Book Of Tiny Tea Hats

A loud knock echoed through the room, just as I lace up my boots. “Come in,” I called out. The door opened and one of the guards stepped in, “Your Grace, the queen has asked me to inform you that your husband has been taken captive and is currently in the council chamber.” I freeze at his words. “My husband?” I repeat. The guard nods, “Ser Gwayne Hightower, Your Grace.” My throat closes up as I think about him. “The Queen requested that you go see him, to try and learn some useful information before the council decides his fate.”

I nod and fasten my sword to my belt. The guard follows behind me as I make my way to the council chamber. The cold evening air seeps through my clothes and settles in my bones. As I enter my eyes fall to my husband, who sits chained on the floor, leaning against the wall.

Gwayne struggles to stand when he sees me, His wrists are chained together behind his back. They had stripped away his armor, leaving him in a bloodstained tunic. He grunts when he moves as close as the chains allow, feeling pain from some injury that I can’t see. “You came, I wasn’t sure you would,” his voice sounds raw and scratchy. I come to stand before him and I don’t answer, letting the silence speak for me. “I deserve your silence,” he whispers. I scoff and fold my arms. “You deserve much worse than my silence.”

His gaze drops to the floor. “I know.” “Do you?” I snap back. He looks up, sadness in his eyes. “I’ve known every day since this war began.” A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “You mean every day since you realized that your side was losing.” Gwayne looks taken aback. “That’s not true…” he whispers. “Don’t lie to me,” my voice grows cold. “I’m not.”

I step closer to the man I called my husband. “You stood with Cole as he slaughtered anyone who didn’t stand with him.” “I know,” Gwayne rasps. “You murdered in Aegon’s name.” “I did.” “You raised your sword against my family.” My voice cracks. “... I know.” “Why?” I demand. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His eyes dart around the room as he searches for an answer. “I believed I was doing what honor demanded of me.” “Honor?” I repeat mockingly and he nods.

“I was raised to honor the vows I made.” “Well what about the vows you made to me?” He freezes. “Were those not vows?” I demand. "Of course they were,” his breathing grows uneven. “You swore to me before the Seven that we were one.” “I know I did.” A humorless laugh leaves my lips. “And yet when the realm split you chose the side I was not on.” Gwayne’s shoulders start to shake slightly. “I thought…” he trails off and he closes his eyes. “Say it,” I hiss. “I thought there would be another way.” He looks up at me, desperation in his eyes. “I thought the war would end before we would end up on opposite sides. I thought that I could do my duty to my house and still keep you.”

“So you chose them,” I whisper. He nods weakly, the admission seemingly draining whatever little strength he had left. “And it was the greatest mistake of my life.” I look away, not wanting to see the sorrow in his eyes. “A mistake is forgetting to kiss your wife goodbye. Choosing the side in a war that your wife is not on is not a mistake. It’s a choice.” “You’re right,” Gwayne’s voice breaks. “I made that choice. I made it because I thought loyalty meant standing with my father and sister and my house.” His breath hitches as he holds back a sob. “I should’ve realized that my loyalty begins with you.”

He steps forward. Falling onto his knees before me with pleading eyes. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “Please don’t look at me like that.” I scoff bitterly, “how do you want me to look at you?” “Like you used to.” My heart clenches at how hopeful he sounds, “that woman died.” He flinches back, “Don’t say that.” he pleads. “That woman waited for you.” I continue. “She waited for you to write to her. She defended you when others called you a traitor. She prayed every night that you would come home.” A tear rolls down my cheek and I swallow heavily. “And then she watched you ride beneath a green banner.”

“I know…” “No, you don’t” I furiously wipe away a tear, my voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to have the people I care about speak your name with hatred? To wonder if my own husband would kill someone I love? To spend every night hoping that the next raven wouldn’t tell me you had died? Or worse, to realize that you had become someone that I could no longer love?” Gwayne moves forward, burying his head into my stomach, clinging to me like it’s a lifeline. “I am so sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of my tunic and he begins to sob. His shoulders shake so violently that the chains around his wrist rattle. “Gods…” he chokes, “I am so sorry, please.”

