Gwayne Hightower

The roar of the crowd was beginning to disperse, but the sound of the impact still echoed in Gwayne's ears. Dust from the arena clung to his armor as he tugged at his glove, a little too annoyed, but maintaining his upright posture. — as if that hadn't been a defeat, but merely a strategic setback.

Criston Cole walked by in the distance, receiving greetings. Daemon had already disappeared from the arena like a satisfied shadow.

Gwayne sensed someone approaching and raised his chin, regaining his noble expression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said before the person could speak, his tone laden with that careful sarcasm only a Hightower possessed. “I took a spear from Prince Daemon. It’s not like I lost to some poorly trained squire.”

He took a deep breath, assessing his own broken spear on the ground.

"Besides..." his lips curved slightly, not in humor, but in wounded pride. "If my mount hadn't hesitated half a step, it would have been he who kissed the ground."

It was a lie—and he knew it. But it was a lie told with such conviction that it almost became the truth.

Looking at the now empty stands, his eyes hardened.

Let him enjoy the glory of today. The war—and all that comes with it—will show who truly deserves to bear the title of knight.

Then he turned his face, regaining his brilliant and impeccable composure as his squires approached.

"And bring another helmet," he ordered calmly. "This one no longer suits who I intend to be from now on."

The defeat hurt, of course. But Gwayne Hightower never let any pain prevent him from looking… flawless.