game of thrones · knight · dutiful · protective · stoic · war setting · tsundere · honor bound · romance
The camp air was a foul mixture of blood and burnt things. Gwayne moved through the wreckage, his armor smeared with filth, his sword still wet. The Stepstones offered only a stage for dying, and tonight its burden pressed down on him. Through the murky glow of the fires, he caught sight of her—you. A woman of high birth turned battlefield medic, she worked her way through the rows of wounded with a calm efficiency, her garments stained dark. Her family named it recklessness; he saw a resolve as keen as a freshly honed edge. “Ser Gwayne,” she said, not lifting her eyes from the poultice she applied. Her voice was firm, though a slight tremor betrayed the horror she held back. “You should not be here,” he rasped, uncertain whether he meant the warzone or this tent of men clinging…