azula

THE SECOND DAUGHTER (VIII)

To Princess Daenyra of House Targaryen, Lady of Oldtown, His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, has received your letter and was heartened by the loyalty you have shown to both his person and his rightful claim. The days before us promise little peace, and there are matters that are best entrusted to no raven. For that reason, I would ask, if it pleases you, that you come to King's Landing at your earliest convenience. Mounted upon your dragon, the journey need not keep you from Lord Ormund and your children for long, yet the counsel to be shared is of such consequence that it is best spoken face to face. May the Seven watch over your flight. By my hand, Ser Otto Hightower Hand of the King to His Grace, Aegon the Second of His Name

You finished reading the letter as you were seated by Ormund’s desk in his study. You sighed and looked out of the window before glancing at Alwyn who was sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room with his small dragon Myrax. Ormund hated to see the little beast around his books and letters but Alwyn could do whatever he pleased most of the time.

“Why are you staring at me, mummy?” Alwyn asked you as he raised his eyebrow. It made you laugh because he reminded you of your husband.

“Because I love you,” you told him. “Do you know that?”

Alwyn blinked a few times. Eventually, he moved up and approached you to hug you. You wrapped your arms around him as you closed your eyes and kissed the top of his head, struggling not to cry.

You had a feeling that turbulent times would be coming. That you would have to leave him here. Or worse – that you would not be able to protect him or everything you had built over past years in Oldtown. Your family, the trust of your subjects, your home, your legacy.

After the news of Prince Lucerys’ death, you couldn’t stop thinking of the possibility of any of your children dying. For the first time in years you felt bad for Rhaenyra. You were not able to even imagine how your sister must have been feeling to lose her child.

“Mummy will have to fly to King’s Landing but I won’t be gone for long,” you told Alwyn and he looked up at you. “Will you be a good boy when I’m gone?”

Alwyn looked away and pouted, which made you chuckle.

“I will try my best,” he promised.

“You have to listen to Daeron and daddy. And be nice to Aelora and Uncle Gwayne,” you instructed and the boy rolled his eyes.

“Alright…”

“Very well then. I’m glad I can trust you,” you kissed his forehead.

“Why are you going?” He inquired.

“To do something I should have done a long time ago,” you smiled at him. “Visit my siblings.”

The Dragonpit of King’s Landing welcomed Vyrmora quite warmly. It was visible that your dragoness was happy to be back as she purred. It had been her home for a very long time before you finally had arrived to claim her.

You patted her snout and left her there before being escorted to a carriage waiting outside. It felt odd to be back in this city and to sit inside a royal carriage. You were a Princess – rightful daughter of The King – yet it had been such a long time since the last time that now it felt unnatural as if you were living somebody else’s life.

It was early morning when you arrived after flying all night and you were exhausted. You hoped that after greeting everyone, you would be allowed to go to bed. That part – greeting everyone – was also making you quite nervous. Would they even remember you? And if so – would they not remember the version of you that was no longer true?

The carriage stopped and the doors opened. You smiled immediately at the sight of a familiar face.

“Ser Nestor!” You squeezed his arm. “How delighted I am to see you again.”

“Your loyal servant I remain, my Princess,” he nodded and you patted his cheek once as if he was a little boy.

But he was not. The man had aged and your heart clenched inside your chest at the realisation.

Ser Nestor guided you through the old halls you had grown up running around. They seemed to be so familiar yet so distorted as if your memories of them were false.

Then, in the middle of the way towards the throne room, you spotted Ser Otto. At the sight of him, you hurried your steps while he opened his arms to greet you. You hugged him and he squeezed you back.

“My Princess, thank you for coming,” he nodded at you.

“Of course I came,” you assured him. “Of course.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” he let go of you and you furrowed your brows. “Your father, I mean,” he explained.

“Oh,” you chuckled nervously. “True.”

There was lots of sadness in his usually cunning eyes. You realised he probably was more hurt by your father’s death than you were. After all – despite everything – they remained friends.

“Where is The King?” You inquired.

“Still asleep,” Ser Otto answered. “We should not disturb him. Queen Dowager and Queen Helaena are ready to see you now, my Princess.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see them,” you took him by his arm and allowed him to walk you to their chambers as you were looking around all the time.

