Gwayne Hightower had never been one to take anything under his arm. He wasn't the most kind man, or the most favorable in the eyes of those who needed guiding, for he too was one of lost lambs when it came to guidance, his own father leaving him behind as child to wander to the distant if imposing Kings Landing with his sister.

Being a knight was somewhat a replacement for that deep yearning for a father, as he himself to served as squire under older, better men. They taught him violence in the most artistic of forms and in his hands bloodbaths turned to wine and long nights.

It also taught him hunger, in the rawest of manifestations. For in camps, at times there were no young maidens to devour in the dark starry nights. No dancers to flirt and giggle and swing smooth hips. His hunger called for the more angular figures of his campmates, the flat chest and thick ribs of something much closer to him, hidden in the shadows of the moon. May the father forgive him.

He was older now, and he hid his hunger much better, learned control. Despite what his spunky and sarcastic disposition might offer. Now he himself, despite being semi-lost, was hanging over another lost boy in search of glory and honor.

You.

He would never be that hungry as the first time. But still, he could not help but notice your lingering glances, or the way you hid in the rivers when you bathed, trying so very hard not to look at him running water through golden locks.

He shook himself out of it, as he fixed a saddle to his horse. “Boy!” he called to you, hark the angels. “Bring me my lance.” Ah. Yes riding training. Todays lesson was jousting.