⋆˚࿔ Madalyn⋆˚࿔

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: family reunion, Ormund is a bit jealous, misogynistic views typical of the era, Reader and Ormund loathe each other (but deep down they want each other), passive-aggressive, targaryen ego, Ormund is proud and arrogant, reader kinda crazy but a baddie, no smut (for now).

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: sheesh, I’d forgotten how hard it was to write, but here’s the first chapter. Honestly, I don’t know how many there’ll be, but it’s going to be a short story, lol. Remember english isn't my first language! Hope y’all like it ;)

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Young Daeron sat waiting before the cyvasse board, arranging his pieces and studying the carved figures in his hands as he awaited Lord Ormund. He looked up to see Ormund speaking with Ser Roxton—likely discussing how to fortify Tumbleton’s walls against the looming threat of Rhaenyra and her army. Daeron sighed thoughtfully; it had been barely two days since news arrived of Aemond and Vhagar departure—two days since he had naively suggested turning to his aunt Haelys for help.

Ormund never brought the subject up again, yet Daeron knew he was worried about the war hanging over them. No matter how much he feigned indifference or exuded arrogance, the fact remained that the largest dragon in Westeros was gone and their allies were dwindling, leaving them no choice but to resist or die—for Daeron knew Ormund would never yield; not to Rhaenyra, and certainly never to a Targaryen.

“Daeron.” Ormund’s voice snapped him out of his reverie; the young man blinked and looked up. “I’m speaking to you, boy” Ormund said again, drawing his attention without a hint of hostility.

Daeron cleared his throat and nodded. “Forgive me, my lord; I was merely considering the strategy I’ll use this time,” he replied, showing no signs of nervousness—or at least, not too much. Ormund studied him for a few moments before offering a pleased smile, then turned to wash his hands in the lavender- and mint-scented water his servants had prepared for him.

“The maester tells me you’ve been most assiduous in your lessons,” he said calmly, dipping his hands in the water, washing them intentionally, almost ritually.

Daeron sighed as he rested his arms on the cold wooden table; his pieces were ready. “We are making a study on my forebears… on the Hightower side, I mean,” he replied in a pleasant voice, glancing at Ormund’s back, still bent over the water. “Their battles, their enemies. It’s just been three days now spent in pursuit of these dry histories,” he said with a touch of humor.

Ormund stopped instantly, tense, slowly withdrawing his hands from the water and turning just as slowly, looking at Daeron over his shoulder. “Dry, did you say?” he asked, his tone revealing a certain tension that Daeron quickly noticed. He licked his lips nervously as he adjusted himself in his chair, straightening his back.

“No. Of course not,” he opened his mouth, hesitating, as Ormund walked over and took the cloth to begin drying his hands. “Or rather, they may seem dry at first glance, but to learn from”—he paused, looking Ormund in the eye—“To venerate,” he corrected himself. “Our ancestors, that is a noble task. And I’m grateful for it.”

Ormund smiled contentedly again as he finished drying his hands. “Good,” he replied simply as he hung the cloth up. “It would please me to hear you recite,” he suggested as he began walking to the table, taking his own pieces, before taking his seat across from Daeron.

Daeron straightened his back, licking his lips as he recalled his past lessons with the maester. “We have parsed out the conflicts between House Greyjoy and Houses Peake and Osgrey and Gardener, House Dayne of Dorne.”

“And Meria Martell?” Ormund suddenly spoke, questioning. Daeron remained silent, looking at him. “The Yellow Toad of Dorne,” he said again, receiving no response from Daeron. Ormund sighed. “I should have a word with your tutor.”

Daeron watched him intently, his gaze shifting between him and the pieces on the board.

“She was the only woman ever to have been gifted with a truly military mind,” Ormund began. Daeron detected a hint of admiration in his voice. “Though the gods divested her beauty instead,” he said with a touch of humor, a wry smile playing on his lips as he settled back in his seat. “A blind princess. Hideous, hairless, thick of waist.” Ormund moved the first piece on the board.

“She does not sound so formidable,” Daeron commented with genuine curiosity, quickly moving his own piece as well.

“When Aegon the Conqueror claimed her lands, she refused to submit. She declared him a usurper, and all those who marched for him traitors to the Seven Kingdoms.” Ormund stared intently at Daeron, leaning forward over the board, speaking with admiration. “And she swore that Dorne would ever be unbowed, unbent, unbroken.” He returned his gaze to the board, moving another piece. Daeron watched him attentively, his mind focused on the game.

