we are all misfits living in a world on fire

As the massive iron gates of the Red Keep groaned open, Ser Gwayne Hightower gently drew his horse’s reins, surveying the somber architecture that stood in stark contrast to the gleaming white marble of Oldtown. This place possessed none of the serene majesty of the Starry Sept. The Red Keep was a stifling fortress, its stone seemingly mixed with blood, low-slung, heavy, and casting an uneasy sense of watchful eyes from every corner. The towering walls resembled less a castle and more a sleeping beast. Even the air hung heavy with the pungent reek of decaying kelp and the sharp, sulfurous stench drifting from the Dragonpit.

Gwayne straightened slightly in his saddle. His finely wrought armor proudly bore the Hightower sigil, meticulously crafted by the smiths of Oldtown. In his noble posture lay the unwavering confidence and natural pride native to his birthplace; yet this pride was no crude display of superiority, but rather an extension of refined grace.

He dismounted smoothly. Removing his leather gloves and tucking them into his belt, he turned toward the retinue of servants behind him. At the rear of the procession stood a luxurious horse-drawn carriage, lined with specialized wool padding designed to absorb every jolt. The Hightowers had spared no effort or coin to ensure the infant prince’s comfort.

Gwayne stepped toward the steward inspecting the wheels, his tone smooth, quiet, and unyieldingly firm:

"Have the axles greased once more. The roads of King's Landing are not the paved avenues of Oldtown; the stones are jagged, the ruts deep. I shall tolerate no unnecessary jolting on the journey. Ensure the cushions and down mattresses inside are arranged without flaw."

The steward bowed hurriedly. "Aye, Ser Gwayne. I shall check every detail myself."

"Good," Gwayne replied, a faint, polite, yet measured smile touching his lips. "Remember, the responsibility we bear is no ordinary lord’s baggage. The slightest oversight shall disrupt the peace of this entire retinue."

At that moment, the Head of the Red Keep’s guard and his men stepped forward into the courtyard to receive the Hightower party. The cloaks bearing the Targaryen crest upon the guards were caked with dust, and their demeanor appeared far more rigid and hardened than that of the disciplined City Watch of Oldtown.

Dark-haired man offered a curt nod in greeting. "Ser Gwayne Hightower. We have been awaiting your arrival. Her Grace the Queen has been informed of your presence."

Gwayne returned the gesture with equal poise, inclining his head slightly. He was adept at concealing his sharp intellect behind polite courtesy. Though he noted the guard’s offhand greeting, he was far too dignified to take offense; nevertheless, he subtly made the disparity in class and breeding felt.

"My thanks for your trouble," Gwayne said, his voice smooth and calm. "It was a long and wearying journey. Fortunately, the capital of our realm remains as... hospitable as ever."

His eyes strayed to the courtiers whispering in the corners of the courtyard and the handmaidens parting the sheer curtains of the high windows to peer below. Every stone of this castle seemed to murmur with gossip and intrigue. Privately, Gwayne marveled at how his father, Otto Hightower, and his sister had managed to draw breath in such a place for so many years.

"Are the preparations complete for Prince Daeron?"

"All has been arranged as commanded, Ser," the man replied respectfully. "I am instructed to escort you within, to the corridor leading to the Queen’s chambers."

"Lead the way then," Gwayne said. Casting a final glance toward his servants to signal that they oversee the carriage preparations, he stepped beneath the dark and gloomy gates of the fortress. As the flickering shadows of the corridor torches washed over his face, an underlying sense of curiosity and duty took hold beneath his composed exterior. He had not seen his sister in many years, and he was now entirely certain that the tiny infant he was to carry to the safest harbor in the realm needed to be removed from this venomous court without a delay.

As they ventured deeper into the Red Keep, the corridors narrowed, the walls pressing in beneath the feeble light of the wall sconces. Gwayne could not help but survey his surroundings as his boots echoed against the high vaults. The massive Targaryen banners draped along the stone, the relief carvings fashioned from dragonbone, the suffocating air drifting through the narrow window grates... Every detail stood in absolute opposition to Oldtown. This place felt less like a home and more like a gilded dungeon.

Upon reaching the Queen’s quarters, the guards swung open the heavy oak doors with a low creak. The moment Gwayne stepped inside, the sweet fragrance of lavender rising from the censers greeted him. And in the center of the chamber, standing beside the window, was the figure he sought.

Alicent.

