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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 month

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A Companion (Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader) Chapter 2

Lord Otto Hightower invites a young widow and her family to his study early the next morning to discuss a personal matter.

Series Masterlist Here

Pairing: Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings: discussion of spousal death

Author's note: This definitely took me a year RIP

Chapter 2: A Proposal

“Get up, lazy girl,” a grating voice spat as your blanket was ripped away, shocking you awake. You scrambled to cover yourself before looking to see who had woken you so rudely – though you had suspicions.

It was Sybelle, as expected. Your good sister and quite possibly the meanest woman you’d ever met, though some of the older ladies you’d met in the capital had nearly claimed that title for themselves when they learned you hailed from the swamps of the Neck.

You shook away the memory and focused your gaze again on Sybelle. She sneered at you with disdain and amusement. But there was something in her eyes, something more sinister than the usual glimmer of cruelty. You hardly had any time to ponder what it was before she grabbed your arm and pulled you from your bed, shoving you roughly toward the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “Do try and find something that doesn’t make you look like a specter of death, won’t you?”

With that, she left—thankfully. You leaned against the top of your trunk as you caught your breath, trying to rationalize the last few moments. The sun had not yet fully risen, so you hadn’t overslept. Then why had Sybelle been awake before you? She had never done so before. What had stoked her hatred of you so? What caused that new malice you saw glittering in her eyes?

After the feast the night prior, you returned to the apartments Gryff, Sybelle, and you had been granted for your stay in the capital and had not left since, so she couldn’t be angry that you’d gone anywhere unchaperoned. Other than a few muttered comments, you had not said anything that would cause this kind of anger.

You thought that they would be quite pleased with you after your conversation with Lord Hightower at the wedding feast. Although, it was probably foolish to ever think they could be anything but dissatisfied with your very existence. They would be until you were finally married and no longer their responsibility.

Oh. The answer was painfully clear now.

A suitor must have asked to meet you. That’s why Sybelle had been so demanding about what you wore.

Who was it? Some licentious old man looking for a final conquest before the Stranger takes him away? A younger man so unpleasant that no father would dare give his daughter to him? Or, as Gryff had threatened the night before, a mere boy, to whom you would be more mother than wife?

Anticipating the worst, you chose to style yourself carefully. A simple, modest dress in rough-spun purple silk – several shades darker than the Whitehill crest but just bright enough that they could not scold you for wearing black. You braided your hair back in a way that indicated neither maidenhood nor marriage, but something in between. And as always, you wore the silver pin Locke had given you on your breast, right over your heart.

Sybelle was waiting when you emerged from your room – still scowling. Gryff was beside her, looking at once miserable and thrilled. Whoever they were to sell you to, he must be wealthy beyond imagining.

His scowl grew even deeper as Gryff looked you over than his wife’s. “You are fortunate we don’t have time for you to change.”

You refrained from mentioning that he had neglected to shave his stubble while he turned toward the door and stomped out, Sybelle closely behind.

For a moment, you briefly considered staying where you were. They were so angry they likely wouldn’t know you weren’t following them until they reached their destination. But as horrible as it may be to be married – sold, really– to whatever man they chose, it would at least offer an escape from them.

So, you raised your chin and followed. You would decide what picture to paint for the man when you saw him. If he were acceptable, you would do your part to appear sweet and demure to help secure the betrothal. If he was not… well, you had become quite good at portraying the undesirable widow.

Your heart began to race as the distance between you and your apartments grew. Gryff and the guard he followed led you out of the guest wing of the Red Keep and toward the Royal Sept. Had negotiations already been settled? A deal already struck? Were you being led not to meet the man you may marry but to marry him at first sight?

The guard turned, and you were so thankful you would have agreed to marry him then and there. He led you into a narrow stairway and began climbing without a word. You were so relieved that the question of where you were going never occurred to you until you reached the top of the tower, and a guard opened a large, oaken door.

Lord Otto Hightower stood from his desk. He wore the same clothes he had at the feast, now thoroughly rumpled, as was his hair. The tips of his long fingers were stained with ink, likely from the large stack of parchment now at the center of his desk. He did not smile, but his eyes lightened as they fell upon you, and he inclined his head. You returned the gesture.

“Lady Whitehill, it is a pleasure to see you again.” His voice seemed lower than it had the night before – rougher. Had he not slept? He looked at Gryff and Sybelle as if he hardly noticed them. “Lord Whitehill, thank you for agreeing to meet with me so swiftly.”

“My Lord Hand.” Gryff’s smile wavered nervously as he bowed far deeper than necessary. “My dearest and most sincere congratulations on the felicitous marriage of your dau–”

Lord Hightower held up a hand, silencing him. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Gryff and Sybelle quickly claimed the chairs at the table by the window, leaving you to stand. Lord Hightower’s diplomatic smile fell, and he glared at your good brother.

“At last night's feast, I had the great pleasure of speaking to Lady Whitehill.” He smiled only when he said your name. “You are very fortunate to have such a fine young woman representing your house.”

Sybelle looked as if she might protest his statement. Gryff looked like he was about to faint as he stammered. “Yes, well, I – ”

“Would be remiss to see her leave, I am sure. Nevertheless,” he grabbed the tall stack of papers, “I have called you here to ask for her hand.”

Some juvenile sound of shock escaped your lips. Every eye in the room turned toward you. You covered your mouth and ducked your head. “Forgive me, my lord.”

When he said he would help you, you never imagined this.

Why would the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms want to marry you? You offered no wealth nor alliance. You were no great beauty whose smile inspired songs. You had nothing that would earn you a place anywhere near the Red Keep.

Was it a dream? After Sybelle stormed into your room, had you fallen asleep again? It must be a dream. You would surely be woken again soon. Well, there was no harm in enjoying the dream before it ended, right?

Gryff’s nervous pallor faded into a bright blush. “You wish to marry her?”

Lord Hightower glanced at you, then smiled. “I do.”

“This is most generous, my lord,” Sybelle leaned in to speak for her flabbergasted husband, who only sat there with his mouth open. “We may be amenable to the union. However, we must first negotiate an agreement to ensure the match benefits both our houses.”

Neither your father nor Gryff possessed anything that Lord Hightower could not get for himself. You laughed at Sybelle’s ridiculous notion, drawing all eyes to you. Muttered an apology, but only half-heartedly – it didn’t really matter if you behaved badly in your dream.

“Naturally. I have already drawn up an agreement.” Lord Hightower dropped the papers on the table. He hummed slightly, looking at Sybelle like he might admire her cunning if circumstances differed. Gryff, he regarded with a flat smile and eyes filled with disdain. “It is quite thorough, so I will grant you an hour or two to familiarize yourself with the details before we begin negotiations.”

Gryff was still too dazed by the proposal itself to realize the hidden insult in the words. He only nodded dumbly. You stifled another laugh. It was strange that you had not woken up yet. You were sure someone would have stormed back into your room by now.

You flushed slightly as the Hand’s eyes met yours, feeling the prickling warmth in your cheeks. It felt so real, more so than any other dream you’d ever had. Your stomach sank. Was this real? How could it be?

Yet, when you reached up to touch your face, you found it warm. And when you subtly pinched your palm, it hurt.

Gods, this was real.

Lord Hightower smiled at you before continuing, “If you would prefer privacy while you read, you are more than welcome to remain here. I only ask that you allow Lady Whitehill to accompany me on a walk through the gardens so we may become better acquainted.”

While Gryff watched the papers before him as if they would come alive and attack him, Sybelle quirked her head suspiciously. “Unchaperoned?” She gave the Hand a sickeningly innocent smile. “I know she is no maiden, but surely we must maintain her decency.”

Any trace of courtesy faded from Lord Hightower’s face. “Are you implying that I have dishonorable intentions?”

The threat was clear. Sybelle shrank back in her chair. “Of course not, my Lord Hand. I simply –”

“Two of my guards will be with us,” he interrupted curtly. “You have nothing to fear. I shall give Lady Whitehill all the respect she is due.”