“I know that I can’t undo what I’ve done. That I can’t bring back the dead.” He looks up at me with red eyes. “But I beg you, don’t let the last thing between us be hatred. Please tell me that there’s still a chance for us. Please tell me that there is still a part of you that loves me. I won’t be able to survive in a world where I am not yours.” I hesitate for a moment. “I would choose you now,” Gwayne whispers, “every time I would choose you. I would burn the banners of my house with my own hands. I would beg forgiveness from you and your family every day for the rest of my life.”

He leans forward, the chains digging into his wrists as he stretches his arms to the limit. Everything to get closer. “I’d give my life a thousand times if it meant undoing what I did to you. Please don’t let me die believing I threw away the greatest gift that the Seven ever gave me.” The lump in my throat refuses to go away no matter how much I swallow. The silence grows louder with every second. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.” Gwayne nods slowly. “I know.” My hands come up to wipe away his tears and he closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. “I love you, that will never change.”

Suddenly I hear a cold laugh echo through the room. “Well well well, the Hightower dog finally kneels.” I step away from Gwayne and see Daemon standing by the Painted Table. Next to him stand Rhaenyra, Lord Corlys, Jace, Baela and the rest of the black council. Gwayne remains on his knees and lowers his head at Rhaenyra. “Your Grace,” he whispers, voice uneven. “I only ask to be heard.” Daemon laughs ruthlessly. “The coward asks for mercy,” he mocks but Gwayne shakes his head. “No. I only ask to speak, after that I’ll accept any punishment you decide on.” Daemon leans forward with a glint in his eyes. “Even death?”

“Even death,” Gwayne confirms, looking Daemon straight in the eye. “But only if the queen demands it.” Daemon scoffs at Gwayne’s defiance and turns to Rhaenyra. “There is nothing to hear. He’s a commander for the greens. He fought against us. That’s enough to demand his head.” He draws his sword, steel ringing through the room. Then Rhaenyra raises her hand. “Speak, Ser Gwayne.”

“I was raised to believe that honor and loyalty meant everything. Loyalty to my father, my sister and to House Hightower.” His gaze falls to the floor. “I believed that if I abandoned them, then I would cease to be the man I strived to be, so I stayed and fought for them.” He looks up at me, the same love in his eyes I’ve always loved. “But I didn’t realize that I ceased to be the man she married.” Silence falls as everyone takes in his words. Corlys crosses his arms. “Regret comes cowardly after defeat.” Gwayne nods at his words. “It does.”

“Then why should we believe you? Why should we spare your life?” Gwayne answers without hesitation. “Because I gain nothing from lying. Kill me if you want, it changes nothing. This God forsaken war has already taken everything from me.” He looks at me, his eyes trapping my own. Daemon snorts. “Good.” He fully draws his sword,strides closer and raises the blade to my husband. 

My body moves before my mind catches up. The tip of Dark Sister stops inches away from my throat. Daemon’s eyes narrow in anger. “Move.” “No,” I refuse. “He’s a traitor.” “He’s my husband.” “Your husband fought against us,” Daemon argues and I scoff. “I know exactly what he did.” “Then step aside.” I still refuse and my hand slowly settles on the hilt of my own sword. Murmurs sound from behind Daemon but I pay them no mind, my eyes focussed on the dangerous smile appearing on Daemon’s lips. “You would draw your sword on me?”

“If you force me, yes.” The room freezes. “Father,” Baela pleads from behind, but Daemon ignores his daughter. “Careful,” he muses lowly. “You forget who you’re dealing with.” I step forward, the tip of Dark Sister now resting on the pulse of my throat. “I know exactly who you are.” The sword digs deeper in my throat as Daemon’s eyes narrow in anger, his teeth bare under his smile. “You’re my queen’s husband, the fiercest warrior in Westeros. But you are no king and you are standing in the queen’s court.” Daemon’s smile fades away, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra. “If you kill a prisoner before the queen has passed her judgment, you’d be defying your queen.”

Daemon stares at me, then he laughs. “You’ve grown bold, girl.” He circles around me, sword still pointed at my throat but I move with him, keeping myself between him and Gwayne. “You’re fortunate, Hightower, your wife has more courage than you.” Suddenly Gwayne nudges the back of my thigh with his head. “Please don’t do this,” his voice sounds desperate. I frown in annoyance. “I’m trying to save your life, Gwayne.” He shakes his head violently. “Don’t risk your life for mine, I’ve already failed you, don’t let me be the reason you die too.” He turns to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, if my death brings peace to your court, then let it be mine alone.”