His sister... his own blood. Yet the passage of years had swept away the little girl who once ran through the gardens of Oldtown, leaving someone entirely different in her stead. When Gwayne’s gaze fell upon her, a faint ache touched his chest; Alicent bore an uncanny resemblance to their late mother. The same delicate smile, the same posture... Yet the sorrowful, exhausted expression in her eyes, as though she carried the weight of the world upon her shoulders, was uniquely her own. The marks of years and courtly intrigue were plainly written upon her young face.

Alicent wore a gown of deep red velvet, its collar and sleeves richly embroidered with gold thread. Though the grandeur of her attire proclaimed her stature as Queen and her allegiance to House Targaryen, the necklace adorned with the Seven-Pointed Star resting upon her breast served as silent proof that the Hightower blood in her veins remained unforgotten.

Distance had woven a strange, formal coldness between them.

Gwayne bowed with refined courtesy.

"Your Grace..." he spoke, his voice shedding the formality of the hallway for a far gentler tone. "To see you once more... is a great blessing, sister."

Alicent clasped her hands before her, the subtle nervous picking at the skin around her nails not escaping his notice. The faint smile that touched her lips failed to reach her weary eyes.

"Gwayne," she said, her voice smooth yet filled with a curious, compulsory distance. She took a few steps forward. "Welcome. I trust your journey was without mischance."

Gwayne approached, gently taking his sister’s hand and pressing a light kiss to her fingertips. As he felt how cold and tremulous her hand was, the sense of estrangement between them grew all the more pronounced.

"The roads were long, but seeing you dispels the weariness," Gwayne said softly, attempting to ease the delicate tension. "And what of you?"

Alicent sighed, averting her eyes for a brief moment. "As you might expect... The days pass in prayers, council meetings, and the bustling of children. The pace here never slows. And what of you, and Oldtown?"

"Oldtown remains as proud and serene as ever," Gwayne replied, a faint smile gracing his lips. "And where is the great man himself, Otto Hightower?"

Alicent’s expression chilled for an instant, both of them sharing the lingering bitter taste brought on by their father's name. "Our father is at his duties, naturally," Alicent said, her tone growing distant. "He is occupied in the Small Council shaping the fate of the realm, and could not find the leisure to receive us."

Gwayne nodded in understanding, feeling no need to press the matter regarding his father. He met Alicent’s gaze once more, maintaining his polite tone as he turned directly to the purpose of his visit:

"Where is Prince Daeron, Alicent? When may I see the babe?"

For the first time, a genuine, if soft, smile touched Alicent’s lips. She nodded knowingly. "Come," she said, gesturing to the guard at her door before leading the way. Gwayne followed closely behind his sister toward the sound of children's voices echoing from the adjoining chamber.

As the heavy door swung open, Gwayne was greeted by a vibrant and chaotic world of children.

In the center of the room, seven-year-old Aegon was charging about with boisterous laughter, a wooden sword gripped in both hands as he circled a burly guard stationed near the entrance. The ringlets of hair tumbling over the boy's shoulders were a bright, silken Targaryen silver-white. While the guard parried the blows with exaggerated movements to amuse the young prince, Aegon pressed his attacks with fierce, joyful shouts. Defying the gloom of the castle, his was the liveliest noise filling the room.

In a quieter, sunlit corner sat six-year-old Helaena. Her hair, like her brother’s, was pale white, gleaming like threads of silver in the light. The little girl was busily weaving purple and yellow wildflowers into the hair of a young handmaiden kneeling patiently before her. Softly humming a rhythmic melody to herself, she seemed entirely lost in her own imagined world as she tucked a stem into the maid’s braid. She did not look up from her blossoms even as Gwayne entered.

And in the most secluded, peaceful corner of the room... stood a high cradle of ornate carved wood.

Alicent slowed her pace as she approached the cradle. Gwayne followed his sister to its side. Within, wrapped in pristine, soft white swaddling, one-year-old Prince Daeron lay fast asleep.

Gwayne held his breath as his eyes fell upon the child’s face. Unlike his brother and sister, the fine, downy hair covering Daeron’s tiny head was not white; it was the same deep, warm auburn shared by Alicent, himself, and their mother, Alerie. Unaware of the intrigues of the court and the throne, the little prince slept soundly, his tiny hands folded over his chest.

Setting aside all noble formality, Gwayne leaned gently over the cradle. Gazing at the soft auburn hair, he understood once more why this child had to be taken from this place. As he fought the impulse to reach out and touch the babe's warm cheek, his eyes filled with profound tenderness and a protective instinct.

"Well met, nephew," Gwayne whispered, his voice remarkably clear and full of affection despite the noise in the room.

"He sleeps so peacefully..." he murmured, unable to tear his eyes away.

