i need to throw up hold on
A soft breeze whipped through the plains, a more forgiving night than they had experienced previously. Forgiving enough that Caster sat, poking at the fire deep into the night as Orys and Gwayne slept soundly in the canvas tent to his back. He held a bottle of Astaporian rum in his hand, large cowskin blanket covering his shoulders. Stoking the fire once more, his eyes traveled upward, the sky above brimming with stars, a bright moon glimmering expanse overhead and Caster brought the bottle to his lips.
He was glad Gwayne had been meticulously keeping track of the days since they left, Caster surely would have lost track after the first few months. The sky had changed quite a lot since they decided to travel inland and Caster found himself on watch more often than not, even at Gwayneās protests. Gwayne, ever thoughtful of Caster and his well being, it made his stomach churn to think on it too much.
But currently, he was quite enjoying the view of flatlands stretched out beyond him for miles from the treeline, a small thatch of woods they had found in this veritable sea of grass. Caster's mind drifted to the stars once more, wandering, as it ever did, to Lyonel. He always imagined him in the hall of the Father, supping all that could be had, jovial and merrymaking as if he had never even passed into the Stranger's hands. Perhaps that is why there was a smile upon his face at the bloody end, he saw what awaited him, a feast to last forever. Though septons would tell him that it was where every person who accepted the Faith in their heart would find their end, it always made Caster nauseous at the thought, a life so short lived as Lyonel's, why would the Father not refuse the Stranger at the door? Telling them: No, this man has yet to truly find his lot in life, send him back.
It was cruel, was it not? Caster chastised himself for the blasphemy but that sliver of indignation still settled in his chest as he took another swig from the bottle, spiced with a cinnamon and nutmeg that both Lyonel and Maegelle were always so fond of. He thought they would like it, as well as to share it under such idyllic scenery.
A rustle from the tent made Caster's hand flinch toward his mace, a mere few inches to his right. But the anxiety in his heart subsided, watching as Gwayne, a yawn on his lips came out from the tent. The knight stretched his arms above his head, shift coming up to reveal a sliver of his naval. Caster caught sight of auburn hair trailing into Gwayne's trousers and ripped his gaze away, back to the fire.
"My turn for watch, ser Caster. Sleep awaits you." Gwayne spoke with the slightest gruff one tends to get when first waking.
"Dinnae think it will greet me kindly." Caster laughed with little humor.
"Ah, do you wish for company, then?"
Caster was silent for a moment then looked up to Gwayne, expectantly waiting for his answer. "'Tis a shame tae drink alone, aye?" He pointed the neck of the bottle toward Caster.
"I can hardly turn down such a gracious offer to drink the rum that I bought." He gave Caster a smile, no malice, no judgment, an endearment that made his mind alight, or perhaps that was the drink. He hoped it was the drink.
After handing the bottle to Gwayne, Caster put up his hands in mock defeat. "Ye caught me, the rum thief. What shall be the charge, good knight?"
"Thieving? Well, a hand, I suppose." Gwayne spoke as if he had mulled over the faux punishment before taking the bottle to his mouth as Caster watched him; pink, shapely lips wrapping around the tip of the glass so tantalizingly, the Banefort felt a rush of near panic flow through him.
The fire would be his safe haven, looking to the flames to burn away any untoward thoughts that seeped into his betrayer of a brain.
"Not as bad as I'd imagined." Caster gave a laugh of relief before holding his hand out to Gwayne, averting his gaze in mock distress. "Do me a kindness 'n make it quick, will ye?"
Caster sat for a moment before feeling a firm, but not strong, chop against his wrist before Gwayne began laughing and the Banefort soon joined him, turning back to look at the knight giggling himself to near tears. Gods, in certain lights he looked too good to be true, auburn hair out of place from sleep and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes on full display.
āQuite anticlimactic, wasnāt it?ā Gwayne asked as his and Casterās laughs began to dissipate.
āMethinks our young Orys might be rubbinā off on us.ā
āI think you would be right.ā He took another swig of the bottle before handing it back to Caster, following suit with a similar motion, hissing after the rum went down.
A comfortable silence began between them and Casterās found himself staring at Gwayne, in only his shift and trousers, he began to shiver ever so slightly as a strong breeze blew through the trees.
āYer gonna freeze like that.ā Caster opened up blanket on his shoulders, certainly large enough for the two of them.
āAre you sure? I donāt wish to impose.ā
āImpose away, ser Gwayne.ā
The knight shuffled closer to Caster, letting him throw the blanket over his shoulder, now the two of them pressed against one another, not uncomfortably so but far more familiar than they had recently ever been. Gwayne was quite stiff but Caster could not imagine how he must have felt, surely as if he had already been frozen over by the chill.
That same silence returned as they both watched the fire. Though the warmth stemming from Gwayne singed Caster far more than any flame could as their thighs touched. Perhaps the drink was causing such base feelings to bubble to the top, unbidden and unwanted.
āHave you gotten homesick yet?ā Gwayne asked, cadence genuine, not probing.
