Chapter Text
The walls blurred and spun around him as darkness crept at the edges of his vision. For several agonizing seconds, Gwayne could neither follow the words nor quite remember what was even being said. Then the room steadied, and the maester’s voice returned to him.
“—sorely parched, and he has a fever. One that’s been running for several days, I should think. The wound on his leg is infected, though fortunately not deeply. It appears to be a bite of some kind and will need to be washed and dressed twice a day. If the redness spreads, if the swelling increases, or if his fever worsens, you will need to send for me immediately.”
For a moment he thought he was standing out in the rain, his body heavy beneath him, every limb aching from overuse. He waited for Ser Criston’s voice to cut through the heavy downpour, stubborn and impatient as ever.
Instead, he heard Daeron. The sound of his nephew's voice pulled him more surely back to himself than the maester's had. It was too young and frightened for the words he was trying to form.
“He’s withered away. What should I—?”
“Rest, food, and water are most imperative, Your Grace. You might begin with broth or some salted water with honey. Once you’re certain he can stomach that, you may move on to solid foods and bland meals. But go slow. He needs nourishment more than he needs a full belly.”
Gwayne turned his head to one side, his cheek hitting a cold pillow. He was in a bed—that was one small relief. Still, he winced as a muscle in his neck pulled at the movement.
“And for the pain?” Daeron asked. Gwayne forced his eyes open to try to look for the boy, but found he couldn’t do much more than stare at the far wall across from him.
“Milk of the poppy at night. I will leave a measured dose. Do not give him more than what I provide.”
“I won’t.”
Memories from the last hour started to come back to him in bursts—how lightheaded the hot bathwater had left him. His hand slipping against the edge of the porcelain tub as he tried to steady himself. Poor Daeron running out into the corridor to call for help. Gwayne had spent most of Daeron’s life teaching him that there was nothing to fear so long as his uncle was close by. Now the boy had helped carry him to bed, standing there while a maester examined every bruised and weakened inch of him.
It was, he supposed, a blessing that his strength was failing him now and not mere days ago. If his legs had given out while on the road, Ser Criston would have had little choice but to leave him there.
On one particularly grim night, one where Gwayne was not certain he’d wake up with his mind whole, he’d tried to make Criston promise to kill him if it came to that. Criston, infuriatingly, would neither agree nor refuse, which in turn only made Gwayne feel even closer to the brink of madness.
“You could at least have the courtesy to lie,” he’d said through his tears, furiously wiping them away with the edge of his hand. They only fell harder when Criston met him with that cold, dead stare.
But despite everything, morning after morning, he somehow stood up and chose to live.
He wondered now if it had all been on purpose—that perhaps Criston had pushed him to the edge knowing it would save him in the end. It was, in some ways, more comforting than to think Criston intended for them to die together. But only in some ways.
The maester helped him into fresh linen smallclothes while Daeron stood a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back and eyes fixed firmly upon the floor. Gwayne recalled, then, that he had asked his nephew not to accompany him to his room—despite Ormund’s insistence. There were maesters and servants and no need for the so-called king to hover about. Gwayne was in a state Daeron had never seen him—or likely anyone—in, and it seemed a cruel thing to put on the boy’s shoulders.
But Daeron had paled at even the suggestion that he disregard Ormund’s request. So Gwayne, exhausted as he was, found himself unable to press the matter further.
The maester took his leave and shut the door quietly behind him. Daeron paced the floor on the far side of the room while Gwayne remained staring at the wall, breathing in short, shallow pulls that barely filled his chest.
“Your condition has only worsened since you arrived,” Daeron said softly, finally coming into view as he sat in a chair at Gwayne’s bedside.
Gwayne might have laughed if he thought his ribs could bear it. But when he looked at his nephew, the attempt died before it reached his mouth. Daeron wore a stern, almost unnervingly blank expression. He saw no humor in it.
“I did not mean to scare you,” Gwayne said, trying to smooth over whatever nerve he had just struck. The corner of his mouth twitched up in an apologetic smile. “You shouldn’t be tasked to look after me, anyhow.”
“And yet without me here you might’ve drowned in your bath,” Daeron pointed out. He clasped his hands in his lap and began picking at the raw, bleeding flesh lining his thumbnail. Gwayne watched for a moment before looking away, pushing past a memory of his sister on the day of the ceremony, their father reprimanding her for not keeping her hands pretty for the wedding night.