“It must feel odd,” he noticed.

“It certainly does,” you admitted.

“And how is my granddaughter Aelora?” Otto looked at you and you glanced at him with a smile.

“She is perfectly fine. Very spirited. You would like her temper,” you laughed. “And I wish you could meet Alwyn. He is going to be a fine Lord of Oldtown one day.”

“So I have heard from my son,” Otto laughed. “He keeps writing to me regularly,” he added and you nodded. “And Daeron? What of him?”

“Daeron is our pride,” you beamed at the mention of your brother. “There is not a single bad thing I could tell you about him but there are hundreds of his good traits I could write songs about.”

“That warms my heart,” Otto said and let go of your arm to nod at the guards as they opened the doors leading to the chambers where the Queens were sitting. You cracked a bittersweet smile when you realised those were the same ones your mother had once resided in.

Helaena looked up first from her embroidery work as she blushed and looked away immediately. After her, Queen Alicent glanced up and smiled. She stood up and urged her grandchildren to rise as well. Two sweet twins of Helaena and Aegon were playing on the carpet – Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Jaehaera.

“My Queen,” you nodded at Alicent.

She had become even more beautiful with age. Just like your husband. It had to be a Hightower trait.

“My Princess,” Alicent nodded back.

You could see Helaena was a bit awkward, so you did not want to push her. Instead, you crouched down and hugged the children. They trusted you immediately, probably because they recognised you as their family. Princess Jaehaera grabbed a silver strand of your hair and compared it to hers.

“My Queen,” you eventually stood above Helaena. She looked up once more with a scared expression. “It is me, your sister.”

“I know who you are,” she mumbled out. 

“She is not yet used to being called the Queen,” Alicent explained.

“Oh, sister,” you sat next to Helaena and caressed her cheek. “I remember when you were a tiny babe on my lap. It makes me so sad that you do not remember it yourself.”

“I remember,” Helaena surprisingly admitted, putting away her embroidery. Then she cuddled into you as if she was a child again. You squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“It makes me glad that you do, my sweet girl,” you told her. “You’ve grown to be such a beautiful woman and the most extraordinary Queen,” you told her and rubbed her back. “I am proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Helaena whispered.

“There is no need to thank me for speaking the truth,” you assured her.

“Not for that,” she answered mysteriously as you furrowed your brows.

“For what then?”

“For keeping the rats away,” she explained as her eyes widened even further. Alicent chuckled nervously.

Helaena went back to her embroidery work and you stood up while caressing her head soothingly.

It was nothing new to you that your family was weird.

“My Princess, I know you are tired but I must ask…” Queen Alicent looked at you. “My son, Daeron… Is he alright?”

“Very much so,” you assured her with a smile. “He sends his love to his beloved mother.”

“Bring my love back to him, please,” Queen Alicent’s eyes filled with tears.

“I will,” you assured with a head nod.

You often wondered why she had made this decision to send him away. You could never send Alwyn or Aelora away. At this point you would never even let Daeron leave Oldtown for long. 

But you could see she loved her son, therefore her decision had not been easy but it had to be what Queen Alicent had believed would be the best for the boy.

“My Queen… Alicent…” You squeezed her shoulder and her big brown eyes found yours. “He is loved. We love him like our own son,” you told her.

“I know,” she nodded but the tears streamed down her cheeks. “I know, Gwayne wrote to me in the letter.”

You smiled once more at her and fought the urge to wipe the tears away from her face. You were tempted by it however, most likely because she reminded you so much of Daeron himself.

The doors opened once more and you turned around to see another man walking inside. This one was tall with long silver hair. He was wearing an eye patch over his eye and black leather clothes.

“Aemond?” You asked with a smile.

“Sister,” he greeted you without any facial expression whatsoever. “I did not think you would come.”

“Princess Daenyra is by our side,” Ser Otto interrupted him.

“So we are told,” Aemond commented. “Rhaenyra is more of her sister than any of us are.”

“You are speaking to the Lady of Oldtown, brother,” your smile dropped. “And in the eyes of gods we are of equal blood and title.”