That, Gryff caught. The subtle jab that they had not done so and the threat in the Hand knowing it. He grumbled an apology and turned his head down at the papers. His wife merely seethed.

Lord Hightower barely acknowledged them before approaching you, an arm held out for you to take. “My Lady, I am glad to see you again so soon.”

When you laced your arms through yours, it was warm and strong and steady. This was real – he was real. And at this moment, he was your favorite person in the world.

You beamed at him, your savior. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

Otto commanded his guards to follow further than usual, wanting to give Lady Whitehill privacy to process his proposal. He’d seen her surprise – and heard the small, disbelieving giggle she’d let out – when he declared his intentions. For a moment, he had worried she would refuse, that he had been too presumptuous in offering his own hand rather than that of a younger man.

But as he glanced down at her when they reached the base of the tower, she looked content – her cheeks rosy and eyes bright, maybe even a hint of a smile on her lips.

Yes, there was silence between them, but it was comfortable. He felt the need to speak not because of any awkwardness or restlessness between them, but because of their situation. After all, a man should talk to the woman he had just proposed marriage to, should he not?

As they entered the gardens, he finally broke the silence. “Is there a garden at your home?”

She furrowed her brow. “My father’s keep in the Neck or Highpoint?”

Her having to ask indicated that she considered either both or neither her home. He sincerely hoped it was the former. Otto cleared his throat. “Forgive me for being unclear. Why not tell me about both?”

She looked away as her smile grew. “Highpoint is so far north that very little will grow, though there are several winter rose bushes around the Heart Tree. But there are very large gardens at Lily Glen. In the Neck, flowers don’t only grow from the ground but upon trees and in the water. They are strange to some, but I find them beautiful. It is much wilder than the gardens here.”

Otto stopped beneath one of the trellises leading to the butterfly garden. “You have already seen the gardens.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, ducking her head slightly. “The morning of the wedding, with all the other women.”

“I apologize, Lady.” He should have known, but he had barely slept that night, too consumed with drawing up the marriage contract. Foolish. Hasty and foolish.

“There is no need for apology, my Lord Hand. It is still a pleasant sight.”

“You are very gracious.” He sighed. This was not how he wanted to begin their companionship, with her thinking him disinterested in her desires and needs. “Is there another place in the Keep you would prefer to see?”

She thought for a moment, turning back to face the castle as though she could see what lay beneath the red stone. When a raven’s caw echoed within the keep’s outer walls, she gasped, eyes searching. “Could we see the Rookery?”

Otto started, nearly dropping her arm in his surprise. “An unusual request. Why there, if I may ask?”

“I have a fondness for birds,” she said shyly, her cheeks flushing darker.

“Really?” Birds, of all things. He had certainly found himself a… unique woman to wife.

“Yes!” She was as excited as a little girl, yet Otto somehow found it endearing, and could not help but smile as she spoke. “There are so many birds at Lily Glen, with many different colors and songs. Not in the North, but… even the ravens fascinate me. And they are quite easy to befriend, if you know how.”

Smiling, Otto tightened his grip on her arm and turned, leading them back to the Keep. She was unusual, but there was a keen intelligence beneath this odd interest. Besides, he would much rather have a strange but interesting companion for a wife than a woman who was ordinary and entirely dull. “That is a skill I do not possess myself, I’m afraid. But perhaps you could teach me, my lady?”

“Gods, there’s hundreds of them.” You had only just caught your breath after climbing all the many stairs leading to the Rookery at the top of the Maester’s tower when the glorious sight of the birds stole the air from your lungs. Lily Glen had only a dozen ravens in residence, Highpoint only twenty, but this…

Lord Hightower stood beside you, the bag of dried berries one of the young maesters gave you when you arrived still in his hand. If you weren’t mistaken, you could hear more than a hint of smugness in his voice. “The second-largest in the realm.”

There was a place with even more ravens than this? Such a thing was unimaginable – a fantasy. “What is the largest, if not the capital?”

“The Isle of Ravens in Oldtown.”

Of course, you should have realized. But any embarrassment faded the moment you glanced back and noticed his clothing. All green but for the gold symbols of his office – his chain and the pin on his right lapel. Oldtown was the seat of his house. His home. “Have you been there before?”

“Once, when I was a boy,” his eyes grew distant, at once nostalgic and remorseful. My father took my brother and me to see the white ravens when I was young. I don’t remember it well.”

“I’ve always wanted to see a white raven.” The rarest and most important birds in Westeros, or perhaps the world. Only dispatched from the Citadel to announce the changing of the seasons. You had never seen one, having been but ten years old the last time the season changed, not that one was sent to Lily Glen. Only a few were sent to the swamps, leaving most houses to learn the news days or weeks later when a messenger finally arrived.

Lord Hightower hummed thoughtfully, drawing your attention back to him. He was smiling gently. “Perhaps I can arrange for you to see them, as I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.”

“But…” You nearly protested that women were rarely allowed entry to the Citadel, but then his words sank in, and you looked away again.

‘I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.’

Because he had asked for your hand only an hour ago. You, alone, could never dare to hope to see the Isle of Ravens. But it would be simple for the brother of the Lord of Oldtown to arrange to visit with his new bride.

You looked back up at Lord Hightower to find his eyes already fixed on you. “I thought you may have questions for me. You do, don’t you?”

“I… yes, I do.” You stepped away to hide your blushing, reaching into the little velvet bag for a handful of dry berries, which you spread onto a ledge before stepping away. Several birds examined the berries, then you, then the berries again.

“Why me?”

The Hand chucked slightly, gently. “Yes, I anticipated that being your first question.” His eyes softened as he looked upon you. “The answer is simple: you asked me for my help, and this is the best way I can think to give it.”

A single raven flew onto the ledge, carefully inspecting the berries you laid out.

“But…” Your heart was pounding, and you found it difficult to face him fully. “Forgive me, I am grateful for your help, but I do not understand what you gain from this.”

He sighed. “The King… has commanded that I take a new wife.” The tone of his voice suggested there was more behind those words, but it felt impolite to inquire further – even if he was currently proposing marriage. “But I have no need to marry for advantage. I already possess my own wealth. I have three adult sons, so I do not want for an heir. I have position as both Hand of the King and now, as father to the Queen.” He looked at you and paused. “I am free to marry whomever I please.”

The way he looked at you as he said that was almost… boastful? No. Lustful? Not that, either. The closest you could think of was righteous, but that couldn’t be it. Whatever it was, you could not decipher its meaning nor how it made you feel.

“And I please you?” You asked. “We have known each other for less than a day, my lord.”

“I loved my late wife dearly.” His pain – pain you yourself felt acutely – was evident in the softening of his voice. “As I believe you loved your husband.” There was an odd twinkle in his eyes. “I have no desire to replace her, but if I must wed, I wish it to be with someone who will understand me. Someone I believe will be a good… companion to me.”

Having eaten all of what you laid out, the raven flew back to his nest to rummage around before returning to its perch before you, chirping curiously as it held out a bent sliver of metal. You held out your palm, and it dropped the metal, immediately clicking its beak in the hope that you were hiding more food to offer it.

“What is that?” Lord Hightower asked, his gaze locked on the scrap of metal now in your hand.

“Brass, I think.” It was well-tarnished, but there were still parts where its shine peeked through—a valuable thing for a raven. You immediately laid out more berries, and several more ravens descended, now convinced of your trustworthiness.

Lord Hightower stepped closer to you. Gods, he was tall. He held out a hand. “May I?” You smiled and tipped some of the berries into his hand. He laughed, a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder. “I meant the brass, my lady.”

Nevertheless, he still laid out the berries, mimicking your movements to ensure they were well distributed. He flinched slightly when one of the ravens flew over his shoulder, close enough for its wings to brush his cheek.

“Apologies, my lord,” you half-laughed as you placed the brass in his hand. Your fingers brushed against his as you withdrew, and despite the warmth of the Rookery, you could not stifle the shiver that ran through you.

