, and seemed torn between if he wanted to pull away or lean into the contact. He reached down and grabbed Gwayne's hand, pinning it above his head and grabbing the other for good measure. "You're bold, Ser Gwayne."
"Forgive me, then," he said, struggling limply against Cole's grip.
"The gods favor bold men," he said, softly, as if his own private joke, kissing Gwayne again as he rutted against him.
They were both hard, both covered in sweat and soot and blood, and both rushing towards something with no plan. Gwayne wrapped his legs around Cole's waist, holding him in place as they grinded against each other, chasing friction.
Unlike the battle, this was likely to end quickly and embarrassingly for both of them. Gwayne felt like he was six-and-ten and rolling around with the stablehand again, breathlessly coming in his pants.
Cole wasn't far behind him, and immediately pulled himself out of Gwayne's grip. He thought he might leave, but he fell back onto the bed next to him with a sigh.
"If we make it back to King's Landing alive, I'll show you how to do it properly," Gwayne tried to joke, unable to hide the exhaustion any longer.
Cole scowled at the ceiling. "I know how to do it properly."
Gwayne braced himself to hear some belittling remark about himself or his sister, but there was nothing but silence. He tried not to think of Alicent lying there, soaked in sweat and unpleasantly sticky. He had picked up on the tension that passed between them, but it seemed nameless and formless, and now it was hovering over them instead. "...Not with a man," he deduced, holding onto at least a bit of bravado.
"Terribly different?" he deadpanned. "I spent ten years at court with Laenor Velaryon, I've heard the stories."
"Yes, but like any good story, the boring practicalities are lost in the telling." He rolled onto his side, looking at Cole scrutinizingly. He expected…maybe disgust or anger at what battle heated blood had led them to. He'd experienced his fair share of that. Instead, Cole's face was oddly peaceful. All of his normal cruelties seemed softened, whether by release or by fatigue.
"Then I'll trust you to show me," Cole said, with the tone of a jape, finally getting back out of bed. "Clean yourself up, Ser Gwayne, we cannot show weakness after such a victory."
"Of course not, Lord Commander." He got up to walk past Cole, to find whatever poor excuse for baths this keep had and pretended not to notice the hand pressed to his lower back as Cole passed by him. It might have been a complication, but he couldn't help but welcome it.
Criston was unsettled. Too many things were gnawing at him: relief, terror, guilt and a heap of shame that he couldn't quite swallow.
Aemond was regent now, as the line of succession demanded it, but Criston himself was, to hear Larys tell it, no longer Hand. Aemond wanted Otto back, and he couldn't begrudge him that wisdom. Aegon naming him Hand had been the whim of a child being told he couldn't do what he wanted.
He felt like Alicent could see the truth in his eye, not just how he felt about that decision but what had truly happened with Aegon…and even her brother. She was keener than anyone else in the Keep, and avoiding her was the only way he felt like his sins weren't exposed to the light.
Tomorrow, they would return to the march. Tomorrow, he could go back to what he knew: war.
Sometimes after supper he had found Gwayne Hightower, where he jested with his men, the horror of the march clear in his eyes even as he laughed.
"Oh, Lord Commander, join us!" he said, holding out a full glass of arbor gold.
He declined. Drinking with these spoiled Reach knights was a bad idea. He had created a vulnerability in himself that he hadn't shown since the Bitch Queen of Dragonstone had dragged it from him, and he did not want it seen by anyone else.
"Perhaps we could speak later about the impending march," he said instead, putting on the mask of the stern commander instead. He knew what he truly wanted: to drag him away from prying eyes and ask him if what happened at Rooks Rest was earnest.
"You know, the Dornish reputation for merrimaking clearly doesn't apply to you Marsher types, does it?" he japed back, but there was a subtle nod of his head, too.
"No. War is no place for foolishness," he said sternly, walking away to drink alone, trying to steady himself.
There was a cavernous pit inside of Criston sometimes. He had thought to fill it with honor and glory, but his darker desires were always under the skin, begging to be fed. He'd thought Alicent had quieted those wants, but it hadn't lasted, and the ugliness of what they had to do…
He drank more, trying to push the queen from his mind.
By the time he'd drunk himself into bravery, it was late enough he felt confident wandering his way to where Gwayne Hightower was being kept. He dismissed the goldcloaks and idly wondered who would die while he shirked his duty this time, the wine dulling his guilt and leaving only bitter, cruel jokes.
The room was empty when he stepped inside, dropping his sword on a chair and sitting down, removing his boots and taking a breath. The gods had not yet struck him down, and for that he thought he might belong here.