“Princess Daenyra is as much a Hightower as you,” Ser Otto defended you.

“I am a Targaryen,” Aemond insisted.

“Then she is more of a Hightower than you,” his grandfather scolded him. “I am sorry for him.”

“It is alright,” you chuckled. “I have a son who is nine years old. I am used to young boys’ tantrums.”

Aemond gritted his teeth.

“Have you seen our beloved King yet?” He asked you with sarcasm.

“I do not want to disturb his rest.”

“Rest!” Aemond scoffed. “He is laying half-drunk and half-alive, snoring between one whore and another. That is the King that we are bowing to.”

“Aemond!” Alicent hissed at him.

You glanced at Helaena. The poor girl was pretending to be focused on embroidery but you could see the way she winced.

You approached her and caressed her head. 

“Aegon is a man now. It is his business what sort of life he is leading. Besides, he is the King. The title comes with burdens but also privileges to make it sweeter,” you told Aemond.

“Aegon was always your favourite,” Helaena whispered.

“It is true, I had a soft spot for my baby brother who loved sweets and mischief,” you told her. “But it does not mean I loved you any less, my sweet.”

“Princess Daenyra was often spending all nights by your crib, Helaena,” Alicent told her and the girl looked up with big eyes at you while you smiled.

“I remember,” you nodded. “And I was imagining how sweet it would be to have a babe of my own.”

“It is sweet,” your sister nodded, “to have babes.”

“It is,” you caressed her cheek and leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “Now, I know our King is asleep but I would love to see him before I rest after my journey.”

Otto nodded and led you out of the chambers. He took you to the part of the Red Keep where Aegon resided. You knew it very well because it had once belonged to your father.

“Your Grace,” Otto opened the doors. The room was very dark inside. “Your sister has arrived.”

You watched a young man with silver hair move slightly underneath the covers. Then he sat up and rubbed his violet eyes with dark circles under them. He looked exhausted – too exhausted for a man his age.

“A-Aegon…” You whispered as memories of him as a little boy flooded your heart. “M-My King.”

“Daenyra?” Your brother smiled widely and moved to the edge of his bed. “It is you?”

“Yes!” You hurried to him and pressed his head to your chest. “Yes, my King. It is me.”

“Please, don’t call me that,” he mumbled out.

You looked at Ser Otto as he glanced away. It was a bit worrying how both Aegon and Helaena did not want to be addressed as the monarchs.

“How can I not, brother?” You asked. “You are my King now,” you smiled down at him and brushed his ruffled hair before leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. “I am so proud of you.”

“Are you really?” Aegon asked with sparkly wet eyes.

“I am. Really,” you assured him and caressed his cheek. “I know you are scared and overwhelmed but we are all with you. Listen to your grandsire for now and you will be alright,” you hugged him again and he clung to you nearly desperately.

“Princess,” Otto interrupted you two, “you must be exhausted,” he pointed out.

“I am indeed,” you nodded.

“Let me escort you to your chambers and we will speak in the evening,” he proposed.

You kissed Aegon’s forehead once more before leaving with Ser Otto.

He took you to the chambers that had been yours back in the day. You cracked a smile when you realised no one had been living in them since then.

“Ser?” You glanced at him one last time before walking inside.

“Yes?”

“Can you send Ser Nestor to Oldtown? He deserves to spend his old days in peace, watching over my children like he once watched over me. Far away from the war that is coming,” you asked.

“Of course, Princess,” Ser Otto nodded, visibly surprised to hear what your request was.

But despite everything that you were now, one thing remained. You were awfully sentimental and you were known for rewarding loyalty.

In the evening you felt much more refreshed as you walked down the dark halls to reach Ser Otto’s study. He greeted you with a smile and handed you two sealed letters.

“One of them is for my son’s eyes. The other is for your husband,” he instructed and you nodded before hiding them in the pocket of your dress.

“Of course,” you assured him. “Are there any instructions for me?” You inquired.

Otto squinted his eyes as he looked at you from head to toe and then all the way up again. 

He saw your proud posture, your green dress, your braided silver hair, cunning violet eyes. He saw the pendant of a seven-pointed star on your chest and golden earrings in the shape of small watchtowers hanging from your ears. He saw the little bump around your waist under the dress where your dagger was hidden. 