He brought the sliver of brass closer to his face, eyes narrowing as he examined it closely. How could a person look so wise? You had never before thought that wisdom could be seen, yet it was there, on his face and in his eyes.

After a moment, he smiled. “I believe that this is the clapper of a bell,” he declared. “Most likely from a crier’s bell.”

You looked from him to the bell, then back again. “How do you know that?”

“I know many things, my dear.” He went on as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d called you. “Sometimes I can’t recall how or why I know them; I simply do.”

Of course, he must have learned much in his years as Hand, first to the Old King Jaehaerys and now to King Viserys. When you were born, he was already a man grown, a married man, an important man. And you were simply a girl from the swamps. What would people think when they saw you by his side?

Would you ever be by his side? He said he did not wish to marry for love, or lust, or advantage. So, what would your purpose be as his ‘companion?’ Only to sit in his rooms and entertain him with moderately diverting conversation? He might as well purchase one of the exotic birds from Essos you had once read of – birds capable of speech.

Lord Hightower had looked away when you raised your gaze, watching intently as several more ravens flew down to the ledge, some with more trinkets. More shiny bits of metal, a few dried flowers, one even brought the nib of a pen.

Better to ask him now rather than after you unknowingly agreed to be his caged little bird. “If you would not require advantage, heirs, or love, what would you require of me, my Lord Hand?”

He sighed as he straightened. Had you disappointed him?

“There are some requirements of the wife of the Hand.” His brows tightened, and he folded his hands over each other. Elegant. Thoughtful. “Attendance at formal events. Frequent socialization amongst the highborn of King’s Landing. I also… I would encourage you to take up some charitable works, as well.”

More dressing up. More being stared at by women who considered you little more than a curiosity. At least the charitable works were enticing.

The corners of his lips twitched upward slightly. Had he noticed your hesitance? “But beyond that, you would be free to pursue your own interests. I would provide any funds you need to do so. And, if you wished to travel, I would not dissuade you. I want to grant you as much freedom as I can.”

‘Travel.’ You could go home. See your father and brothers for the first time in over two years. Go to places you’d only ever dreamed of. You could have a freedom that most women in the realm – in the world – would never have. And Lord Hightower… he would be kind. So very kind, you knew. For only a kind man would offer you so much for very little in return.

“Very well.” You emptied the bag of berries onto the ledge and tucked it back into your sleeve.

When you turned to face the Hand fully, he was watching you curiously. There was something akin to nervousness in his eyes. Such a strange expression for such a severe and powerful man. He held his hands behind him. “Very well?”

You stepped closer. “Very well, Lord Hightower. I will marry you.”

He smiled wider than you had ever seen, drawing a hand up to cautiously cup your cheek before looping your arm through his. “I am very pleased to hear it, Lady Whitehill. But please, if we are to be wed, I would prefer if you call me simply, ‘Otto.’”

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was-gryff-whitehills-apologist · 7 years

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So, with a lot of encouragement from the amazing people in this fandom, I finally got the courage to contribute some written material to it, namely - my take on the fate of Gryff Whitehill following the events of the ttgot season 2 au, made by the amazing @badgershite & @littlpeggy, as well as other contributors. You guys are awesome & I never would’ve done this without you!! :D

This is merely the first part of the prologue, that, I hope, will be just the beginning, but it’s still kind of a big deal for me to put up my first serious work. Idk what else to say, I hope this doesn’t suck & somebody may even enjoy it, same way I’ve enjoyed all the great fanfiction by other ttgot fans.

Minor spoiler alert, so that people don’t get their hopes up - there is no Roslin in this part. Yet. As I’ve already said, I plan to write more of this & the best stuff is still ahead. ALSO, the thing might be rather cronologically weird, it has a specific structure, that I thought of when I wasn’t planning to split up the prologue. It’ll make more sense when both parts are out, so for now I’d like to clarify - it is basically Gryff’s flashbacks about two days: the day of him being sentenced to the Wall, and the day of his arrival there. They are divided in parts & going one after another. Hopefully, this will not be too confusing.

Being put on watch alongside Carn was a lesser evil in Gryff’s eyes. At the very least he could count on the man not to start any small talk, and that was enough for him to tolerate the sour expression the other wore like his face had frozen this way. As the cage slowly dragged the two of them up, the second watcher felt like a constant, relentless presence behind his shoulder, and Gryff could practically feel his sad, watery gaze glued to his back without any particular purpose. Clenching his teeth together & hands around metal bars in annoyance, he tried to distract himself by looking down, in the darkness. Ground had long since disappeared in thick mist – now it felt like they were just floating through nothing, and he honestly wouldn’t mind just staying this way, never really arriving anywhere, simply enjoying the darkness & silence, that soothed his sight & ears. Even Carn’s presence would be tolerable this way.

Only atop the Wall, equipped with their torches, the two of them parted ways. Normally, it would be sworn Night Watch brothers, rangers, tasked with patrolling, but things scarcely ever went normally at Castle Black lately. Actual rangers were even fewer in numbers than they used to be, and some of their usual tasks fell onto the newcomers – it didn’t take much skill or brains to drag yourself back & forth with a torch in your hand, ready to holler if you’d see something approaching from behind the Wall. That, unless you weren’t even capable of doing that without slipping down – but such men would not have lasted long here either way.

Gryff walked off in the opposite direction from Carn before the man could say a thing to him, and soon couldn’t even hear his steps anymore. Torches lit up the icy corridor for many steps forward, but darkness, where their light didn’t reach, was still almost tangible. When he reached a wooden observation deck, walking close to the edge, the light of his torch, that seemed bright before, could barely dispel it. That night there was no moon, neither stars in the sky to shed at least some light on the view in front of him, and it took some adjustment for Gryff’s eye to make anything out.

The Haunted Forrest, when you looked at it from high above, was reminiscent of sea – height & darkness making it look akin to deep waters at the bottom of an enormous cup. In broad daylight, it used to present quite a sight, but now it was just black, distant and… ominous, for the lack of better word. It spread for as far as eye could reach, it’s another edge hidden in the dark nightly fog & the very clouds, that touched mountains’ white peaks at the horizon. Endless, deep and silent, but in the back of Gryff’s mind always sat the realization – the seemingly peaceful view in front of him hid more, than it gave away.

Even half a minute of not moving out here, in the cold, made one feel like the freezing wind was getting under their skin, stealing the last bits of warmth. However, Gryff remained standing, gaze locked where the clouds met mountain tops. He knew, if he were to look down, at the very edge of the deck, the sheer sensation of height would become overwhelming and make him feel unsteady on his feet, his head spin & hands tremble. Despite everything, being up here was… special, and not necessarily in a bad way. It took his mind off the shit that was happening literally all the other time, off his own torturous thoughts, which made quite a bit of sense, actually. Things were different up here – even air he breathed in was not the same one he was inhaling the rest of the time. Life could continue to go to hell, both around Gryff & inside his own head, but on this small, unsteady platform atop the world, he did not need to be bothered. Just a few steps forward laid the edge of that very life – where it would no longer have any power over him.

It was still the forest though, that he kept going back to in his mind. Similar to that damn grove near Ironrath, in a way – the only places where he had ever witnessed trees grow that tall. Even some ironwoods grew the other side of the Wall, but he was long past caring about those, and now his thoughts were occupied by something different – what he had first witnessed at that very keep, what the wilderness further north hid, and what he hoped he would never face again – until it became apparent he might actually have to.

The undead.

It was quite a surprise to find out, that not all men of the Watch actually saw wights as a threat – despite the number of people, who had run in them, growing significantly. Many of those who never had the chance, however, remained skeptical or simply indifferent. Stories of dead men walking grew in numbers, but for many, remained just that – stories. What happened to the previous lord commander made quite a few waver in their disbelief, but was soon reduced to nothing more, than one more story. Confined in a black keep at the edge of the world for life, most men here fell into an odd pattern of reacting strongly to whatever unusual thing happened – only to go back to almost complete tranquility as soon as it was over. Few things mattered in the big picture as long as snow still fell, crows were still in black & the Wall still stood. The rest came & went & made no significant change. There was nothing to be done with it, other from turn it into one more story & then slowly, day by day, forget it.