Ordinarily, Ormund would find an excuse to disappear into council meetings or the training yard, but today, he has retreated to your shared solar, seeking refuge from the endless procession of courtesies expected of him. 

The afternoon sun spills through the tall windows, casting a warm light across the room as your husband stands besides one of them, looking out over the Whispering Sound. Below the Hightower, the city bustles as it always has, blissfully ignorant of the royal chaos unfolding above their heads. 

Behind him, resting in a cradle near the hearth, sleeps the newest addition to House Targaryen—little Aegon, no larger than a bundle of blankets and somehow already the center of everyone’s attention. 

Ormund tears his gaze away from the harbor, and turns towards you, who has escaped the festivities only moments before. You sit in a chair next to Aegon’s cradle, rocking it slowly as you can’t tear your eyes off of him. 

“Tell me truthfully,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting into the faintest hint of amusement. “How much longer must we endure your sister’s court before Oldtown returns to its senses?”

He crosses the room, and reaches for the goblet of wine that rests on the table beside you. “I have spent the better part of the afternoon being lectured by maesters and your nephews alike about dragons. Another hour, and I may throw myself from the top of the Hightower.”

You still glance down at the sleeping babe, your lips softening into a smile that seems to belong only to him—so untouched by courts and politics, and the endless expectations placed upon noblemen and noblewomen. 

Being far too engrossed by the babe, you don’t notice how his expression softens as he looks at you, and much less how the sharpness in his voice fades in a way it rarely does around anyone else. “Though I suppose you have enjoyed having them here so far,” he says, studying you for a moment while he puts the goblet back down. “Your sister, your nephews… the babe.”

The words linger between you, carrying a meaning neither of you needs to speak aloud. Two summers of marriage, two summers of hopes raised and dashed, of whispered prayers and polite assurances from maesters. 

Ormund reaches for your hand, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across your knuckles. “You’ve been smiling all day.”

His touch is what seizes your attention, and you crane your neck to meet his gaze. “Mhm, your suffering has been truly heroic, husband,” you reply with a smile. “First dragons, then children, and now maesters discussing the same. I shall ask my father to have songs written of your endurance.” There is mischief hidden beneath the sweetness of your voice, though you deliver the jab with all the grace expected of a princess. 

You slip your hand from Ormund’s grasp to rise to your feet, leaning over the cradle to lift little Aegon from it. He is cradled against your chest, stirring only slightly with his tiny fingers curling around the neckline of your gown as you rock him absentmindedly. 

“I enjoy having them here,” you admit quietly, your eyes never leaving the child. “It reminds me of the Red Keep when we were younger. Before everything became so… complicated.”

The laughter from the courtyard drifts through the open windows, and for a moment, you stand there, bathing in the afternoon light with an expression your husband has come to recognize all too well—the look that always carries hope, no matter how many disappointments have come before it. 

Behind you, Ormund says nothing. You just hear his footsteps cross the floor, and a moment later, his presence settles at your back. He’s close enough for the warmth of him to reach your shoulders, close enough for his breath to fan across your skin, and close enough that you can feel his gaze linger on the babe nestled in your arms. 

You sigh softly. “He is beautiful, isn’t he?”

Aegon’s other tiny hand has escaped the blanket, curled loosely around your fingers. You smile at the sigh, and brush your thumb over his knuckles. 

“He has your sister’s nose,” Ormund murmurs softly, not looking away from Aegon. “Poor thing.”

But the joke fades into the quiet between you, and by the tenderness in his voice it’s evident he’s just as mesmerized by Aegon as you. 

Ormund’s chin hovers near your temple. His silence seems deeper now, more thoughtful. He has spent his entire life studying people—the subtle shifts in their expressions during council meetings, the tension in a knight’s shoulders before a tournament, the exhaustion hidden behind polite smiles. 

And lately, there have been changes in you. 

It’s been little things; the mornings you linger in bed longer than usual, or the evenings you grow tired before supper has been served, the way your gowns sit slightly differently upon your frame. Changes so subtle, that anyone else might have missed them entirely. 

But Ormund has never been anyone else when it comes to you. 