“You are my Princess, Daenyra, my overlord,” he explained. “You will do as you please.”

“Of course I will,” you snorted. “But what is expected of me?”

“You shall follow your husband’s lead but if you’d rather stay in Oldtown to protect it and your children, you shall do so,” Ser Otto smiled at you.

“And if I would rather do something entirely different?” You teased and he looked away. “I am jesting, Ser. Do you want to take a walk with me?” You proposed and he nodded.

You left his chambers alongside him and you two strolled down the hall in the direction of the courtyard. You walked peacefully and the palace was quiet except for the distant sounds of laughter coming from the throne room where Aegon was sitting with his friends. You smiled at that. It felt good to hear him laugh.

“You once were like a second father to me,” you admitted. “Perhaps you were more of a father than he was. You were paying attention to me when he was ignoring me. I know you were watching me to plan out how to use me but I hold no grudge, Ser. You made my life beautiful and you made me powerful,” you told him. “I trust the counsel you give my brother is wise and just.”

“I am trying my best, Princess,” Ser Otto assured you, ignoring the first part of your speech but you knew very well that he was listening. He was always listening.

Meanwhile, two common looking men passed you and you winced immediately.

“Who are they?” You inquired, looking back. “Why are these people roaming freely at night?”

“They are rat catchers,” Ser Otto explained. 

“Ah,” you nodded. “Ormund and I would never let them walk so freely around The Hightower. In fact, we fired them all. All they do is stink and steal,” you said.

“How are you dealing with rats then?” Otto raised an eyebrow at you.

“When Moonfyre was little and lived with us, she was eating them. When she became too big and moved to the pit, I adopted many cats from the streets and they dealt with the rats perfectly. Now we have Myrax as well,” you informed him.

“Hm,” Otto hummed to himself. “Cats sound like a good idea. They cost less.”

“Exactly,” you chuckled. “Besides, in the dangerous times that are coming, do you know how easy it would be to dress up as a rat catcher and sneak inside the palace? All staff should be chosen carefully amongst Aegon’s supporters,” you pointed out. 

Ser Otto froze in place when you said that.

“Forgive me, Princess… I would love to take a walk with you but I remembered I am needed elsewhere.”

“Of course, Ser,” you nodded with a smile and watched him walk away quickly.

You chuckled and rolled your eyes as you went to your own chambers.

The very first thing you did after getting there was sitting by the fireplace and opening the letter meant for your husband. You broke the wax seal and rolled out the parchment.

To My Nephew, The hour we long feared has come. Princess Rhaenyra gathers her banners upon Dragonstone and His Grace, King Aegon, Second of His Name, now looks to those whose loyalty has never wavered. I have instructed Ser Gwayne to bring a portion of our strength to King’s Landing. I ask that you grant him leave to do so for every sword may soon prove the difference between victory and ruin. As for yourself, call your banners without delay. Once your levies are assembled, begin your march. The Reach must not be left to indecision whilst others move with purpose. I have no doubt that House Tyrell will weigh its course with great care. See that its judgment falls where duty and reason alike demand. Should it be your wish, bring Prince Daeron with you. Tessarion is young, yet every dragon that answers His Grace's call strengthens our cause. I would not presume to command Princess Daenyra, yet should she choose to ride beside you, the realm would be well served by the presence of such a mighty dragon. The Princess has declared herself for His Grace and I do not question the sincerity of her oath. Yet blood is a bond not easily severed and this war asks much of every family it touches. I would ask only that you bear this in mind should fate place her upon the same field as her sister. Such trials weigh heavily even upon the strongest hearts. May the Seven guide your hand and preserve you in the days to come. Your Uncle, Ser Otto HightowerHand of the King to His Grace, Aegon the Second of His Name

You smirked to yourself. Still, after so many years, he was seeing you as weak.

You were already supposed to go back to Oldtown in the morning. Ser Nestor would join you in a few weeks as he refused to fly on a dragonback alongside you. 

You were saying goodbye to everyone while the carriage waited to take you to the Dragonpit.