Such way of life correlated well with the numbness in his mind, but Gryff still remained sharp about some things. He’d avoid whatever talk about wights other watchmen would start – just as he avoided most of their talk – but he still knew. The sight of corpses of the people he used to know standing up would flash before his mind eye every now and again, but he’d then just clench his teeth & move on. He ran from them once, and paid for it, and if fate would wish for another walking corpse to try & kill him – it best be prepared for him not to repeat that mistake. Back in the muddy & bloodied courtyard, they filled his whole being with such dread, that he thought nothing could replicate, but he was wrong, as always. There were things so much more worse, viler, and he was a fool for ever allowing himself to forget that. Clenching the torch harder in his grip, teeth gritted together & eye narrowed, Gryff looked in the darkness, where he knew more monsters were waiting for their time to come. When they would, he knew what had to be done – and he would be ready. No creature from stories, no wildling, or wight, or Other would scare him off again

Not after he had already left all the real monsters behind.

Hardly feeling a thing, he got up from his place, then passed the woman, looking directly at her, but failing to keep a picture of her face in his mind. In the back of his head, he understood lady Whitehill looked sad, almost childishly hurt, but that was it. She left zero impression, just some figure that was there & then vanished the moment he left the Great Hall. Gryff even had trouble recalling what she was doing during their “conversation” – looking at Torrhen… probably, or maybe at him, he wasn’t sure.

As the bars clanked when the door closed behind him, he froze for a moment, simply staring in front of himself, his fogged mind struggling to process what just happened. He was not dead, that much was clear, but such an unexpected occurrence rose another question – what the hell was he supposed to be doing now? Instinctively, a step-by-step course of action was forming – he needed to get to his room to fetch the things he was not going to leave here, no, not a fucking chance, visit his father’s crypt to say goodbye, and then- leave?

Yeah, genius, that’s what it was all about. That’s what he was told to do a fucking minute ago, that’s what was going to happen – he would leave. And this time, going back wasn’t a part of the plan – no, Torrhen has made a bloody decision, and there was no coming back from those. This was final.

Gryff had imagined it thousands of times, Torrhen towering over him, smirking & spitting out his death sentence in one way or another. In his fantasies, he was never supposed to abide by that – he would grab the sword & charge forward, knowing fully well he’d hardly deliver a strike before he’d be dead, by Torrhen’s hand or one of his guards’ arrows. If he happened to be tied up, restrained, all he’d be capable of would be struggling to break free, to maybe deliver a final punch or some shit, before being put down like a dog. But that didn’t matter – he always knew, that he could never win. The point was not winning – the point was going down on his own terms, going down fighting.

Or has it turned out, that he wasn’t even capable of that?

It felt like his head had been put underwater – Gryff was all too familiar with the sensation, even if right now there was no hand on the back of his neck to hold him in place. The world around him starting to swirl, noise filling his ears, suffocation grasping his lungs. A tiny still-functioning piece of his brain screamed for him to turn back & do what had to be done, but his instincts knew better. Cursed self-preservation, too strong to fight, that had so many times caused him not to strike back, and instead cower, uselessly try to shield himself from the beating, trembling & waiting for it to end. For all he knew, perhaps it was the only reason he still lived. Perhaps it was saving his life right now, by immobilizing him, making his limbs heavy & head light. Just accept it. It is the only way.

He was fucking done with accepting things.

For some time – seconds or minutes, he could hardly tell – it felt like his mind had almost floated from his body, leaving him with little perception of reality, outside of what the subconscious part of his self was trying get through to him. He was brought back abruptly, when Gryff’s hand slipped down to the pommel of his sword – at first feeling it, like he struggled to recognize the object, but a second later clenching the hilt tightly. His breath slowed down again, blood pounding as he unsheathed the blade, feeling the hard handle, the heaviness, those sensations that were bringing him back together. Steel was bleak & covered in blood & it’s sight made whatever bits of strength he had left concentrate in his arm, so that he almost felt like he could manage one last blow.

Perhaps it was still not too late.

Castle Black’s courtyard was big, white enough for his eye to start hurting & almost completely empty on the day of their arrival. Several men minded their own business here & there, polishing swords or carrying something, & none seemed particularly interested in showing the three guests around. Darrin – a soldier as tall as an oak, as thick as one, & with an intelligence of the said oak, from Gryff’ point of view – remained standing by his side like he was ready to grab him by the scruff if the Whitehill decided to run off; meanwhile, his second supervisor went on, likely to search for someone, who’d finally take Gryff off their hands for good.

Taking a chance to look around, he observed his soon-to-be home with the same sour expression, that hasn’t left his features ever since the departure from Highpoint. The place certainly looked more presentable than Ironrath ever had, at least under his rule, but at the same time gave an impression of being somewhat desolate. Gryff had, of course, heard, that the Watch had seen better days, but was not sure of the extent. It was still early in the morning, after all, and perhaps the courtyard would become more crowded in daytime. Those who were up already barely paid them attention. Here, behind the walls, wind was not as severe – Gryff had grown used to the cold through the last few days either way. It was likely he’d get used to whatever this new life had to offer the same way, albeit without any enthusiasm on his part.

“I’m goin’ to handle him, don’t worry.” The voice came from some watcher, walking in their direction alongside Arvin, the second Whitehill soldier. “Ser Raffard’s supposed to be handling the recruits, but gods know where the bastard is now. Forgive the inconvenience – things have been, well, disrupted here after all that happened…”

Gryff paid no mind to the explanations the stranger was giving – something about the former Lord Commander, the bloody Snow, who apparently couldn’t be found here any longer. Instead he observed the man himself, with the same sulky grimace. Watcher did not stand out in any way, clothed in dark, thickly built, bearded; only a small, but sincere half-smile distinguished him from the rest of the lot here.

Arvin was exhausted & annoyed, same as he had been throughout their whole journey. He got up at dawn that day, eager to finally rid himself of the burden his lord’s brother was, & now was barely suppressing the urge to yawn widely. Watcher’s words seemed to escape his attention, but he would not interrupt, likely afraid that the stranger would refuse to handle the newcomer & they’d get stuck here, looking for someone else. He clearly was more eager to turn back & have a longer stop at the Mole’s town than they did on their way here, celebrating the parting with his troublesome ward.

“Aye, and he” the soldier nodded towards Gryff, earning himself a scowl in response “is not going to make things any easier for you here. You sound like a sensible man, so I’m warning you – keep a closer eye on this one. I will not be surprised if his head rolls for desertion within the next month. He’s tried to escape several times on our way here – and he’s going to fight back when caught.” He concluded mercilessly, paying no mind to Gryff, who’s been shooting him dirty glares the whole time he spoke.

“You really need not worry.” Man’s half-smile did not falter & he looked at Gryff with an expression, that was almost encouraging. “We handle far worse here all the time, you know. Besides, you can never know a man from other’s words of him.” Last words were directed at Gryff rather than anyone else, it seemed.

“I’ve got trouble imagining what could be worse than this.” Despite the sourness, it was possible to tell, that Arvin was being ironic, merely a tad. “By the way” he hastily reached in his pocket, getting out a small envelop which he offered to the crow. “Here are some… Clarifications from our lord, as well as, I assume, advice on how to handle him.” Shit, it flashed in Gryff’s head, would’ve been nice if someone ever gave him a clarification letter on how to handle three bastards, whose purpose in life was making him miserable. “I would recommend you listen to whatever it says. Lord Torrhen had always been one of the few, who could truly rein this man in. He knows what he is talking about.”

“You think lowly of me, ser.” With a slight roll of his eyes, black brother accepted the piece of correspondence carelessly. “I’ve always managed to keep my men under control without a written guidance, believe it or not.” He casually pocketed the letter, yet the moment the Whitehill soldier turned his gaze away from him, he winked at Gryff, suddenly & swiftly, causing the fourthborn’s eye to widen in confusion.