“Meria poisoned her own wells, hid her soldiers in the very sand of the desert.” Ormund looked at him again. “Her castle, when they found it, was empty. They thought that she was vanquished, but she rose up out of the darkness and slaughtered them in their beds” he spoke with a certain malice, smiling enthusiastically.

Daeron remained pensive as he listened to the story; he had not yet moved his piece, for he was intrigued by the woman. “Is she a hero, then? Or a villain?” he asked.

Ormund looked at him and smiled—a good question—then sighed before answering.

“The Targaryens”—the very name seemed to disgust him—“knew nothing of our civilization, the Faith, the Citadel.” Pride filled his voice—Daeron could sense it—though it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “What they had… What they still have is strength. Their armies, the obscenity of their dragons—cursed creatures far removed from the light of the Seven.” Daeron lowered his gaze, pained by Ormund’s disdain for dragons—for Tessarion.

“Meria Martell outwitted her enemy,” Lord Ormund smiled. “A cunning mind can resist the most savage of beasts. And Dorne remains unbroken even today,” he concluded.

Daeron remained silent, leaning forward to move his piece—the dragon—and win the game. Ormund only noticed it on second glance; seeing the piece in the center, he sighed as his brow slowly furrowed. Young Daeron sensed the shift in mood, and nerves washed over him.

“I was lucky,” he said awkwardly. “Let’s start again.”

He reached his hand toward the center of the board, but before he could even move a piece, a sharp slap from Ormund pinned his hand in place; the pieces rattled from the force of the impact. Daeron tensed and looked up at him, saying nothing, but Ormund did not look back; he simply stared at the board between them. Then, with a swift sweep of his arm, he sent the pieces flying to the floor. Daeron recoiled, pressing himself against his chair as he watched Ormund slowly rise and pace alongside the table—the sounds of his sheathed sword and heavy boots echoing loudly through the room—until he stood behind Daeron, gripping his shoulders firmly and leaning down to speak.

“Never apologize for victory,” he said sternly, then released his shoulders, turned his back, and walked away without waiting for a reply from Daeron.

“Do you think there will be another woman like that, my lord?” Ormund stopped in his tracks upon hearing the voice. “A woman with a military mind” Ormund smiled faintly; the answer was obvious to him—though not to young Daeron—that women were not made for war. He turned then and looked at the young man closely, ready to give him the answer he sought.

But the words had barely left Ormund Hightower’s lips when a great crash suddenly thundered across the sky above Tumbleton, startling them both; they exchanged wide-eyed glances. A thunderstorm? It made no sense; there wasn't a cloud in sight over Tumbleton—the sky was completely clear. Then came another crash, far louder than the first.

“My lord, what is happening?” Daeron asked anxiously, looking at him as he quickly rose from his chair. Ormund remained silent, deep in thought; it couldn't be dragons—no... unless.

They both rushed out of the room; out in the courtyard of the Footly castle, guards and knights were moving frantically, like an anxious herd. Finally, one of them looked up at the sky, pointing and shouting at the top of his lungs.

Dragon.

Then everyone turned their heads skyward—the people of Tumbleton included—and there they saw it. A colossal creature—no bigger than Vermithor—was flying overhead, its vast shadow engulfing the houses of Tumbleton. People screamed and fled in terror from the impending dragon attack; as the beast opened its monstrous maw, it unleashed a massive roar—a guttural sound so intense it resembled thunder cracking the sky during a violent storm.

Ormund’s eyes widened as he finally recognized the creature looming above him; it was impossible, yet it had to be. The dragon, which had merely been circling overhead, suddenly went into a dive, slicing through the air with its wings and roaring. Only when it was just a short distance away did it soar upward again, beating its colossal wings and unleashing a gust of wind that knocked many people down—including Ormund, who fell face-first onto the ground. Yes, it was her.

Daeron helped him up, and Ormund kept his eyes fixed on the dragon as it flew just beyond the walls of Tumbleton and finally landed. Ormund growled in a rage and shook off Daeron’s grip.

“Someone get me my damn horse!” he shouted furiously, glaring at the knights beside him. “And have a squad of men accompany me—move, damn it!” Ormund’s fury was enough to send the men scrambling to adjust their armor and grab their swords. Ormund turned to mount his horse, but Daeron’s desperate voice stopped him.