You smiled at the sight of young Prince Jaehaerys holding a cat as you looked at Ser Otto.

“We fired all the rat catchers last night,” he admitted. “Can you believe that two of them were carrying a weapon?”

“We hanged them already,” Prince Aemond added. 

“Good,” you nodded and caressed Jaehaerys’ hair. The boy smiled up at you.

Suddenly, Helaena threw herself at you as she squeezed you tight. You hugged her immediately.

“Thank you,” she whispered once more. “Thank you, sister.”

“I have no idea what you are thanking me for, sweetheart,” you laughed softly and kissed her cheek. “But I love you so much.”

Aegon was the last one to say goodbye. His big eyes were wet as if he was a small little boy again. He had been bawling his eyes out on the day of your departure to Oldtown many years before. And now it was nearly the same.

“It is not the last time you are seeing me,” you assured him. “As the King, you should visit Oldtown. And my children are big now, we can pay you a visit as well,” you assured. “My King, be brave,” you lifted his chin.

His lower lip trembled as he nodded. You patted his cheek lovingly.

“I wish you were forever that little rascal I was feeding with cakes in secret,” you winked at him and it caused him to crack a smile.

“Can you…” Alicent approached you. “My Princess… Can you… Can you give this to Daeron?” She handed you a handkerchief with an embroidered letter A.

“Of course,” you nodded and folded the handkerchief to hide it in the pocket of your dragon riding costume. “Farewell for now,” you bowed at everyone.

You went into the carriage and rode to the Dragonpit as you watched the city through the window. Many things had changed over the years but some had stayed the same. Perhaps some things would forever remain.

Vyrmora roared happily at the sight of you. You couldn’t wait to be home so you saddled her up and ordered her to fly away as soon as possible.

You were nearby Bitterbridge and the sun was already set. The sky was dark but you knew the way and so did Vyrmora. Riding a dragon at night could be boring because there were no views to admire and even the most beautiful moon could start looking plain after a while.

Your surroundings were extremely quiet but when you realised your dragon was getting uneasy, you immediately realised something was not right. You straightened up and looked around but there was nothing you could see.

Then a roar of another beast reached your ears.

You knew that roar.

It was Syrax. Your sister’s dragon.

Your hands became sweaty instantly and your heart grew heavy. You had not expected to see her again.

A dragon much smaller than Vyrmora emerged from the darkness. Her yellow scales sparkled in the moonlight. And on top of her sat your sister. Older, more mature, beautiful as ever… And angry.

You nodded at her and ordered Vyrmora to land in the middle of the forest below you. Her huge legs crashed the trees as she groaned. Syrax landed nearby. Vyrmora hissed.

You slid down and so did Rhaenyra. 

“Sister!” She called for you. It felt so odd to hear her voice again.

“How did you know I was there?” You asked.

There was no way it was a coincidence. She had to be hunting you and you could not blame her after the meeting you had shared with Daemon before.

“Vyrmora was spotted two nights ago around King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra answered.

You stood in the middle of the way and so did she with only a few steps between you two. You could see her very clearly despite the nighttime. Your hair was braided in a similar way to hers, shimmering in the moonlight. Her violet eyes were just like yours, staring into the depth of your own.

The same little girl your mother had been putting to bed with you. The same girl you had been learning how to embroider with. The same young woman whose hand you had been squeezing in front of your mother’s funeral pyre. The same woman you shared your blood and legacy with.

Yet she was a stranger.

“What do you want of me?” You asked her. “How dare you ask anything of me?” You added.

“I need you, Daenyra,” Rhaenyra confessed.

“There were many times before when I needed you,” you revealed. “Yet you were never there for me.”

“We might have overlooked you, father and I, that is true,” your sister agreed. “But it does not mean we loved you any less.”

“It means exactly that,” you snorted.

“And who do you think loves you? The Hightowers?” Rhaenyra asked. “They are using you.”

“Allow me to judge for myself who loves me more,” you tilted your head. “I am loved in Oldtown.”

“Daenyra, please… You know this is not right. It is not what our father would want,” Rhaenyra pleaded.

You found it nearly funny how she was trying to convince you by mentioning the man whose mention was not doing anything to you.