Arvin simply shrugged it off. Muttering some words of gratitude & farewell, he hurried back towards where their cart & horses were left without sparing Gryff a look. The latter heard Darrin utter some goodbyes, but didn’t as much as turn to look at the man. His assessing stare was kept firmly at the watcher. The Whitehill wondered what the other has been told about him during the part of their short encounter with Arvin, that he did not hear, but he sure as hell was not going to ask, or in any way make the man feel like he cared what he thought of him.

“So, Gryff Whitehill,” The watcher finally greeted him directly, reaching to shake his hand. “It’s Astor Greyson, and although you hardly feel the same way, it is good to meet you.”

He simply stared at the hand offered uncertainly. There was no reason not to greet Astor properly, not really, & it would not change a thing – yet Gryff just felt stubborn, stubborn & spiteful, as usual. He did not need any of this shit, did not need anyone pretending like something good or even normal was happening. This man could smirk & be friendly all he liked – Gryff did not care, not in the slightest. They could both be watchers, equals now, but that was just pretense. He would not be his, or anyone’s brother here – just a prisoner, someone to keep an eye out for & keep in line.

His arms remained locked across his chest & he kept silent, gloomily looking the other right in the eyes.

Astor waited a few seconds before taking the hand away. Half-smile did not go anywhere, on the opposite – it looked a little like he has been expecting this to happen.

“You’re lucky not to have to deal with Raffard right from the first moment here.” Greyson went on like nothing has happened. “You’ll still meet him rather soon though – you’re not too late for his sword training with the rest of the newcomers. You’ll meet up with the rest of them there, perhaps get to know some a bit. Seems like I’ll have to show you around today, huh?” Turning around, Astor motioned his hand, gesturing for Gryff to follow. “Let’s find someplace to drop whatever things you have, get you properly equipped and then we’ll have to get back here. Our new master-at-arms is not the type to excuse you for being late – even if this is your first day.”

He’d never been a fan of that bloody bunch of portraits, adorning the Upper Halls. His own one frankly sucked, from Gryff’s point of view – he had a dumb smile in it. There was no pleasure in witnessing the faces of his gone brothers more often than needed either, and, if the tapestry was not fucking enough, there were two more images of that woman. He had outlasted all three of them at Highpoint, but they still weren’t gone for good, as long as their memory, held in these pictures, lingered like a bad smell.

Well, it looked like, in the end, it was Torrhen who had truly outlasted all of them.

He had almost passed the corridor without taking another look, heading directly to his former chambers, but, out of the corner of his eye, spotted something unusual on the wall. Observing more closely made Gryff smirk sarcastically against his own will – my, it seemed like brother dearest had begun the process of getting rid of him long ago. He should’ve expected that – remaining holed up at the shitpile of Forresters’ stronghold could only work for so long. If only he had enough brains to have at least tried to do something about it earlier- fuck, there was no point in thinking about that now.

Gritting his teeth, he measured the damage done to the picture. Just because he himself hated the thing did not mean that arsehole had any right to touch it. Making it was a pain in the ass, Gryff recalled – he’d avoid posing by any means available, until both the artist & his father got fed up with it, and the former was told to simply draw him from memory. Perhaps that’s why his face ended up looking so unnatural, with an expression Gryff never actually wore in real life.

In a swift, jerky motion he tore the painting from where it was hanging. It gave an impression of an animal’s head on a hunter’s wall to him; a winner’s trophy. It was likely the way Torrhen viewed it as well, hence why he just tore it up instead of getting rid of it for good. It was all for the best, Gryff told himself, getting back on the way to his room & observing the thing in his hands with little remorse. He would need something to start a fire any way, and he knew, that canvas & paints burned brightly.

He had a dumb smile in it anyway.

The room felt exactly like he expected it to – cold, dusty, filled with that weird frowsy smell, that all abandoned rooms had. He threw the frame into the long-empty fireplace & then got a sudden urge to sit down, which he did, lowering himself on the edge of his bed.

The effects of his handicap were most apparent in situations like this – when he had to approach something old in his new state. His chamber seemed smaller than before, & now he had to turn his head around to observe it fully. The bloody eye. Gryff used to believe he’s gotten used to it, but was still reminded now & again what a difference it actually made. He rubbed his forehead a little, trying to collect his thoughts, but the helpless anger rising in his chest wouldn’t let him concentrate. The Whitehill got up, starting to pace back & forth in annoyance. He was supposed to be doing something, collecting things, saying goodbyes, some shit like that – but every inch of his being refused to comply. The concept of this being his last visit to the place, that used to be his haven, refuge, that he guarded from them by any means, was as unreal as… As unreal as having his whole line of vision split in two. They couldn’t be compared, he’d exchange the room for an eye, obviously – but the feelings were still eerily similar.

There wasn’t much left here after his departure to war – Gryff had never been the one to hoard many possessions, not with his brothers constantly trying to get to him by breaking or stealing what was his. Whatever item of importance he could not take with himself had been locked in a small chest by his nightstand. The key – hell if he remembered where the key was, but he had probably left it among the rest of his belongings, at Ironrath. After a short consideration, he unsheathed his sword & tried to force it under the chest’s top.

A few minutes later, the lock was broken & Gryff observed what was inside sarcastically. A thin bunch of letters, tied together with a piece of rope were probably the most important ones – he had a habit of burning most of his correspondence right after reading it, to prevent the bastards from getting their hands on it. Those would not take up much space. A wooden toy sword, an old thing he hadn’t tossed away by some earthly reason – perhaps it was given by father? After a moment of hesitation, it joined the portrait in the fireplace – better than having Torrhen’s servants discard of it when they’d start cleaning up the place. There was a small dagger he attached to his belt – his own had been lost during the cliff fall; minor items of clothing, an old book, some things, that he couldn’t even remember what purpose they were supposed to serve – most of it went to the fireplace. He wished there was some way to burn every fucking thing remaining here – the set of heavier armor, whatever clothes have been left in the wardrobe, that there was no point in taking – those were not black. Gryff could only destroy some of it, but it still gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. The least personal this place felt, the easier it would be to leave it behind.

He started the fire, then sat down on the fur in front of it & simply watched the flames for a little while, trying to concentrate on something other than the twinge of pain in his chest, that watching some of these things burn caused. Only now had he realized how cold he’s been this whole time – he got used to it, but when the short-lived warmth from the fireplace reached his frame, the contrast made shivers run down his spine.

Gryff couldn’t bring himself to think about anything particular, could not figure out what he felt. The prevailing sensation, now that he wasn’t moving, became low ringing in his ears & dizziness. Pain in the bruises & cuts, that he almost forgot about, was returning – not sharp, like it used to be, but still perceptible. He’d have to visit the maester, the Whitehill had to admit much to his own displeasure. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to even get in saddle if he didn’t at least wash the blood off. It’s smell & the feeling of it drying on his face was becoming sickening on its own.

Just a few minutes. He’d get going, as soon as he’d get warm, he was promising himself, even though every last cell in his body begged for rest. As an addition to the pain, sitting down made him realize just how tired he was – enough, that he felt a wish to lie down in front of the hearth & sleep for a day. Aside from being unconscious for some time, he had not slept since before yesterday, he was now realizing. Everything after that – the battle, the fall, the ride, the talk – was mixing into a blur in his head, becoming difficult to tell from one another.

Seriously, what harm would… say, just half an hour, do? Or a whole hour, for that matter… Being in his old room was likely affecting him this way. He’d usually crawl back here to bolt the door & lick his wounds, try to feel safe for a little while, give his nerves some rest. Sometimes he’d end up being holed up here for days, when the mere thought of going out made him break out in cold sweat & gave him an urge to vomit. He’d still have to sneak outside every once in a while, to fetch some food from the kitchens – and, if he was unlucky, end up getting caught by Karl, or Torrhen, or both.