There even is something different about the familiar scent of lavender and sea air that clings to you—a sweetness beneath it that he can’t quite place, something new and strangely familiar all at once. 

“You have been strangely quiet this afternoon,” you murmur, a smile tugging at your lips as you turn your head just enough to glance back at him. “Should I be concerned?”

He remains silent.

Then, slowly, his hand comes up to rest against the windowsill beside you, caging you in without intention with his gaze fixed on the curve of your neck. Beyond the windows, the bells of Oldtown ring in the distance, mingling with the cries of gulls drifting in from the harbor below. 

“You’ve changed your perfume,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. 

You let out a soft laugh. “I have not.”

“No.” His brow furrows slightly. “No, I suppose you haven’t.”

He turns his head just enough to look at you properly now, his eyes tracing the curve of your cheek, the silver strands that have fallen loose from your braid and the shadows beneath your eyes that have become more pronounced these last weeks. 

“You’ve been sleeping later,” he points out. 

But you are quick to object: “I have guests to entertain.”

“You hardly touched your supper three nights ago.”

“I was tired.”

“And yesterday morning, you nearly sent the maids into hysterics when you fled the table.”

Blinking slowly, it’s evident you’re caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “My lord, are you keeping an inventory of my habits?”

“I keep an inventory of everything,” he replies matter-of-factly, and adds more softly: “especially yours.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. You look back down at Aegon, carefully tucking the blanket beneath his tiny chin. “And what conclusion has Lord Hightower reached after this thorough investigation?”

Ormund’s gaze has fallen onto the child in your arms again, studying the slight part of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks, before your eyes meet once more. “I don’t know yet.”

It’s perhaps the most honest thing you have ever heard him say. 

His composure seems to crack, if only slightly. His hand leaves the windowsill, and hesitates before it sets carefully at your waist. 

“You've been different.” The words are barely louder than a whisper, almost as if he’s suddenly too afraid to wake the sleeping child in your arms. “And before you accuse me of imagining things—as I know you are about to—I would like to point out that I have spent more than two summers watching you more closely than I’ve watched anyone else in this world.”

The silence between you stretches long enough that you almost look away again, until he very slowly lowers his head towards yours; not to kiss you, gods be good, not even to speak to you.  

He simply breathes you in. 

Now that he is this close, your scent suddenly is unmistakable. It’s still mostly lavender and the sea salt from the harbor breeze that drifts through the open windows, but beneath it is something softer, warmer, honeyed. 

His hand comes to rest lightly against your belly, and you feel the hesitation in him, the rare uncertainty that almost never surfaces beyond the privacy of your chambers. And with his hand now splayed over your stomach, his words echo within your own thoughts. You weigh them carefully, and begin to gather the scattered pieces you have ignored for days.

“Ormund…”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he murmurs, almost afraid of the answer. “Tell me this is merely another one of my absurd conclusions.” But even as he says it, his gaze drifts to his hand on your stomach and to the life he is beginning, against all reason, to suspect you carry. 

“You smell different,” he continues.

It prompts you to laugh softly, because although the possibility might be there, you remember the days after the last disappointment. You have memorized them with such careful precision, as though the recollection of them alone might protect your heart from breaking again. 

“That–That is a remarkably romantic thing to say to your wife,” you say, “but we have been wrong before.”

His thumb barely moves against the fabric of your belly, while the rest of him remains still. “I mean it.”

The amusement fades from your expression, and you turn a little more in his arms to search his face. “You are frightening me,” you admit. 

Ormund looks down at the sleeping child and then back to you. There’s not the hint of the usually stern, perhaps even arrogant, mask he wears around court, no, there’s only a man that stands too close to a dream he has taught himself not to trust. 

And that’s what frightens you most. It’s not the possibility itself, but the look in his eyes. You have seen people around you wearing hope before—the maesters delivering remedies, the septas offering prayers, some ladies speaking kindly after another moon’s disappointment. Their hope has always felt light enough to brush aside, but his does not. It settles heavily in your chest. 

You can feel your throat tighten at the sight. “Don’t,” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you are prepared to be wrong.”

A part of you wants him to laugh gently and tell you he is imagining things, that this is only another false alarm, a passing fancy born by seeing the babe in your arms, because that would be much easier and safer. 

But he doesn’t laugh. 