“Perhaps this is exactly why I am doing this,” you taunted her.

“Think of our mother then! She would not want us to stand against each other,” Rhaenyra added and you froze at the mention of Aemma. “Did you not love her?” She asked.

“I did,” you swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “I still do,” you assured her. “But she is dead now and I am a mother as well. My children love me, too,” you told her, taking a deep breath in.

A short silence occurred during which Rhaenyra was looking all over your face, trying to find something – anything – she could apply to. A small crack in your new image that would reveal the weak younger sister you had once been.

“I would not harm your children,” she said.

“I would not harm yours either. Neither you,” you nodded.

“Yet my son is dead,” she pointed out.

You did not know what to say, so you changed the subject instead.

“I am not against you, Rhaenyra. I am simply supporting Aegon. It does not have to mean war.”

“You pleaded to me!” Rhaenyra finally shouted. 

“Our father himself became the King because the Realm did not want our aunt Rhaenys to be their Queen even though she was first in line,” you reminded Rhaenyra. “It is the way of this Realm whether you like it or not.”

“Yet you rule in Oldtown as if you were a Queen yourself, so I’m told,” Rhaenyra scoffed.

“In the humble shadow of my husband,” you explained with a fake innocence in your voice.

“You are the Princess of this Realm, Daenyra. No one can take it away from you,” your sister reminded you. “You are your own husband’s overlord.”

She had a point, of course. It was true. Technically, he answered to you. But a title like yours meant little. You were the second daughter. He was the Lord of the eldest city in Westeros.

And you loved him. You could not imagine turning against him. The weight of the letter from Ser Otto felt heavy inside your pocket.

You swallowed thickly as tears pricked your eyes. Now, instead of being haunted by the memories of Rhaenyra from the times she had been your childhood companion, you were haunted by memories of your husband.

The very first time you had seen him and his annoyed face after landing in the middle of Oldtown. The way he had been teaching you how to rule over the city so big and important. Your quiet mornings in the sept while you prayed together. His favourite smell of lavender, the smile he was granting you with when you pleased him and the meaningful looks you were sharing whenever someone said or did something you two were very judgemental about. The way he spoiled your children with gifts, affection and the overwhelming feeling of safety. Just like he had promised you – your children did not know what it meant to be unloved by their father.

“I love him,” you finally looked deep into Rhaenyra’s eyes. The corners of her lips dropped as she realised she lost already. “If he decides to join the fight – and we both know what he will do – I will march with him. Till death if I must,” you swore.

“Your death is not my wish,” Rhaenyra assured you,

“And yours is not mine,” you shrugged. “How easy life would be if you ruled over Dragonstone in peace and I could stay in Oldtown. I want you to know that you have nothing but your blind ambition to blame for the situation we are all in now,” you said with a sad smile. “Farewell, sister.”

Rhaenyra did not say anything. She was standing there and watching you crawl onto Vyrmora’s back. When you looked down at her, she seemed to be so little compared to the world outside. And her dragon was so small, too, barely able to protect her from what was coming.

“I wanted to be like you once,” you admitted from the top of your saddle. “Now I thank the Gods they spared me your spirit.”

Even though your heart was breaking to leave her behind, you knew you had to. Because if you stayed any longer, you could start getting too sentimental.

Perhaps it was the most difficult decision you had ever made.

But it was entirely yours to make.

Vyrmora allowed you to slide down onto The Hightower’s courtyard before flying to the pit. It was early in the morning when you arrived but you saw your husband approaching already as you smiled at the sight. It had only been two days but you missed him dearly.

“Daenyra!” He called for you as he approached with open arms.

“Ormund, I stink,” you tried to warn him when he hugged you.

“You are back,” he squeezed you tight. “I was worried. The times are uneasy and such a ride is dangerous,” he looked at your face, trying his best not to wince or gag, which was both funny and a bit adorable as well.

“I have a letter from your uncle,” you handed him the parchment from your pocket. “And one for Gwayne.”

Ormund glanced down and raised his eyebrows at the sight of the broken seal. Then he gave you a questioning look.

“Did it break during the ride?” He inquired and you snorted.