It was impossible to ignore the slow burning arousal that seemed to build as he waited. The promise of more to come had been bouncing through his mind as he tried to avoid thinking of the harsher realities awaiting him. He would rather think of flesh.
The pretty little lordling meandered back to his room by midnight, stumbling a bit before he looked up and saw Criston, seeming to sober up as the door clicked locked behind him. "Ser Criston," he said. "You didn't have to wait too long?"
"No." He rubbed his hands down his thighs, trying to exorcize the nerves from his chest.
Gwayne hesitated. He knelt to remove his boots, avoiding Criston's eye. "Forgive my delay. Some things are…well, I thought a bath was well-earned," he said.
Criston almost asked if his friends from dinner joined him in the bath, but he didn't like the dull thrum of jealousy it inspired in his chest. Instead, he looked at the damp red hair hanging limp around his face. "Come here, then."
His steps were ginger and measured. His usual confidence seemed replaced by the manners of a hunter approaching an animal in a trap, ready for the chance to be bitten.
Unable to endure the waiting any longer, he stood up, two swift steps to close the distance between them, hooking his hands under Gwayne's thighs and lifting him with ease. They were near the same size, but Gwayne weighed nothing to him.
Gwayne laughed, squeezing his thighs around Criston's middle and leaned in to kiss him.
They both tasted of wine, and he thought maybe he could get drunker just from Gwayne's kiss. He walked towards the bed, throwing the lordling down and immediately pinning him to the mattress, kissing down his neck and pulling at the tie of his tunic.
"Ser Criston, perhaps…" he tried to start, trailing off into a needy, incomprehensible sound. He pulled Cole's shirt off and ran his hands down his chest.
"What?" he demanded in Gwayne's ear.
"Maybe you ought to lie back," he said. "Can you surrender yourself to me for the night?"
"I don't surrender," he said, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Gwayne's collar.
"I've noticed," he said. "Allow me to please you, then?" Gwayne was prodding him, testing what type of man he was. His words shot through him, a flash of heat even though he was already on fire.
Criston stripped off the rest of his clothes and arranged himself against the pillows, waiting for Gwayne.
Gwayne's eyes darkened as he looked at him, standing up and pulling off his tunic and trousers, scrambling back into bed, lying next to Criston and kissing him again.
He wrapped his arms around Gwayne and pulled him tight, feeling where he was hard against Criston's hip. The insanity of the last fortnight melted away into a heated point of contact as his hands ran down Gwayne's lean torso. "You said you'd show me," he teased.
"I am showing you," he said, disentangling himself and reaching across him to grab something corked beside his bed. "Are you capable of patience, ser?"
"No."
Gwayne coated his hand in a bit of oil before reaching down to stroke Criston's cock. His back arched off the mattress at the sudden cold contact. Gwayne kissed him again, slow and gentle. The tenderness unnerved him, and he bit Gwayne's lip to chase away his fears.
He hissed and pulled back, letting go of Criston's cock and wiping his hands on the bedding around them. Then he straddled Criston's hips and paused. "You ready?"
Criston's mind was blank. His mind was on fire. He had no thoughts but the need to be touched, and to feel something. He couldn't even make his throat form words, he could only nod.
"Gods, you're beautiful like this," Gwayne said with a smirk as he slowly sank down onto Criston's cock.
He groaned, grabbing at Gwayne's waist tight enough to bruise, bucking against him as if he was completely out of control.
Gwayne moaned, sitting astride Criston and pausing to catch his breath before he began rolling his hips, braced against his chest.
Criston had never felt anything like this before, as the velvety friction overwhelmed his senses. He tried to meet Gwayne's movements as he found a rhythm above him, sweating and groaning.
His hand moved from Criston's chest to grabbing his hand, pinning it to the mattress as he leaned forward, the change of angle making his head spin. "Fuck…"
"Criston…" he moaned, his free hand wrapping around his own cock as his hips snapped erratically.
The sound of his name was enough to drive him to madness. He fucked him as hard as he could from where he was pinned, reaching down and wrapping his hand around Gwayne's where he was stroking himself off. He came with a groan, clenching around Criston's cock as he did, which sent him over the edge a moment later.
"Gods…" Gwayne said, falling onto the bed beside him, sweat-slick and panting from the effort.
Criston rolled onto his side, propping his head up so he could look down at Gwayne. "You fuck like a whore," he joked.
Gwayne glared. "And you fuck like a man dying of thirst in the desert, Lord Commander," he said back, reaching up and touching his face. "I believe I'll need my rest before the match."
Smirking, he turned his face so he could press his lips against Gwayne's palm. "Have you exhausted yourself already?"
The challenge would not go unmet, he could tell by the sparkle in his eye. They would hardly be rested before the march, but it would be worth it.