“My love,” he says quietly, a name you hardly hear him say. “If I am wrong, I will grieve it with you. But I would rather stand here hoping beside you than spend another summer pretending I do not.”

The words undo something in you, not having realized how lonely your fear has become until this moment. You close your eyes briefly, leaning into the hand that rests against your stomach, and feel him step closer until the warmth of him surrounds you completely. 

For the first time, you allow yourself to think the forbidden thought without immediately pushing it away. What if?

The question is so small, yet it fills your entire chest. 

Aegon stirs softly in your arms, and you both look down at him at the same time. 

When you lift your eyes again, they immediately find Ormund’s, watching you with the same tenderness again as though he is waiting for you to decide whether the dream is allowed to exist or not.

The first time Oscar Tully met Daemon Targaryen's daughter, she was standing beneath the shadow of her dragon.

Smoke curled lazily around her boots as the beast settled behind her, wings folding with a sound like thunder rolling across the Riverlands. Soldiers instinctively stepped back. Even seasoned knights lowered their eyes.

Oscar simply stared.

Not because of the dragon.

Because she was smiling at one of the younger squires who had tripped over his own feet while trying to look brave.

She helped him stand.

Asked if he'd hurt himself.

The dragon behind her snorted, as if offended its rider was comforting frightened boys instead of inspiring fear.

Oscar smiled before he could stop himself.

"Gods," he murmured.

"She's beautiful."

Daemon Targaryen, who had happened to be walking behind him, heard every word.

"So I've been told."

Oscar turned.

Every story about the Rogue Prince had failed to capture just how dangerous he looked.

Dark Sister rested at his hip.

Caraxes lifted his enormous head several yards away, golden eyes settling directly on Oscar.

Most men would've looked away.

Oscar bowed politely.

"My prince."

Daemon folded his arms.

"You're looking at my daughter."

"I was."

"And?"

Oscar considered lying.

He'd never been particularly good at it.

"I'd quite like to marry her."

Silence.

Complete, horrified silence.

A nearby knight actually closed his eyes as though preparing to witness an execution.

Daemon blinked once.

Then Caraxes let out a low, rumbling growl that shook the ground beneath Oscar's boots.

Oscar looked toward the dragon.

"...Good afternoon to you as well."

Caraxes growled louder.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Leave."

"Yes, my prince."

Oscar turned obediently.

Then paused.

"I still intend to court her."

The growling stopped.

Daemon stared after him with the same expression one might wear after discovering a sheep had just challenged a wolf.

—

"Your father hates me."

Reader nearly choked on her wine.

"He threatened to feed you to Caraxes."

"Only twice."

She laughed.

"Twice?"

"The first time was after I told him I'd make you very happy."

Reader covered her face with her hands.

"And the second?"

"I asked where I'd need to stand during the wedding."

She burst into helpless laughter.

"You did not."

"I did."

"You've known me four days."

"I know."

"You don't even know my favorite color."

Oscar frowned thoughtfully.

"...Red."

She blinked.

"Because of House Targaryen?"

"No."

He smiled.

"Because whenever you're laughing your cheeks turn pink."

Her heart performed a ridiculous little flip.

Gods.

He was impossible.

—

Daemon tried everything.

He assigned Oscar patrols on the opposite side of camp.

Oscar finished them early.

He buried him beneath meetings with Riverlords.

Oscar attended every one before somehow finding Reader again before sunset.

He sent him into pouring rain to inspect supply wagons.

Oscar returned soaked through, carrying wildflowers he'd picked along the road because he'd thought Reader would like them.

She did.

She pressed them between the pages of her book.

Daemon nearly lost what remained of his patience.

"He cannot possibly be this cheerful."

"He usually is."

"There must be something wrong with him."

"There might be."

"He smiled at Caraxes."

Reader couldn't help herself.

"So did you."

"I was threatening someone."

"So was he."

Daemon frowned.

"...I dislike that you're defending him."

"I noticed."

—

It came to a head three weeks later.

Reader found Oscar sitting beside the river with his boots abandoned in the grass.

"You've survived another day."

"I have."

"My father hasn't killed you."

"He seems busy."

She sat beside him.

The evening sun painted the water gold.

For a while, neither spoke.

Finally she asked the question that had been bothering her since the day they'd met.