“What do you think, Lord Husband?” You teased. “Anything addressed to you is also addressed to me,” you patted his chest and walked away to allow him to read the letter and breathe some fresh air since you truly were stinking of a dragon. “Where is Daeron? I have something for him, too.”

“In the training yard,” Ormund answered. “What is he like?”

“Who?”

“Our new King,” he inquired as he was fidgeting with the letter in his hands.

You hesitated for a moment.

“He is… Young. And burdened with the weight of the crown,” you bit your lower lip. “But in my eyes he remains the little boy he once was.”

“You love him,” Ormund pointed out.

“Of course I do. I love all of my family,” you nodded.

“Even that bitch?”

Perhaps under different circumstances you would only sigh, perhaps you would not react at all, perhaps even laugh.

But hearing that right after seeing her face, her broken expression, her aged skin and tired eyes… You felt hurt and angry.

Because, despite everything, you still loved her beneath all the grudge, jealousy and judgement of her actions.

“That bitch remains your Princess and so does your wife, Lord Hightower,” you reminded him and continued your walk.

Ormund was left speechless at that reaction.

“Daenyra, what has happened?” He followed you, demanding answers.

“It is Your Grace to you,” you barked at him as you did not even spare him a glance while entering the watchtower and leaving him behind.

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        “This one is a hi-sith.” Daeron pointed to the flowers. Even though he was very good with his words for a boy his age, Daeron still struggled with a few.

        “Good job Daeron, that is a blue hyacinth.” She cheered, subtly correcting him.

        After a few weeks of living in Old Town, she had finally settled down. Knowing her way around the castle, finding a daily routine. Even making a few friends, though none of them were the Hightowers.

        They still avoided her, they would give her strained smiles and bland conversation when she attempted to extend the olive branch. The only person that gave her the time of day was Gwayne. 

        Though he had been quite busy, running around, assisting Ormund in his lord tasks, he would show her small kindnesses. Passing her with a smile, a small nod of his head. It was a form of acknowledgement that no one had the decency of showing her.

        Most of her time was spent in the gardens, enjoying the warm breeze and doing whatever activity she was filling her day with. Whenever Daeron wasn’t busy with lessons, or being forced to spend time with Ormund, she had him out there with her. Teaching him the names of different flowers and the colors they were.

        As she was crouched down on the gravel, she let Daeron name each flower in the bed of dirt. She heard the footsteps behind her approach. Not bothering to look, she suspected it was a maid taking Daeron away once more.

        She was pleasantly surprised when the person addressed her.

        “Princess.” Gwayne greeted. “It is a pleasure to see you here.”

        For the past few weeks, whenever Gwayne had the smallest bit of free time, he would always make his way to the gardens, hoping to catch her there. To his dismay, she had already left by that time. So Gwayne was happy to finally see her, to get the chance to talk to her.

        Turning to him, she stood up to meet him. Brushing out the wrinkles of her dress, she happily replied, “As it is to see you too, Ser Gwayne.”

        Even though Gwayne said he frequented the gardens, and they would most likely see each other there, she was starting to not believe him, as this was the first time they had met there.

        Daeron ran to him, happily hugging the man’s legs. “Gwayne!”

        Gwayne greeted the boy with a smile, petting his hair. Looking back up at her, Gwayne apologized, “I pray I did not interrupt.”

        “Of course not!” She was quick to reassure him, enjoying his presence. “Daeron was telling me which flowers these were.”

        Looking down at Dearon he wondered, “Is that so?”

        “Yes!” Daeron proudly stated.

        Gwayne took a few steps away from the two, heading over to another bed of flowers. Pointing at a white flower with a yellow trumpet, Gwayne wanted to test the young boy’s recognition skills. “Do you know what this one is called Daeron?” 

        “Uhh.” Daeron thought for a moment, looking at the flower intently. “It’s a daffodil.”

        “Not this one is a jonquil.” Gwayne informed him, kneeling down to his level to point out the identifiers. “They look very similar but they have some differences. As you can see, there are multiple blooms on this stem, while daffodils have only one per stem. The petals are rounder at the tip and the cup is shorter.”

        “Ohhh.” Dearon replied, taking in the information.