“My lord, what is happening?!” Daeron exclaimed again, raising his voice and holding Ormund’s gaze—Ormund was still seething. He simply snorted, then leaned in and gripped Daeron’s arm firmly.

“You summoned her.”

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Outside the walls of Tumbleton—further out, on a meadow rising above the land—stood Stormchaser, breathing heavily and snorting smoke from his nostrils. Atop him sat Haelys, gazing down at the humble town of Tumbleton. She sighed; it felt strange to set foot once more on the soil of Westeros after so many years away—away from the place she had once called home. Stormchaser grunted and shook his head.

“Exhausting flight, old man?” she asked, looking at him. He offered only a snort in reply, drawing a soft laugh from her as she turned her gaze back to the front, toward the gates of Tumbleton. “Yes, I feel the same way,” she said, watching as the gates opened and a small mounted force emerged, riding straight toward her. She smiled at the warmth of the welcome.

Ormund rode at the head of the army, his gaze fixed—burning with fury—upon the dragon resting on the hill and the rider atop it. He gripped his horse’s reins and clenched his jaw tightly; his armor clattered with every gallop, and his sword struck against his thigh. Daeron had begged to accompany him, but Ormund had been clear: he could not trust her—he could not trust a Targaryen. Finally, after a few minutes, the horses came to a halt several meters from the colossal beast that watched them with fiery eyes; the mounts whinnied in panic—all save for Ormund’s. Haelys smiled with satisfaction; she unfastened her belt, removed her helmet, and dismounted, sliding skillfully down Stormchaser’s massive wing. She then walked slowly to his side, stroking the dragon’s scaly hide as he let out a thunderous roar at the men—a warning.

“Lykirī, Stormchaser, lykirī,” Haelys said, stroking the creature’s jaw-horns as she turned her gaze toward Ormund. He, too, dismounted and began to walk forward, his expression grave; she smiled once more as she approached him, her Targaryen armor gleaming in the sunlight and highlighting the three-headed dragon sigil emblazoned on her shoulders. Her braided silver hair rested against her left shoulder; she then pulled off her gloves with her teeth and clasped her hands before her, stopping just a few meters in front of him and his men.

“Greetings, Ormund,” she said, her voice carrying clearly; Ormund gritted his teeth at the lack of respect. “I must admit I was surprised to hear you weren’t in Oldtown. I see you’ve left your humble home for… one even humbler, I presume?” The mocking tone in her voice only stoked his already fiery temper, yet he maintained his composure—or tried to—though the stench of dragon clinging to her made him wrinkle his nose in undisguised distaste.

“Princess Haelys… may the gods have mercy on us. I apologize if your welcome isn’t quite proper; to be honest, I thought you were dead—rotting in some ravine.” Haelys’s smile widened, though she felt anything but happiness at his remark; cretin, she thought behind that smile. “And it is Lord Ormund Hightower, for the record. I don’t blame you, though; after living like a savage alongside your beast, it’s only natural to forget one’s manners.”

Haelys felt Stormchaser growl behind her, sending Ormund’s men into a fresh panic. “Oh, is that so? Since when?” she asked, feeling a surge of pride and satisfaction at Ormund’s annoyed expression. But enough games—for now. “I won’t take up any more of your valuable time, Lord Ormund”—she used the title without a shred of sincerity. “I know my nephew, Daeron Targaryen, is your ward and is currently in your care, and I intend to see him.”

Ormund raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips, feigning surprise at her implication; he glanced around, feigning bewilderment. “Daeron Hightower, you mean, surely?” he asked, while Haelys felt her blood boil at the mention of the name Hightower. “I’m afraid I cannot help you, princess, I regret to tell you that your brother Daemon took him to King’s Landing not long ago—perhaps as a prisoner,” he said, feigning regret as he looked at her. “It is a pity; I had grown quite fond of him—after all, I raised him.”

Haelys Targaryen simply stared at him intensely, her violet eyes narrowed and locked onto Ormund’s gaze; after a moment of silence, she walked slowly toward him—causing him to instinctively step back—and spoke. “You were never a good liar, Ormund Hightower—not with me, at least,” she replied, flashing a smile that vanished instantly as she stepped back and drew her sword. The sound of the blade slicing through the air rang out; he instantly followed suit, and both pointed their blades at one another. Haelys fixed a wide-eyed stare upon him.