Yet that quiet moment was short-lived. The clatter of wooden swords across the room suddenly turned into a shout of triumph. "Uncle! Look how I made the guard yield!" boomed a loud, young voice.

Before Gwayne could react, young Aegon came charging on small feet and threw himself against his uncle’s waist. The little prince wrapped his arms tightly around Gwayne’s legs, tugging at the leather fittings of his armor in an attempt to climb upward.

Gwayne stepped back gracefully without losing his balance, a genuine, gentle smile appearing on his face. Leaning down, he gathered young Aegon up under the arms and lifted him into the air.

"Easy now, my little prince," Gwayne said, settling the boy into his arms and playfully ruffling his silver hair. "A knight does not strike from behind, least of all against his own uncle."

Aegon puffed out his chest with pride, his silver hair falling over his face as he raised his wooden sword victorious. "I am the future king! I may strike whenever I please!"

Gwayne chuckled softly.

At that moment, the joyful shouts and commotion shattered the fragile silence of the room. The tiny form in the cradle stirred restlessly, throwing its arms into the air, and within seconds, Daeron’s high-pitched, distressed crying filled the chamber.

Alicent immediately stepped toward the cradle. Gwayne looked down at Aegon, who was still brandishing his wooden sword, and then glanced at the wailing babe.

"We ought to continue our lesson in knighthood outside, Your Grace," Gwayne said, lightly tapping Aegon on the nose. "We have disturbed your brother's sleep."

As Gwayne and Aegon moved away from the cradle, Alicent offered a gentle nod to the handmaidens. Two servants rushed forward and knelt beside the bassinet; one lifted Daeron into her arms to soothe his back, while the other moved to prepare a bowl of warm milk.

Gwayne paused before reaching the door with Aegon in his arms. Turning toward the corner of the room, he approached Helaena. Leaning down, he used his free hand to gently stroke the little girl’s shimmering hair. Helaena raised her blue eyes to her uncle, but offered no word, continuing to tuck a yellow daisy into the maid’s braid. Gwayne offered a faint smile at her quiet, mysterious manner before stepping out into the cool hallway with Aegon.

Gwayne set his nephew down gently, adjusting the straps of his armor as he knelt on one knee to meet the boy at eye level.

The moment he was free, Aegon huffed impatiently, tapping his wooden sword against the stone floor. "Mother never lets me play with that babe anyway!" he complained, shrugging his shoulders with a scowl. "She won't even let me touch his hand. It's always 'Careful, Aegon, you'll hurt him, Aegon!'"

Gwayne raised his eyebrows slightly with a amused smile at the boy's impetuous grievance. "He is still very small, Aegon. He must grow a little more."

"Bah, what difference does growing make!" Aegon continued, making sweeping slashes at the shadows on the wall with his wooden sword. "Helaena grew, and what of it? She sits all day with Mother staring at boring picture books. Helaena is boring, and books are boring! No one wants to run with me."

Aegon puffed his chest out proudly, tossing his silver hair back. "But when I am King, it shall not be so! I shall hold feasts every day. There will be only fun! No one shall be forced to read books."

Looking at his nephew's sheer childish arrogance and boundless energy, Gwayne struggled to suppress a genuine laugh. He was just preparing to explain politely that knighthood and kingship consisted of more than mere amusement when the sound of the opening door halted him.

Alicent stepped into the corridor accompanied by her guard. Daeron’s cries had ceased, and order had been restored within. Having caught the latter part of her son’s declaration, a faint, maternal smile touched her lips.

"When you are King, you say, Your Grace..." Alicent remarked with gentle reproach as she approached Aegon. "Yet that day is far off, and a king must first get his sleep."

She turned to the guard beside her with a gentle nod. "Escort Prince Aegon to his quarters. And ensure his wooden sword is set aside before he sleeps."

"Yes, my Queen," the guard replied, stepping forward toward Aegon. Aegon opened his mouth to protest, but seeing the firm expressions of his uncle and mother, he conceded. Reluctantly handing over his wooden sword, he dragged his feet down the corridor.

Alicent and Gwayne stepped back into the chamber as silence returned to the hallway. The room had settled after the brief chaos. Gwayne walked with soft steps to the cradle and leaned over the tiny figure stirring beneath the cotton sheets.

Daeron was no longer weeping; his wide, blue eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, his distress forgotten. With deliberate care, Gwayne lifted the babe into his arms, cradling him gently as if fearful of causing him harm, swaying him softly back and forth.