        Gwayne picked a hard one on purpose. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between the two. There was another reason why he picked that one. Even though he had only known her for a short amount of time, he wished to show his interest in her. Subtly as to not scare her away

        “Did you know flowers have meaning?” Gwayne wondered.

        Daeron looked at him with a tilted head, “Meanings?”

        “Yes.” Gwayne informed the young boy. “Each flower represents something. Jonquils represent desire and affection.”

        Grabbing the stem in between his fingers, he plucked it from the plant. Rising to his feet, he admired the flowers with a small smirk. Extending his arm out, he offered the flower to her.

        Her face heated at the insinuation. From the moment she had met Gwayne, she was attracted to him, wooed by his kindness. Yet she believed that was how he was. Kind and gentle to everyone who crossed his path.

        Could it be that he too felt the same. Making the bold move to inform her. It was romantic, how he openly expressed his feelings without saying it directly. It only made her want him more.

        Or maybe he was yet again being overly kind. He was known for being charming. A man that any lady would want. It could even be that he was just trying to welcome her, giving extra attention as if she were a princess.

        Whatever it was, it was a kind jester. Taking the flower from his hand, their fingers brushed against one another, sending a shock through her body. No words could form in her throat as she looked at him bashfully.

        Daeron looked curiously at the two, not understanding why they had gone silent. She noticed, not wanting him to question it, she tried to find a way to distract him.

        “How about we find the daffodils.” She asked the young boy. “So we can compare the two.”

        “Yeah.” He chirped up, running off to search.

        Her and Gwayne followed, but kept their distance, wishing to have a more private conversation.

        “You are good with him.” Gwayne said politely.

        “As are you.” She complimented back.

        Things went silent as they enjoyed each other’s presence. Staring down at the flower, she thought about how different things could’ve been if Daeron were never sent to Old Town, if she hadn't joined him.

        “I was upset at first when I was informed that he would be moving away.” She mentioned to Gwayne. “But I am glad that he is being raised here instead.”

        “Why is that?” Gwayne wondered.

        “The court breeds cunning spiders.” She couldn’t help but think of Alicent. How differently Gwayne had been raised in comparison. “Here, he will be allowed to be kind.”

        “You turned out well.” He commented, taking note of how she wasn't as conniving as the other women at court.

        “And I was treated poorly for it.” Her lips turned into a small frown, remembering the gossip that would be said behind her back. “It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to get away.”

        “The other?” Gwayne asked.

        “Daeron of course.” Her lips turned upward as she thought of him, the joy she brought her. Especially as she couldn’t have one of her own. “Not trying to talk ill of your sister, but with her queenly duties, she was quite busy. He is such a sweet child, I couldn’t help but spend time with him.”

        “I am glad that it has led you here.” Gwayne said truthfully, showing his fancy for her. “That I got to meet you. Not just see you across from the jousting Tiltyard.”

        “I am too.” She stopped, turning to him with a gentle smile. “I appreciate your kindness greatly.”

        Once more, they stood there silently looking at one another. Even though no words were spoken, it was almost as though they had a conversation, informing one another of their shared attraction, of them wanting to continue to meet like this, having more conversations.

        She wondered if she was looking into it too much, if he truly wanted her, or if he were being overly kind. Before she got to ask, she was stopped.

        “I got it!” Daeron shouted, interrupting the two.

        She tore her eyes away from the man. “Good job.”

        Daeron presented the flower to them. The three of them sat together on a nearby bench. Daeron sat in the middle, holding out the flower. She put her flower next to it, allowing for  Daeron to see the differences.

        “Do you see it?” Gwayne wondered, pointing to the different parts he commented on early.

        “Yes.” Daeron confirmed, turning to Gwayne. “What does this one mean?”

        “Rebirth. A new start.” Gwayne explained. “Fitting, isn’t it? You should keep it.”

        The young boy looked down at his flower adoringly, just as she did to hers. There was no doubt about Gwayne’s intentions of giving her the flower that represented desire. It gave her joy, hope for a courtship between the two of them.

❩❤︎☾ ⩥❇︎⩤ ☽❤︎❨

Next ⇝

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Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”