“You had best tell me where my nephew is, Ormund Hightower, or else I shall have my dragon devour your entire damned army—and I will force you to watch it happen,” she said sternly, never breaking eye contact, sensing the men behind him tense at her words. Before Ormund could answer, the sound of galloping hooves echoed behind them, drawing everyone’s attention—including that of Ormund and Haelys, who lowered their swords slightly at the interruption. Ormund’s jaw tightened when he saw who it was.

Young Daeron dismounted, sighing deeply as he felt the gaze of the knights, Ormund, and that woman upon him. He began to walk slowly toward them, his eyes drawn to the great dragon resting on the hill—which was staring fixedly at him—causing him to shift his gaze back to the woman; he advanced uncertainly until he stood just meters away from them both.

“Aunt Haelys?” Daeron asked, stopping before her with a measure of uncertainty.

Haelys Targaryen studied him closely—his face, his features, his reddish hair—and only seconds later, her grip on her sword slackened. She quickly sheathed her sword as she walked toward him, feeling a knot form in her stomach; Ormund watched everything closely, never letting his guard down—just like the rest of his men. Haelys stepped closer and gently cupped Daeron’s cheeks, as if he were not real.

“Daeron, my sweet nephew, it really is you,” she said after a few moments, tears in her eyes. She smiled as Daeron nodded, watching tears well up and glisten in his eyes as well; she looked him up and down, letting out a surprised laugh. “You’ve grown.” Daeron nodded again with a soft, nasal chuckle before Haelys pulled him into a tight embrace. He stood still for a moment, still unable to believe she was there—his aunt was alive and standing right beside him—then he hugged her back just as fiercely, instantly closing his eyes and burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Ormund watched the scene, having no choice but to roll his eyes in distaste and sheathe his sword—his men following suit. He grimaced again at the strong stench of dragon clinging to the woman, so he raised a small vial of aromatic oils to his nose and inhaled deeply; filling his lungs and closing his eyes, he silently asked the Seven for strength before tucking the vial away, leaving it hanging from his belt.

“Ah, this family reunion warms my heart, Princess Haelys,” Ormund said—or rather, exclaimed—interrupting the moment between them as he stepped closer. “But Daeron is my ward; and though you may be his kin, I won’t let you take him away so easily,” Ormund added, a mocking, arrogant smile playing on his lips.

“I’m not taking him away,” she said. Ormund’s smile vanished, and he looked at her in bewilderment, as did Daeron. “I have come to swear loyalty to the heir of the Iron Throne,” she replied sincerely, gazing at her nephew and affectionately touching his cheek, before turning to Ormund with a triumphant smile. “Princess Haelys Targaryen and her dragon, Stormchaser, will join Daeron Targaryen’s cause,” she said, emphasizing the name Targaryen. Daeron simply smiled in gratitude; his aunt had returned to Westeros, bringing with her significant support for the war effort. But Ormund could not simply let it rest there.

“And why do you think we need your support, Princess?” Ormund asked, raising a mocking eyebrow as he looked at her. “Do you not know? Vhagar already supports our armies; your dragon will make no difference to our forces.” Daeron looked up at him in bewilderment—what was he doing?

“Vaghar and Aemond have left, Lord Ormund,” she replied, sensing them both tense at her remark; Ormund frowned, dumbfounded. “How?” he wondered aloud, looking at her, and she was quick to answer.

“Do you not know? News flies like flies, my lord,” she taunted once more, claiming the last word before turning toward Daeron, unsheathing her sword, and kneeling before him to lay the blade on the ground at his feet.

“I, Haelys of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, swear my loyalty to the rightful heir of the Iron Throne, Daeron Targaryen,” she declared, lifting her face to look at her nephew with a smile. Ormund merely snorted, regarding Daeron not with hostility but with severity, unable to fully trust the newly arrived Targaryen princess. After swearing her oath, she rose, retrieved her sword, and skillfully sheathed it at her belt; she licked her lips as she turned to look at Stormchaser resting on the hill, glancing back at Ormund with a smile.

“Have your men fetch my things from my dragon, Lord Ormund,” she said, as if it were the simplest of tasks. “Stormchaser has already eaten, but...” She leaned in close, speaking in a low voice—Ormund grimaced slightly as the stench of dragon clinging to her filled his nostrils. “Tell your men not to make any sudden movements; he might not take it very well.”