Daeron continued, his words biting. “You’ve made it clear you don’t wish to be here, but until you are well enough to ride—”
“Daeron.” Gwayne shook his head. “Please don’t do that.”
Daeron quickly unclenched his hands, his face flushing red.
Gwayne sighed through his nose, blinking a few times to ease his dry eyes. Clearly, he should’ve rested before meeting with his cousin and Daeron. Everything had come out all wrong.
“I’m sorry. About before,” he said. Daeron finally met his eyes, his face opening up as his guard fell, making him look like a child again. “You know the last thing I want to do is leave you again. But I am next in line, and when Ormund—”
“Gets himself killed” is what he wanted to say, but he stopped himself short. He realized, then, he had no clue what his cousin intended to do with Daeron if and when battle erupted.
“It would be reckless of me to stay,” he pressed on, shoving the thought away for now. “Ormund has no heirs and neither do I. There would be no one left.”
Daeron bowed his head and said nothing.
Gwayne let out a slow breath, hoping that was the end of it. He had to leave Tumbleton knowing Daeron respected and understood that it was simply out of duty and not lack of love. He had to leave with the promise that they would see one another again soon, that all of this was only a temporary heartbreak. Do not leave him the way Father left you.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his attention drifting to the bandaged spot on his leg as it started to burn again. He shifted beneath the blankets, trying to find a position that eased the sensation, but the movement sent a sharper pain up through the sore muscles of his thigh.
Gwayne dropped his head back and hissed through his teeth before he could stop himself. Daeron was on his feet immediately, gripping the headboard as he leaned over him.
“What is it?”
“My leg. It’s fine.”
Daeron’s eyes swept over him, looking entirely unconvinced. Gwayne reached out and caught his wrist as he went for the edge of the blanket.
“The maester just dressed it, Daeron.”
“But—”
“Daeron. It’s a tiny bite, not a gaping wound. Leave it be.”
Gwayne released him and Daeron obediently sat back down, though he remained perched on the edge of the chair, prepared to spring up again if needed.
He supposed this was another of Ormund’s little degradations—Daeron being forced to see him like this, stripped of all the things that usually made Gwayne valuable: his strength, his wit, even his kindness. Whatever comfort there was in having an uncle to turn to seemed rather less convincing when that uncle was writhing in pain from a fucking leech bite, infected or not.
Daeron’s gaze drifted to a silver tray of assorted ointments, clean cloths, and other supplies the maester had left behind on the table. Gwayne knew what he was about to ask before the words left his mouth.
“Milk of the poppy would help, uncle.”
Gwayne shook his head and gave his nephew a tight smile. “I’ll forgo it for now.”
Daeron’s brow furrowed at the refusal. “Even if you can handle the pain, it would at least help you sleep through the night. Maester Donnal didn’t leave much.”
“If I’m going to be bedridden, I’d rather not lose my senses,” Gwayne said gently. A clear mind was just about the only thing he had left to protect himself. It was a horrible thing to think while under his own cousin’s watch, and yet he could not banish the fear of being left so vulnerable.
Daeron, to his credit, seemed to understand and didn’t argue further. Instead, he stood up from his chair and crossed over to the tray, picking up the green-glass bottle and placing it on Gwayne’s bedside table instead.
“I will leave it here if you decide you need it.”
Gwayne looked at the bottle for a moment. Such a small thing, and yet he felt relief at having the choice left to him. It had been so long since anyone had bothered to listen to what he wanted.
With one somber nod, the boy bowed his head and made for the door. Gwayne’s chest tightened.
“Daeron.”
He reached out and caught the sleeve of his doublet. Daeron turned back around, frowning. There was a small cut on his bottom lip from where he’d been worrying it with his teeth. Gwayne’s stomach twisted in on itself.
“You are so dear to me, you know.” He said it almost like a plea, willing his nephew to understand. “There was a time I thought I might not see you again. I’m glad I was wrong.”
Daeron’s face crumpled for just a moment, eyes welling in the dim light. He managed to turn his head away before Gwayne could see the tears fall.
“Good night, uncle,” he whispered under his breath before slipping from Gwayne’s grasp and swiftly leaving the room.