Torrhen. The name was like pinching yourself on the arm to stay focused. He had to remain alert, for as long as he wasn’t out of the bastard’s reach – the humiliation of having the man just grab him by the scruff & frog-march him out of Highpoint’s gates wasn’t something Gryff would be able to handle at the moment. The thought floated in his skull, that became heavier by the minute, as if something hot & thick, like melted iron, was being poured into it. His neck grew achy from having to hold it high & was giving in, until his chin would hit the chest & cause him to jerk, half-awake, but only for a second.

Vision blurred, his only eye narrowing further & further, until the only thing he could even make out were the orange flames – and even those, just as another blurred, moving spot. Bloody fire, he was realizing it now – should never have started it in the first place… The warmth was too lulling, as well as the sound. Soft, rhythmic cracks, with practically intangible sough of flames poured over those. They were almost like some weird speech in an unknown tongue, with calming intonation, soothing melody to it. He could swear, he even recognized bits from that tone – like he’s heard those before, just in another manner. Instead of being yelled, over howling wind & clashing, someone whispered them to him kindly.

Room floated before his eye one last time, before it slid shut. Last thing Gryff perceived before slipping into oblivion was a sensation of unseen eyes locked on him, of another’s presence somewhere by his side – but those got lost the moment he drifted off to sleep.

… Awakening was even faster than falling asleep – he just felt himself sliding to the side, on the floor, and that jolted him back to consciousness. Blinking rapidly, first thing Gryff looked at the fireplace – coals were still red & small tongues of fire would flicker here & there. That meant he had not been out for long – but he would be, if he allowed himself to repeat that mistake.

Memory of the sensation he got before dozing off nagged him slightly from the inside, but he pushed it away, getting back on his feet, helping himself by grabbing the edge of a headboard. He was unsteady still, but the quick sleep seemed to have given him a bit of short-lived strength. It wouldn’t last, likely, so he had to catch the moment & finish some business – probably the most important thing left for him to do here.

He had not been given a typical crow’s cloak yet – just a set of black armor, that, in all honesty, was better than the one he arrived here wearing. The latter has not aged well at all & has not been repaired or even cleaned much since the siege. The new one was also warmer, far more fitting for the harshness of weather this far north – it wasn’t all that bad, Gryff had to begrudgingly admit.

He & the rest of the recruits – about a dozen & a half of them in total, from what it looked like – flocked in the courtyard, waiting for the master-at-arms to signal the beginning of the training. Man in question – ser Raffard, from what Gryff recalled – did not seem to be in any rush, comfortably seated on a barrel near the rack, that held training swords & polishing his own, barely paying a small crowd in front of him any mind. He looked like a real crow – black-haired, dark-eyed & sharp-featured, he fitted the environment around himself perfectly.

Only when small talk among the soon-to-be crows died down to almost complete silence, the man looked up at them & got up from his place.

“Those of you, who have never trained here before – two steps forward.” The Whitehill made another mental note of the other’s voice – a voice & tone of a man, used to giving orders. “The rest of you, two steps behind.” Aside from Gryff, four men came forward – some balding elder, who stood leaning on a long wooden staff, tall & broad-shouldered lad with a dreadfully serious expression & a face of a lowborn, boy that looked like he wasn’t above thirteen, & a barrel-shaped individual, who stared in front of himself phlegmatically. Watchman observed his working material with an unreadable expression, but Gryff highly doubted, that what he saw left him satisfied.

“The Watch lacks men desperately, so even those of you, who’ll end up as builders & stewards” last words were spoken with some special scorn “are going to have to learn which end of the sword to hold & how to fire a bow. That means you will all be spending time with me, no matter how hopeless your case is. There are, however, some exceptions even to that rule.” Raffard’s gaze stopped on the old man. “Did whoever send you here lack any kind of mercy? All would be better off if he just snapped your neck for whatever horrendous crime you’ve committed. If you can’t even walk on your own, what makes you think you’ll be anything but a burden with a sword?”

“This thing” the elder lifted his staff slightly, “is more of a sentiment to me, than a walking aid.” Gryff cocked an eyebrow, feeling a slight twitch of curiosity – the other recruit, with his scrawny frame & dirty greying long hair on the sides of his head, could look like a lowborn, but certainly did not speak like one. “Put me to a test, my lord,” old man did not seem offended, quite the opposite – his lips tucked into a disarmingly friendly smile. “Perhaps I will not disappoint you.”

“We’ll see about that. Drop your item of sentiment & grab yourself a sword then.” Master-at-arms motioned towards the rack.

“If I could be so bold” there was something smarmy, intentionally non-threatening in the old man’s voice that made Gryff shift uncomfortably for some reason. “I’d rather stick to my own weapon, my lord.” Gryff recalled being told in the passing by someone, that staffs were used as weapons by some of the mountain clansmen – perhaps that was where the stranger originated from. “It does not look like much, but there are many uses to it.”

“I suppose, you could be so bold.” Ser Raffard’s cold, emotionless stare gave out nothing. “I suppose, I could be bold enough to break your stick against my knee & send you to scrub chamberpots till the rest of your time here, if you don’t stop wasting my time & start following orders.” The message clearly got through – shaking his head a little, with the same smile, recruit lowered the staff on the ground carefully & went to fetch himself a blade.

“A real charmer, is he not?” Gryff turned to the sound of a voice, discovering, that it was one of the other newcomers speaking. He didn’t seem to address anyone in particular, but seeing that Gryff has reacted to his words, graced him with an amused smile.

“I’m talking about Raffard.” Recruit continued in a low voice. “If you think he’s being an arsehole now, you should’ve heard the stories they tell about him here. They also say the man who dealt with newcomers before was even worse – till he went to hunt down some deserters & perished north of the Wall… Think we’ll get just as lucky with this one?” He chuckled & winked to Gryff, before turning his attention back to the fighters.

Unsure of what the other meant to accomplish by telling him this, the Whitehill just shrugged & turned back to look in the same direction. Old man was holding his own decently enough, to his surprise. His movements could be defter & he clearly couldn’t strike as hard as a younger man would, but by moving constantly he dodged & parried most of the hits, even though he made no attempt to go on the offensive himself. This went on for a couple of minutes, before the elder was careless enough to leave himself open & his opponent’s sword struck right in his kneecap, causing him to drop on the other one with a gasp. Raffard used the moment to aim for the wrist of his sword hand, knocking the blade out of it.

“At least you wouldn’t be dead in the first minute of battle – for someone like you, that’s encouraging.” After letting his opponent have a breath, master-at-arms grabbed his hand & helped the man back up to his feet. “We’ll see what can be done about you. Perhaps, with some training, you will actually do the Realm a service by killing a wildling.” The last words almost made Gryff laugh. Apparently, even the crows still believed it were wildlings that they all needed to fear – while he, a bloody newcomer, already knew better than that.

The trial carried on, the young boy & the sulky lowborn demonstrating their skill one after another. Kid fought fiercely, uttering almost animalistic growls as he’d jump back up on his feet over & over after being knocked down & charged forward. The lowborn, whose name turned out to be Ayden, fared even worse, making it clear to everyone, that he’s hardly had any sword practice before – at least not with a knight as his opponent. Ser Raffard’s expression hardly changed once throughout the short fights, but it seemed like he wasn’t too aggravated & his mocking remarks sounded rather passionless.

“You’re a lordling, is that right?” He inquired as Gryff was picking himself a blade, trying not to linger by the rack any longer than needed. Standing here, in the spotlight, grated on his nerves & he could not wait to get this over with. Last time he had used a sword seemed like it was months ago – but the memory of how it ended stuck with him for good.

He jerked a shoulder & nodded. “And a fourth son, that is.” His opponent added in passing. “Not that I’m expecting excellence from someone, who’s disposable enough to be sent here, but a lord’s son should’ve at least received better training than this lot.” As Gryff turned to face him, flash of irritation in his eye, the man had his own sword at the ready. “Come at me.”