Alicent smiled at her brother's gentle nature. "He is wide awake now," she said, her voice matching the quiet of the room. "Once he is fed, he will not sleep for quite some time."

Gwayne began to play softly with the tiny babe. As he extended his finger toward the child's small palm, Daeron’s tiny fingers curled tightly around his uncle’s finger. A warm, genuine smile touched Gwayne's face, making him forget entirely the brave knight beneath his armor.

Without taking his eyes off the babe, Gwayne turned to Alicent, his tone resolute with unwavering assurance:

"Fear not, sister. He shall be safe with me and my lady wife in Oldtown. We shall care for him as our own; he shall receive the finest education, growing in peace beneath the shadow of the Starry Sept and the Citadel, far removed from the exhausting air of this court. Set your mind at ease."

Alicent attempted to stand tall at her brother’s words, trying to project the strength and composure expected of a Queen. Yet it was impossible to conceal the deep, lingering sorrow in her eyes. It was as though a veil had parted in her mind, allowing her to sense the dark days ahead, the inevitable calamities to come, and the fate awaiting this tiny child when he grew.

Alicent drew near slowly. Reaching out a trembling hand, she tenderly stroked Daeron’s soft auburn curls, which shimmered just like her own.

"I doubt not that you will treat him as your own son, Gwayne, and raise him as befits a Hightower," she murmured in a voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with emotion. Her eyes remained fixed on the babe's face. "Protect him. Protect him not just for my sake, but from this castle and everything within it."

Gwayne carefully handed the sleeping little Daeron into the arms of a nearby handmaiden. As the child's tiny hands reluctantly released his uncle's finger, Gwayne adjusted his cloak and turned his gaze back to Alicent. Lowering his voice so the servants in the room would not overhear, he voiced the question that had been weighing on his mind:

"And what of King Viserys? What said he to this decision made by you and Lord Father? Did he not object to a Targaryen prince being sent away from the capital and from his sight?"

The vulnerable expression on Alicent’s face hardened instantly, replaced by a weary acceptance. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a few steps toward the window.

"The King..." Alicent said, her voice devoid of both malice and affection, carrying only a profound bitterness. "Viserys can scarcely stand these days, Gwayne. He is a man slowly wasting away, rarely leaving his chambers, passing his days amidst the shadows of the past. He knows Daeron is to be sent to Oldtown, of course. Father brought it before the council. But he cared not. His mind is consumed by a single matter; beyond that, he takes little interest in the affairs of the world."

Gwayne offered a faint nod, seemingly taken aback by the King’s state. While Viserys’s indifference made their task easier, it laid bare the grim reality of a kingdom left effectively leaderless.

Before their solemn conversation could deepen, the rustle of soft footsteps echoed from the corner of the room. Helaena was walking toward them, pressing the leather-bound book she had been examining against her chest. Within its open pages, colorful illustrations of butterflies and pressed leaves shimmered.

The little girl took hold of the skirts of her mother's gown. Raising her bright, blue eyes to Alicent, she spoke in a soft whisper:

"Mother... May we go into the garden? The caterpillars upon the blossoms have awakened; I wish to see them."

The rigid, weary expression on Alicent’s face melted away the moment she heard her daughter’s voice. Leaning down, she stroked Helaena’s hair; the little girl’s innocent request instantly dispelled the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

"Of course, sweetling," Alicent said softly. Then, offering a smile to Gwayne, she added, "Perhaps your uncle will join us as well."

Gwayne bowed his head politely in agreement. "With pleasure, Your Grace. It would be pleasant to see the gardens of King's Landing before returning to Oldtown."

As the three of them stepped out of the room toward the cool stone corridors leading to the garden, Alicent turned to the senior servant standing near the door. Her voice regained the resolve and authority of a Queen:

"Finish the final preparations for Prince Daeron’s departure. Ensure his garments, his salves, and all he might require are packed without delay. Have the satchels and chests loaded immediately onto Ser Gwayne’s carriage in the courtyard. I want nothing lacking when they set out."

The servants bowed respectfully and dispersed to carry out their orders, while Alicent gave one hand to her daughter's tiny clasp and took her brother Gwayne at her other side, setting off toward the Courtyard Gardens.

Helaena eagerly descended the stone steps, holding her mother’s fingers tightly. As the gloom of the stone walls fell behind them, the Courtyard Gardens of the Red Keep opened before them in all their vibrancy. This place felt like a hidden sanctuary, removed from the oppressive air of the fortress. In the garden, where high curtain walls blocked the wind, the trickling of water in the marble basin mingled with the song of birds. The wide paths were lined with the scent of red roses and Judas trees. Sunlight glistening upon the pool reflected off the marble, while colorful butterflies fluttered through the air.