Caster thought of home, of Stormās End and Banefort, of thick, rainy forests and dreary, murky hills. āAyeā¦I miss me mother sometimes ān me sister, ān āa course, Maggie.ā He didnāt say how much he missed that specific smell after a rain in the courtyard of Stormās End, one where he and Lyonel would spar in just to see who could get dirtier. āDo ye?ā
āOh, yes." Gwayne huffed a laugh. "Gods to be in my bed within the Hightower again, fresh peaches from the Wynd Market waiting for me when I wake." A sigh of longing left him. "Have you been to Oldtown?"
Caster had been to Lannisport plenty with his lord father and to the Reach with Maegelle and Lyonel, to a myriad of smaller fiefdoms about Westeros for tourneys but never to Oldtown. "I've not been but from how ye describe, it sounds wonderful."
An almost wistful smile stretched over Gwayne's lips. "It certainly could be. For as many pleasant memories there are, bad ones tend to tag along."
"The truth 'a any home, isn't it?" Caster let out a humorless laugh. Thousands of miles away and his father still cast a long shadow.
"Aye, I'll drink to that." Gwayne took a swig of the rum and handed it back to Caster, following the gesture.
The heat within Caster's chest surged, cheeks far warmer than he had noticed, bringing a hand to his skin. He wondered if Gwayne was just as warm, but with how the Hightower was huddling against him, he thought the opposite.
Looking down, the light from the fire flickered across his skin, a flush apparent across sculpted cheeks and Caster had the thought of touching him, to feel that heat against the tips of his fingers. Shame roiled in his gut, though not as much revulsion as he expected; a few drinks tended to make his decisions murkier.
Deep seafoam eyes met his with a kind smile, a harsher blush and Caster wanted to look away but Gwayne's hand stopped his cowardice, cupping and scratching fingers through his bearded jaw. Caster's breathing accelerated, chest falling and rising as his head swam through thick that thick ocean.
"Do you wish to kiss me, Caster?" The question was a bludgeoning blow to the vast expanse of his chest and all breath was stolen from him, even his words but he found himself nodding instinctively.
Gwayne sat up and Caster met him halfway, lips touching chastely, barely, and Caster trembled as the Hightower pulled back, possibly gauging Caster's reaction but they pulled into each other, into something desperate. Caster moaned softly against Gwayne's lips, those soft, pink lips. The knight's fingers pushed into the back of nearly white hair and Caster felt a rush of fire travel southward.
Heat past between their mouths as Caster towered over Gwayne, hands on the ground to either side of the Hightower's waist, leaning him back against the cowskin. Gwayne pulled from Caster, still holding tightly to him as they panted, open mouthed against each other. Opening his eyes, Caster expected black curls and a neatly trimmed beard, a sardonic, lustful smirk meeting him in kind but he saw Gwayne, an easy look of admiration upon his soft yet sculpted features, auburn hair with graying tresses lined his beautiful face and Caster shot back in alarm.
"'M sorry, 'm sorry, I-I cannae, Gwayne, 'm sorry." He stuttered out, pushing himself away from the Hightower, scooting backwards to give them both room enough that could possibly absolve Caster of his guilt.
"Don't apologize." Gwayne's voice was nothing but kindness, patience, and Caster wanted to tear his hair out. Tears of frustration began to blur his vision. "Did Iā¦Did I do something?"
"No." He answered immediately, attempting to blink away his indignity. I did.
A hand touched his knee and Caster breathed in sharply, almost wincing at how his skin tingled at the touch, wanting it, craving it, desiring it; not only did his father swing an axe toward his mind, attempting, even now, to cut these feelings loose within Caster but Lyonel, standing within the corner of his psyche, holding Caster's heart in his palms, fingers wrapped tightly around the organ, never to truly let go.
His stomach churned, a nausea overtaking him in the moment and he stood. "'M goin' tae take a walk." Caster pushed the words from his lungs, trying his damndest to not look at Gwayne, to not see the worry, the concern, the fucking grace that Caster did not deserve.
Not only a sodomite, an adulterer as well? Caster's mind rang with such thoughts as twigs were crushed beneath his boots. He owed Lyonel everything, did he not? His first kiss, his first sexual encounter, his first sparring partner, his first drinking partner, his first joust, his first everything.
If he accepted the feelings that permeated for Gwayne, Lyonel would be gone, wouldn't he? He couldn't have both in his heart, the Baratheon wouldn't have stood for it. Shoving the infatuation down, pushing it to the corners of his mind was always the course of action Caster preferred but they slept in the same tent, washed in the same streams, gods above they were raising a child together.
Perhaps he could pass the whole thing off as a drunken mistake. Would Gwayne buy it? Probably not. But Caster could try, try and convince himself most of all. Convince himself that Gwayne hadn't been easy to fall for, that all his kind touches hadn't burned his skin through layers of clothes, and that Caster didn't feel his heart soar every time he watched Gwayne and Orys from afar.
Gods, was his loyalty so thin?
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