The fuck was he getting at, the Whitehill wondered idly, circling the patch of ground between him & the man. With the rest of recruits, he always took initiative in his own hands, as opposed to now – it seemed like he was expecting Gryff to take charge. His train of thought was interrupted as the watcher swung his blade at him, swiftly changing the direction of the hit at the last moment & barging through his hastily established block. Sword was knocked from his hand & Raffard simply sent him to the ground with a heavy thrust of his shoulder into Gryff’s chest.

For a few seconds, he just stared back at him, stunned. This has been swifter than any of the fights he has just witnessed – even though in the back of his mind Gryff knew, that he’d be subdued either way. All that needed to be proven about him as a fighter has been proven before. He could hear a couple short laughs from the crowd & a sympathetic sigh, that, as he correctly guessed, came from the guy who’s been talking to him before. Getting back on his feet, Gryff simply shut those out of his mind. He did not care about what they would have to say, he really fucking didn’t-

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Whitehill? Or, should I say, your eye.” Raffard looked almost bored by this point. “Did you not hear what I told you? The part about attacking me.”

“I was thinking.” At last, he was forced to speak, picking his blade up from the dirt.

“I hope me chopping your sword hand off and slitting your throat did not interrupt the thought process, your lordship.” The man already took another stance. “Your blind side is the most vulnerable, keep that in mind. And get your head out of the clouds, recruit. I can accept it when someone simply sucks, but not when he isn’t fucking trying.” With the same idleness in his gaze, Gryff followed another’s movements, at this point not even bothered by what would happen next. There was that slimy feeling inside of him, that made even trying seem completely worthless. Strike, their blades clashed, again, and the next second his traced an arc in the air & landed back on the ground, while his opponent’s was directed right at Gryff’s throat.

It took some effort to force himself to look the man in the eyes – and their coldness made him flinch. Raffard had been distant & snarky throughout the whole training session, but this was different – and almost frightening. That piercing gaze, that felt like it was directed into his very soul, reminded Gryff too much of another pair of eyes – one, that he believed he would never have to see again.

Unable to bear it, he bit in his lip & looked away.

“What is the matter, Whitehill?” Raffard’s voice was not angry, or irritated – it was plainly empty.

“What?!” Gryff attempted to bite back with what little anger he felt. “If I suck, just bloody say so. You didn’t ask the rest of them what was wro-”

“You are not the rest of them. You are not a lowborn, who’s never held a weapon deadlier than a meat axe.” The watcher would not take the sword away from his neck. “I’ve been told about you, Whitehill, about who you were and what you got sent here for. So don’t expect me to buy it, that you’ve fought under Roose Bolton and then led your own men, but now somehow can’t parry the simplest strike.”

Who the hell told him, flashed through Gryff’s mind – was it that Astor Greyson son of a whore?! And the fucker even seemed like a decent man to him at the beginning… Silently fuming & with no idea of how to respond, he stood, eye lowered to the ground, flashing angry looks to the watcher each few seconds.

Realizing, that he would not get another word from him, Raffard finally lowered his blade.

“I don’t know what the deal is with you, Whitehill,” he spoke quietly, calmly & distinctly. “Whether you pretend to be worse than you are because you want to be assigned a safer position, don’t deem me worthy of your effort… I honestly don’t care. What I know, is that under me you will work to your fullest potential willingly – or be forced to, if that’s what I have to do. Pick you sword, recruit.” He stepped back, moving his body into a steady fighting stance. “This is just the beginning.”

It was never warm this far down, under Highpoint. Not a candle or torch in your arm, no amount of layers of clothing you'd wrap yourself in would make significant difference. The moment you descended down the steep stony stairs & take a breath of air, still & cold, it would settle at the bottom of your lungs & remain there until you had a chance to re-emerge & sit by a fireplace, or have rare northern sun touch your skin. He had spent quite some time in this place back in his day, in the cellars, crypts & half-abandoned & ruined tunnels, and not always willingly. From his brothers' perspective, shoving him down the stairs & then locking the door behind him, so that he would remain in complete darkness, was a fun thing to do. The realization, that barging through the door was not in his power came to him quickly — shortly after realizing, that begging them to let him out was in vain just as well (it was early, very early when he realized, that begging them to leave him be would always be in vain, & would not even try – until a particularly harsh beating would force a plea out of him). At first, he'd just sit with his back pressed to the door, staring in the darkness of the corridor in front of him, too terrified to blink or make a sound — even his short breaths seemed to echo against the cold walls in a hollow sound, that made his blood curl. It always felt like something— someone was lurking there, watching him, ready to strike if he'd fail to see the attack coming. Soon enough, the obscure figures, born in his imagination, formed into an only one, that felt so real, Gryff could swear he could make out it’s shape in the darkness sometimes. A pale female silhouette, whose face he could not make out, that moved slowly & deliberately, almost clumsily — due to having to support her grotesquely protruding middle with a pair of thin hands... Hands, that she, undoubtedly, wanted to grasp his neck with till he wouldn't be able to breathe — if she ever managed to catch him. Blackness where the light of his candle did not reach still did not fail to fill him with unease, but now Gryff merely clenched his teeth & walked faster towards the crypt — something, that, in his childhood, took many hours of bracing himself to accomplish. Step by step, he'd move further down the corridor that it now took him half a minute to pass. His past self then journeyed further — in the cellars, in the old tunnels, where every noise made his chest clench painfully from terror, as he forced himself to continue walking no matter. That day though, he needed not go further — his destination has been reached. It was stunning that he was only doing this now — visiting his father's last resting place for both the first & the last time. He did not have the courage to come following the siege, Gryff could at least admit that when nobody could hear. Just one more reason for self-loathing. Even now, he was hesitant to approach the tomb — stupid childish memories affecting him far too much. That's where the tapestry lady was laid, of course they'd make sure her & his father would be by each one's side in afterlife. It was her domain, her lair. He was long past believing any actual harm could harm from her, anywhere aside from his nightmares, but it didn't make visiting the place feel any better. He could not fight off the feeling of being watched from behind. This place never became any better to him — he just learned how to cope with being here when it was unavoidable. The candle was placed carefully on the floor, in a way that'd make it light up the cell in the crypt's wall where he made out the silhouette of the tomb. Gryff meanwhile lowered himself to sit on the floor, facing it — the place wasn't really meant for sitting, but standing still for longer than a minute made him dizzy. Complete silence fell, making him hear his own blood pounding distinctly. It was fitting the situation, the cold, the quiet, the peace — except for how horribly wrong it was for Ludd Whitehill, a man, who was anything but those things, to end up this way, in his son's eyes. If he had not witnessed the disemboweled body with his own eye, he would hardly believe his father was buried a few steps from him. Nothing about it felt right. Nothing here reminded Gryff of him in any way. He forced his mouth open, thinking of something, anything to say — and closed it after a moment or two. It was too damn quiet here — the sound of his hoarse, weak voice would not belong. Gryff himself felt out of place, despite trying to force the thought out of his head — This is your right, you idiot. Your duty. Nobody cares what bloody Torrhen has to say. He does not matter. Your father is the only one that does, so speak, while you still have a chance, or— "I..." He forced through the lump in his throat, and just as expected, it felt horribly unnatural and wrong. Deadly quietness made it feel like his voice could be heard everywhere, even if Gryff knew, that stony walls wouldn't let the sound go further. The knowledge did not help. Feeling like he was being listened to from the dark made talking almost an impossibility. "I'm b-back." After clearing his throat, the Whitehill lowered his voice to almost whispering, and that was better, just a bit. "From Ironrath. It was— I— " He already had nothing to say. Nothing to report, but his failure. Facing Torrhen, he could pretend not to care, to make indifference into his armor, but now sickening shame washed over him like hot waves. Ludd wasn't even there anymore, not really, yet he understood perfectly what he would have to say. How he would look at him. The mere thought made him wish he had broken his damn neck in the fall, like the horse did. "I'm sorry." And that was true. The only reason to hold onto the forsaken keep — aside from having nowhere else in the whole world to go — was honoring his father's wish. Spiting the people, that killed him. At least he could hope, that all of them were already dead — slaughtered by their own army turned uncontrollable. This way there would be at least some justice left in this world. Just enough to believe it even still existed. "There was nothing I could do." A stupid, weak, pathetic lie. He sort of leaned forward, hands clenching his arms just above the elbows, desperate to keep warm. The truth was that he ran — ran when the realization hit him, that he was a step from getting killed to protect a place he loathed & would rather see burned to the ground. Getting killed & not having a single soul to mourn him, or even care enough to bury what would remain of him. Now, you are alive — see how much better that feels?.. Gryff wasn't sure whether those words, ringing in his ears, were his, or if his father had found some way to get them through to him from wherever he was now.