"Why aren't you afraid of him?"

Oscar laughed quietly.

"I am."

She looked at him in surprise.

"You don't seem afraid."

"I'm terrified."

"You certainly hide it well."

He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water.

"I know exactly what Daemon Targaryen could do to me."

"And yet..."

He looked at her.

"And yet every time I think perhaps I should stay away..."

His smile softened.

"...you smile at someone."

"...or laugh."

"...or stop to help a servant carry something."

"...or spend an hour listening to an old soldier tell stories you've surely heard a hundred times before."

He shrugged.

"I decide frightening your father is the easier task."

She felt her throat tighten.

"Oscar..."

"I don't expect anything."

He spoke so gently that it almost hurt.

"I know this is war."

"I know tomorrow isn't promised."

"I know your father would rather I disappeared."

A pause.

"But if I never told you..."

His voice became almost shy.

"...I'd regret it for the rest of my life."

"I think I've fallen in love with you."

She had been courted before.

Princes.

Lords.

Heirs.

Every one of them had spoken about dragons, beauty, alliances, bloodlines.

Oscar spoke about the way she smiled.

No one ever had.

She reached for his hand.

He froze.

"I think," she whispered, "I've been waiting for you to say that."

His eyes widened.

"Truly?"

She nodded.

He laughed—an honest, joyful sound that echoed across the river.

Unfortunately...

"So."

They both turned.

Daemon stood twenty feet away.

Dark Sister rested casually across one shoulder.

Caraxes loomed behind him.

Reader sighed.

"My father."

Oscar stood.

"My prince."

"I leave the two of you alone for ten minutes."

"It was closer to twenty."

Daemon ignored him.

"You wish to marry my daughter."

"I do."

"You understand that if you ever make her cry—"

"I'll deserve whatever punishment you decide."

Daemon stopped.

That...

wasn't the answer he'd expected.

Oscar continued before courage abandoned him.

"I cannot promise she'll never know hardship."

"We live in difficult times."

"I cannot promise I'll always have the right answer."

"But I can promise she'll never wonder whether she's loved."

Reader felt tears sting her eyes.

Daemon noticed.

His expression softened for the briefest heartbeat.

He looked toward his daughter.

She was watching Oscar the way her mother had once looked at him.

Hopelessly.

Entirely.

There was no changing that now.

Daemon sighed heavily.

"I should throw you into Blackwater Bay."

Oscar nodded.

"I imagine so."

"I should feed you to Caraxes."

"I imagine that as well."

Caraxes lowered his great head until he was eye level with Oscar.

The camp collectively held its breath.

The dragon sniffed him once.

Twice.

Oscar very carefully reached out and scratched beneath one curved horn.

"You are much friendlier than your reputation suggests."

Caraxes made a deep, satisfied rumble.

Reader burst into laughter.

Daemon stared at his own dragon.

"...You've betrayed me."

Another rumble.

Daemon looked back at Oscar.

"I liked you better when I believed you possessed common sense."

"I'm afraid I never have."

"So I've gathered."

A long silence settled over them.

Finally Daemon stepped forward.

He took his daughter's hand.

Then, with obvious reluctance, placed it into Oscar's.

"If she comes home unhappy..."

Oscar squeezed her hand gently.

"She won't."

Daemon searched his face for arrogance.

There was none.

Only quiet certainty.

The sort earned by a man who already loved her enough to challenge dragons.

"Very well."

Oscar blinked.

"...Very well?"

"I've changed my mind."

Reader smiled.

"What changed it?"

Daemon glanced toward Caraxes, who was still watching Oscar with suspicious approval.

"My dragon has dreadful taste in people."

Another rumble answered him.

"But..."

He looked back at Oscar.

"...he has never been wrong."

Oscar grinned.

"Does this mean I have your blessing?"

Daemon sighed as though the words physically pained him.

"It means you're now my problem."

"I can live with that."

"I know."

Daemon began walking back toward camp.

After several steps he called over one shoulder,

"And, Lord Tully?"

"Yes, my prince?"

"If anyone asks..."

"I intimidated you."

Oscar looked down at Reader, whose shoulders were already shaking with laughter.

Then back at Daemon.

"Of course."

A beat.

"You were absolutely terrifying."

Daemon smirked.

"There. That's better."