the line between love and hate is often blurred.

two years ago, you were wed to ser gwayne hightower; a way of joining your house to his own. you had heard of his silver tongue and quick wit, but had foolishly hoped something other than biting words would come out of this union.

you faced a harsher reality however, when he had left the morrow after your wedding ceremony and you woke to an empty bed. you bit your tongue then, but you could not swallow the bitterness that choked you.

perhaps it was this dormant resentment that began to pile in you that caused you to become bitter towards him as moons passed, but whatever it was, it was certainly too late to keep what little bond there was between you from severing.

it was night now, and you lingered by your mirror as you ran a brush through your hair, clad in your night clothes. when the door opened, you made no move to see who it was, assuming it was one of your hand-maids, as you found your nights even more lonesome with gwayne off to battle with ser criston.

it came as a shock however, when gwayne entered, still don in his armor, covered in dirt and grime from the months gone. he is silent, and for the first time since you’ve met him, dumbfounded.

“the battle is won,” he murmurs, beginning to unstrap his armo