“Naejot māzīs, Stormchaser!”

Behind them, Stormchaser rose and spread his colossal wings, roaring mightily; the sky rumbled once more.

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As evening fell over Tumbleton, painting the sky in vibrant shades of orange—reminiscent of dragonfire—a very, very, very awkward dinner was underway inside House Footly’s castle, at least for Ormund Hightower. He sat at the head of the great table, naturally; Daeron was to his right, and Haelys to his left, occupying her seat as if she owned the place. He stole sidelong glances at her; the displeasure on his face was less obvious now, though it hadn't vanished entirely.

Young Daeron listened intently to his aunt’s tales; she spoke of her adventures with such arrogance and haughtiness. Ormund scoffed, a faint, mocking sound, as he sipped from his goblet. He remained silent, watching Daeron and narrowing his eyes at the young man’s curious, enthusiastic expression; he had never seen him so happy or engaged—not even when he had told him about the Yellow Toad of Dorne just a couple of hours earlier. What nonsense, he also had interesting stories, he thought while taking another drink.

“My first destination after flying from King’s Landing was Pentos,” Haelys said, holding her goblet between her fingers; despite her years away from the crown, the Targaryen princess’s elegance had not faded. “Then I went to Volantis. You should have seen them, Daeron—they never tired of watching me fly atop Stormchaser,” she told him with a smile, reminiscing about those years as she sipped her wine. Ormund was listening, even if it didn't appear so.

“After that, I went to Rhoyne, Qohor, and Norvos, though I never stayed long in any one place,” Haelys remarked, setting her goblet down on the table and glancing sideways at Ormund, who tensed in his seat. “I had many adventures, but I must admit I never dared to stray too far.”

“Why not?” Daeron asked, looking at her in surprise; Ormund simply remained silent—a rarity for someone who loved being the center of attention.

“I couldn’t leave my sweet nephew behind.” Haelys smiled at him, and Daeron offered a shy, awkward smile in return, still feeling strange seeing his aunt for the first time in so many years.

“Being free and flying with Stormchaser,” Daeron remarked, feeling Ormund’s gaze fixed upon him and knowing full well what was being implied. “I bet those were the best years of your life, weren't they?” Haelys smiled gently at his question, nodding in agreement.

“The best,” she replied, leaning back in her chair with a sigh and lifting her chin proudly. “Remember this, nephew: when we fly upon our dragons, we are closer to the gods than to men.” Ormund sighed deeply, a mocking smile playing on his lips—which he quickly hid as he drank from his goblet; she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye but said nothing.

Daeron pondered her words, nodding as he began to eat in silence. He wondered if his Targaryen blood was truly what Ormund claimed—a stain, something to be ashamed of—but his aunt’s words made him question that view. The dinner continued quietly for a while; night had fallen over Tumbleton, and Stormchaser was sleeping peacefully in a nearby cave, exhausted from the long journey.

Ormund rhythmically tapped his index finger against the tabletop, glancing sideways at Haelys before finally sighing and looking at Daeron. “Daeron, could you give us a moment?” Ormund said. “I need to speak with your aunt in private.” Young Daeron looked at Ormund, then at his aunt, who offered a gentle smile and a nod; he rose silently, gave a slight bow, and withdrew from the room. “The rest of you— out.” The servants withdrew instantly at Ormund’s command, closing the doors behind them and leaving the two of them in an awkward silence.

Haelys smiled behind her goblet before taking a sip of the wine within. “I see you’ve become quite the gentle lord,” she remarked with a touch of grace, drinking and setting the goblet down on the table. Ormund stood up, exhaling deeply as he rested his hands on the table, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

“Why do the gods punish me?” he asked, not expecting an answer; she rolled her eyes at his attitude—he was still as dramatic as ever. “Have I not prayed enough?” he said, finally opening his eyes and narrowing them at her, indignant at the mockery on Haelys’s face.

She raised both eyebrows, a half-smile playing on her lips as she looked at him. “Do you really think I’m here because your so-called gods want to punish you?” Ormund scoffed at the disrespect, pushing away from the table and walking with slow, imposing strides until he stood beside Haelys.

Ormund sighed again as he rested his hands on the Targaryen princess’s chair, leaning slowly over her until his face was close to her ear; fortunately, the stench of dragon had completely vanished. She didn't even bother to look at him, simply sitting there with the gold-and-steel goblet in her hands, swirling the last of the wine with gentle movements of her wrist.