The one thing lord Whitehill would never stand for was weakness. Part of Gryff wanted to believe father would've understood — like he did when his last son was dragged before him, covered in blood from his mutilated eye & barely standing, so Grag had to literally hold him up. Whatever words Ludd had prepared for him seemed to escape him at the sight of Gryff in that state. He barely even recalled what he was saying, overcome with nauseating pain & dizziness — furiously growling something about fetching a bloody maester right fucking now. The next time he had a chance to approach father, the latter did not speak a word of what had happened — his first gesture was offering him the eyepatch Gryff would wear for the next months, all without saying a word. It was only then, when the disgusting, lousy feeling of weakness he's been carrying inside ever since getting maimed by Rodrik, suddenly eased up. But now Ludd wasn't there to ease his worry the same way anymore. All Gryff had were his own thoughts, and those were merciless. It was different now. Rodrik had only managed to defeat him by deceit, with the help of his whore & her archers. This time, he had lost in a fair fight. This was it for him — as a lord, as a warrior, as a man. What Torrhen's soldiers would escort to the Wall was nothing but a sack of meat & bones. Was Ludd still alive, even he wouldn't be able to argue or defend him like he always did. Just one more way in which he had failed him. He had always cared more for him than for Torrhen, Gryff recalled, his throat clenching treacherously, always trusted him more — and he had repaid him by submitting to the thirdborn's rule, by accepting his power, instead of keeping fighting for what his father stood for. As if he couldn't get any more pathetic.

“You know I don’t’ want to.” Gryff himself was shocked by how whiny that sounded. He couldn’t just break down here, he had to be a man for one last time, to say farewell with at least a shred of dignity – and instead he spoke like a hurt child, a feeling from many years ago, as real as ever. “You know he is forcing me to, that I would never- never leave if I could. I wouldn’t, I just- I just can’t…” His voice trembled, eyes burned, but he knew, that tears would not fall – it’s been so long since he cried, he barely even remembered how that was supposed to be done anymore.

“You would never send me away. Right?..” What kind of bloody response was he expecting? “A Whitehill is still a Whitehill. It doesn’t matter what his-s, his orders are – he can’t… He fucking can’t…” The shaking was getting out of his control, it was like a hand tightened around his throat, making it hard to breathe. “A Whitehill’s a Whitehill. He can’t change it. He is nothing. You always knew he was fucking nothing – only you, and nobody else.” Or did it just seem to him? No, no, the thought was too fucking bad to even contemplate. His father bloody hated Torrhen, and that was the only comfort Gryff has had for many days. He sent him away to rot at the Bastion. He didn’t even trust him enough to meet without the presence of his guards. He hit him. He fucking punished him for the shit he was doing, the only one who ever did, Torrhen still had a scar on his face from those beatings, because Ludd saw through him, saw what a piece of scum he was, because he fucking hated him, like that coward deserved-

“I fucked up.” Gryff’s voice evened. “I… fucked up so badly, you couldn’t even imagine.” It was so… so pathetic of him, to sit by the tomb of the only person who ever believed he was worth something, & whine about his sorrows, even though he knew well enough nobody listened. “I don’t know how I can ever make it any better.” Some part of him was glad his father wasn’t there to hear this anymore – he couldn’t bear the thought of Ludd starting to despise him for it. Another, bigger part, simply cursed the day lord Whitehill had been killed, knowing fully well it was supposed to be him instead. It was always supposed to be him going down to defend him – doing something worthy with his life & spitting in Torrhen’s face by depriving him of a chance to be lord. Now all went wrong, his father dead, him, regrettably, not, and Torrhen winning the day.

This would never have happened if only he fulfilled his duty.

He didn’t know what to say anymore, or what to do. When he was heading here, he had some good, right things in mind, but now half of those were forgotten & half seemed too stupid to voice. A simple “I love you” – something he never had it in himself to say when Ludd was alive, now seemed even more dumb & embarrassing. The need to get going pressed down on him, but he was scared of doing that at the same time. This was his last chance, but Gryff couldn’t even force himself to speak. Deep inside, this just added as one more reason to hate Torrhen, for turning this moment for him into such a mess. Of course though, this was still his failure, first & foremost – failing his parent in life & death all the same.

He couldn’t handle this any longer.

Swiftly & out of nowhere, he stood up, causing his head to spin. His eye burned like a hot coal, but remained dry as ever, and Gryff looked around, shaky movements akin to those of a hunted down animal. Out, get out of this place. You had your chance. It was almost like he somehow became a child again, frightened by the darkness. Black corners & cells of the crypt hid something sinister. It wanted him out. This place did not want to tolerate him any longer. He was ready to run back, to leave the candle & just turn & run, until he’d see light again – but he could not take the gaze away from the stone late lord Whitehill rested under.

For one last time. Be strong. Be a man.

Shakily, Gryff reached with his hand until it rested on the tomb’s cold surface. The unknown behind his back set a tickling, panicky sensation in his stomach, but he would not take the hand away – not if the woman from the tapestry were to lay her thin, pale hand on his shoulder right in this moment. Touching it brought no peace, no warmth, no sense of connection or presence of his father’s spirit or whatever the hell was supposed to be here – but just knowing, that he spoke to someone, who maybe did not listen – but would’ve, if he was there, was enough. He searched his mind for something to say, something that he would’ve wished for somebody else to tell him if he was dead, or dying, and out of all possible things, one stood out for Gryff:

“I won’t forget you.” He forced the words to be confident, clear, not caring if someone was to hear them or not. He was saying it, and he meant it, and if there was any way for a dead man to hear what the living had to tell him – he would hear Gryff now. “I’ll never, never fucking forget you… And I won’t let anybody else forget.”

When he walked back, through the corridor & up the stairs, the feeling of being watched never let go for a second, but he walked slowly still, with every deliberately long stop giving the thing in the darkness another chance to get him, if so it pleased. Nothing happened, of course, not a weird sound, or movement, or a mysterious blast of wind to blow his candle out – he was no fucking child anymore, and he should’ve known better. What he felt down in the crypt was nothing but a moment of weakness, foolery of his sickly brain. Real monsters had no need to hide, in cellars, under beds, in the woods, or wherever – they had all the needed power to do what they pleased in broad daylight & stand by their deeds proudly, with their heads held high.

Only at the last stair did he finally look back. The candle had burned out, leaving him with a mere thread of grey smoke, but his eye had gotten used to the lack of light by this point. If Gryff closed it, he would be able to imagine the silhouette of the tapestry’s lady, like the little boy used to do – but not the man. He looked in the dark with his own impaired gaze, and saw nothing – just as he was supposed to. He’d meet her again – in feverish dreams, in nightmares, or when he simply wouldn’t be able to keep his eye open any longer & would clutch it shut in fear – but never in reality. Never. For all that has happened, for all that was eating away at him from the inside, there was one thing he still had not been robbed off –

He still lived, still breathed, & walked, & spoke, and what mattered wasn’t that it brought him no joy anymore – it was that she didn’t. No matter what, he would live to see the light again, while she’d remain down here, in the dark, where she belonged.

As he shut the door behind him tightly, that thought, for the first time today, warmed up some tiny part of his soul.

#gryff whitehill #ttgot fanfic #telltale's game of thrones fanfic #ttgot s2 au

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