❝ and if death awaits me? ❞ / from gwayne to Otto
|| ⠀⸻ ⠀⧼ @camewinter ⧽
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.
He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀The backhanded question that demanded so many things: grief, protection, a father's softness, an answer to the question: AM I EXPENDABLE TO YOU? He rehearses bereavement in advance, domesticating it into something no longer sharp. He prepares for loss by converting it into narrative: honour, duty, sacrifice. His hands wring behind his back. In circles, those fingers tug at rings in an incessant reminder of bracing himself for pain and punishment. His thumb turns the signet once, twice, testing whether the gold still fits while he breathes even, slow and calm, but falsely deep. What a sin it was to be a father. What hubris, to believe one could be both architect of a dynasty and guardian of a child. What a cruelty he is perceived with.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ Then you will meet it as a Hightower.❞ As though the word itself were a bastion and not merely a stone. A statement only carrying so little comfort as a wet slap in harsh winds. How does a Hightower meet anything these days? Were it be ... a Stark? A Targaryen? The statement would carry an actionable image. His nostrils flare because how dare his boy be right in kicking him in the metaphorical shins. Green eyes linger long. Lips part. Lips close. Jaw sets once more with muscles twisting under skin.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ❝ If you fear death, you are not a fool.❞ That rough hand of gnarly veins and sinew comes to grab the back of the boy's head, cradling it and tipping it with a strength. Familiar red-blonde hair tangle. The boy is much like him. He looks softer in golden morrow light.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀❝ I would rather it were me. But it is not. So you must endure. ❞ His spine lengthens, vertebra by vertebra, until he stands as rigid as a tower. Otto speaks in a firm, low and through gritted teeth, belying the panic rising in his throat that quiets any of the confidence.
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