“I don’t know who you think you are, waltzing in and acting as if you own everything—I suppose it’s that filthy Targaryen blood,” Ormund whispered gravely. Haelys could smell the wine on his breath, along with the lavender and mint emanating from his body and filling her nostrils—a scent she didn't entirely dislike. “I have worked so hard to raise Daeron in the light of the Seven, in the faith, under the Citadel’s guidance,” he continued—she still wouldn't look at him. “And I will not allow you to come here and cloud his mind with those filthy ideas, talking of dragons and cursed gods.”

Finally, Haelys glanced back at him over her shoulder with an arrogant, mocking smile, licking her lips before speaking in that same soft tone. “Oh, Ormund—what does a man of faith like you know of filthy things, hm?” she asked, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in her voice. Ormund regarded her gravely before turning away with a scoff, running a hand over his face and hair to clear his mind of the thought.

“Enough of your games, Haelys,” he replied after a moment of silence, not looking at her. “Tell me the truth: why have you come?” He raised his gaze to hers, locking eyes with her violet ones, his tone taunting. “Did you suddenly miss your nephew after fifteen years?”

Haelys fell silent at his question; neither a jest nor a taunt passed her lips. Ormund noticed this, frowning as he studied her closely. Memories of a dream he’d had just days ago in the deserts of Qarth came flooding back—the blood, the fire, the wailing of thousands, the dragon’s gaping maw. She sighed heavily, rising from her seat and beginning to pace; Ormund’s eyes tracked her silhouette like a hunter’s. Haelys walked to the window and gazed out at the night sky.

“I saw it, Ormund,” she finally confessed, staring out the window. Ormund remained silent, bewildered. “I saw what would happen if Daeron didn't take the Iron Throne,” she said softly, a hint of uncertainty in her voice as she turned slightly toward him. "I saw it as clear as day," she said gravely. "Blood will run across the floors of King's Landing, and Daeron"—she paused, closing her eyes and shaking her head at the memory of that twisted dream—"Daeron will die," she finally said.

Ormund tensed; he knew of the so-called Targaryen dreamers, but like the dragons themselves, they were considered impure things. Although he had to admit that the mere thought of seeing Daeron die made his chest tighten, but he said nothing about it.

“And I’m supposed to believe you, right?” he replied, walking toward her and wearing a mocking smile as he studied her expression; she shook her head.

“Believe it or not, that’s what I saw.” She could feel his presence beside her, the scent of lavender and mint filling her nostrils once more; she inhaled the aroma almost instinctively. “That doesn’t change the fact that it’s what you want too—to see him on that damned throne,” she said, her voice laced with palpable distaste at the mere thought of Daeron sitting in that cursed throne.

Ormund’s lips twisted into a grimace, for it was true. “He would be the best king Westeros has ever seen,” he replied honestly, gazing out the window as well. “Under my tutelage, of course.”

Haelys let out a laugh—bitter, or perhaps not entirely so—as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye once more. “Whatever helps you sleep better at night.” Ormund wore an arrogant smile until Haelys turned fully toward him, studying his face intently; her violet eyes never ceased analyzing his features.

“You’ve changed; you look different,” she said, holding his gaze. It was obvious—the last time she had seen him was years ago at a tourney in King’s Landing. “Being Lord of Oldtown suits you.”

Ormund narrowed his eyes at her, searching for a trace of mockery in her voice, then simply sighed and gave an arrogant smile. “I could say the same to you, though I see you’re still the same annoying girl you were back then, stinking of dragon as well” Haelys snorted as she stepped away, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Oh, fuck you, Hightower,” she retorted, walking toward the door. “You’d better not have raised my nephew that way—may the Gods have mercy on him.” She threw the taunt over her shoulder as she opened the hall doors and closed them behind her, leaving him alone in the room.

Ormund listened to her footsteps recede until silence filled the room; he closed his eyes and shook his head as he looked out the window again, sighing. He was a proud man—everyone knew it—so how was he supposed to tell her about the fascination he felt once more, after all these years, for the amethyst shade of her eyes? Or that seeing her atop her dragon felt like witnessing the very embodiment of Visenya Targaryen in the flesh? No, he could not tell her something like that, but it was the truth, and that shattered his immense pride.