Girl On Fire

The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.

You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.

You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.

Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.

Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.

It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.

Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.

Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.

Daeron.

Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.

He is alive.

More than that, he is king. 

Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.

–

The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.

Inside, you feel nothing.

Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.

Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.

"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."

"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."

His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.

“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.

The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.

You pause before it.

The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state. 

The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.

He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.

"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You flinch and she adverts her eyes.

“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry. 

Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.

You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.

"All is well," you assure her. 

She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.

The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.

Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.

You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.

“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.

A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.

Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise. 

Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.

The new Lord Hightower. 

Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.

He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.

“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.

On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them. 

He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face. 

Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King. 

You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed. 

“You Grace.” 

You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.

"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."

"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”

Daeron goes still.

His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.

A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.

"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.

"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."

Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.

Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.

“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.

Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."

Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.

Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.

"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."

Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile. 

As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.

You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.

Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.

You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—

Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.

“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”

You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.

The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.

 “You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”

Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.

"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”

They said the same about Ormund. 

You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.

His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.

Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you. 

"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins. 

"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"

Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.

“Soon,” his uncle replies.

The words settle over the room like a stone.

"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."

You stared at him. "For me?"

"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the  maesters believe he has little time remaining."

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.

"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence." 

His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly. 

“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."

Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin. 

Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice.  It does not make it hurt any less. 

After a long moment Gwayne says your name.  Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.  

The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.  

"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them. 

 “You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says.  The promise is earnest enough to make you ache. 

You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.  

At last, Daeron speaks.

"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."

For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.

"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows. 

"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.

You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that. 

"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises

You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.

He already has someone in mind you realize.

“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.  

His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.

It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.

"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."

His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.

Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along. 

Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.

"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly. 

"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.

His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.

"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."

You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."

The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.

"Daeron," you say softly.

His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.

For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.

Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.

Without a word, he looks away.

You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet. 

You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.

But hope is a fragile thing.

You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.