Work Text:
“You’re not afraid of him?”
“No.” The silver of the cape caused similar tones to rise in his loves’ eyes, while his skin appeared akin to alabaster in its smoothness. Many claimed it was impossible for any seasoned knight to be carved of perfect marble, but Warynd knew better. How could touch be rivalled by the drivel of maesterly books? “He’s merely a boy pretending to be fierce.”
“May I carry your banner when we meet Ser Tywins’ men?”
Rogers’ palm met the cusp of his jaw, tilting the younger mans’ head up so their eyes could meet.
“I will do anything to have you fight at my side.”
“And I shall not falter in my devotion. My sword is yours to command, as is my heart.”
“Such a poet...” Nails brushed along the plane of his cheek, not clawing (no, that was Warynds’ right. In the darkness of Rogers’ chambers, where no prying eyes could spy their devoted passion. Whisper hateful poison to the ears of the upstart who loathed the Red Lion). “You would shame those bards Lord Tytos fills the Rock with.”
“Might he spare me the coin they gather?”
“If you ask sweetly enough...”
Such words had never been unanimous with his name, nor that of his forefathers.
House Campiron was twined with endless riches, constant pragmatism and the innate knowledge of managing one’s wealth. They were not praised for kindness. Then again, part of Warynd could feel relief at such a matter: it made these moments feel so much more special, an abandonment of the ways of the world that lacked folley or hidden reasons...
But for Roger Reyne, what else could be afforded?
His lion was so brazen and beautiful, aglow with courage none could mirror.
“Would you think less of me if I played such games?” He took a hold of the seasoned warriors’ hand with gentility. So oft Roger had faced roughness - not reserved for battle, some Wester-lords despised him for all he’d reaped - there was no other gesture his lover might afford him.
“Never.” Warynd received a smile that could not be mistaken as innocent, but what good was there to ignorance in the arms of your beloved? “As a matter of fact, I rather enjoy the means in which you play.”
There was a hunger to those wondrous eyes then, where silver shimmered amidst the deep blue, stealing his breaths without any calculated effort.
From the moment Warynd had seen him - at one of Tytos Lannisters’ many balls (the reasoning for their frolics and celebrations so flimsy it had barely settled in the knights’ mind before being lost) - the notion of infatuation was impossible to dismiss. All present in the great hall of Casterly Rock may as well have been statues and tapestries the moment the newly named Lord Reyne stepped into his line of sight, instantly rendering Warynd a moth to his flame.
In all his years, no man - even the Lysene sailors to swan about the docks of Lannisport, or handsome mummers to cross the Narrow Sea to regale dozens of crowds; never mind the comely men from Westeroses own kingdoms, knights, bards, particularly bold maesters - had been able to pull at his heart with such authority. An immortality went hand-in-hand with the manner Roger inflamed his heart and soothed his soul.
Tywin Lannister called him a simpering drudge (never quite as subtle as he believed himself to be, and it wasn’t merely the arrogance of youth guiding this miscalculation), but there was little doubt he’d ever know the truth of such love.
For who could ever dream of stepping from the mighty shadow his lion cast? Not that Warynd would wish for anything else.