The moment the little girl stepped onto the garden grass, she released her mother’s hand and darted forward, her eyes bright with joy. Her silver hair fluttered in the breeze as she began to chase blue-winged butterflies through the flowerbeds. She was entirely oblivious to any conflict for the throne, political intrigue, or gathering storm; she was wholly surrendered to the magic of the moment.

Alicent and Gwayne paused beneath the shade of a tree beside the path to watch Helaena. In Alicent’s gaze as she watched her daughter lay a profound tenderness paired with a quiet helplessness.

"Helaena... is a very different child," Alicent murmured, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes fixed on the little girl practically floating over the grass. "Sometimes I feel she does not belong to this world, least of all to this castle. Her mind dwells elsewhere; she speaks with insects, with butterflies, with whispers no one else can hear."

Gwayne looked at his sister's profile, understanding the heavy protective instinct and fear that weighed upon her shoulders. "Innocence is quality I find lacking in this castle, sister," he said gently. "Yet beneath your love and protection, it shall remain as pure as it may. I’m sure you will do your best."

Just then, Helaena came running back down the path toward them with small, hurried steps. Held tightly in her palms were two freshly fallen wildflowers. She stopped before her mother and uncle, a gentle smile upon her face.

"I did not pick them," Helaena said in sweet earnest, immediately defending herself. "They had fallen into the bushes on their own. It did not hurt them."

The little girl extended a purple blossom toward her uncle. Gwayne leaned down with knightly grace and took the flower from Helaena’s tiny palm. "This is a wonderful gift, little princess. I shall treasure it among my most prized possessions," he said with a smile.

Helaena then tucked the remaining yellow flower into the folds of her mother’s gown. Then, without a word, she turned with the same swiftness and ran back toward the butterflies dancing around the fountains and the world of tiny creatures hiding among the bushes.

The brother and sister stood in silence for a time, watching the little girl’s joyful frolicking and taking in the peace of the garden.

That quiet moment was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps along the path. Alicent’s senior handmaiden approached out of breath, bowing her head respectfully:

"Your Grace, Ser Gwayne... Prince Daeron has been readied for the journey. All his belongings and chests have been loaded into the carriage. The retinue and guards await your command in the courtyard to set out."

With the handmaiden’s news, the peaceful spell over the garden broke. Alicent offered a final smile to Helaena as she chased butterflies, instructing the guards and servants to keep close watch over the young princess. Then, accompanied by Gwayne, she turned with heavy steps toward the castle corridors, now chilled by the inevitable approach of parting.

When they reached the upper floor, infant Daeron awaited them, wrapped in thick, soft wool swaddling with a small, delicate cap placed upon his head. The servants handed the babe to Alicent.

As she took her son into her arms, Alicent struggled to master the storm surging within her chest. Trying to hide her grief and the tears threatening to spill from her eyes from her brother and the surrounding attendants, she bowed her head. Her lips trembled. Leaning down, she pressed a deep, lingering kiss upon the babe's tiny cap, as though inhaling her son’s scent for the last time. Then, producing a fine linen handkerchief embroidered by her own hand with the Hightower crest in green thread, she tucked it gently into the babe’s swaddling.

"You will send word of every development, will you not?" Alicent asked, her voice faltering as she looked at Gwayne. "Write to me at every opportunity. When he takes his first step, when he speaks his first word... Let me know everything."

"I give you my word, sister," Gwayne replied with smooth, unwavering resolve.

Gwayne stepped forward and gracefully took the babe from his sister’s trembling arms. He gently rocked little Daeron a few times; the young prince peered up at his uncle with sleepy eyes from within his swaddling. Gwayne then handed the child to the trusted handmaiden appointed by the Queen to accompany them to Oldtown. The woman cradled the babe carefully and moved toward the carriage waiting in the courtyard.

"Prepare yourselves! We ride!" Gwayne called out to his men and the Hightower guards assembled in the courtyard. The natural authority in his voice instantly set the entire retinue into motion.

Gwayne offered a formal, respectful inclination of his head to the Royal Guard stationed at the gates of the Red Keep. He then turned to Alicent. The brother and sister clasped hands, weighted by the sorrow of parting once more after so many years.

"Take care of yourself, my Queen," Gwayne said, his voice softening.

"Farewell, brother. Protect him... protect him well," Alicent whispered.

Gwayne stepped back, sweeping his cloak as he mounted his majestic black horse. Gathering the reins, he took his place at the head of the procession.