#hightowercest

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A letter arrives. Bad tidings. Anger.

“Get out,” Daeron whispers to the serving boy, who looks up, bewildered. “Get out, now.” The boy understands, scurrying like a mouse as Daeron holds his ground, keeping his hands behind his back. He speaks with his body, says I am not a threat.

There are papers in the air and broken pieces of furniture. Spittle lands on the table, foamy on the lacquer. Ormund’s veins are bulging and there are fissures in his brow. Daeron doesn’t blink, he tries to be still. A statue in a storm. A corpse after a battle. It does not work. He cringes, cowers. He is afraid. He says nothing, doesn’t breathe, prays.

It is not your fault.

There is nothing wrong with you,

So nothing is ever your fault.

If it is not your fault, then it must be mine,

And if it is my fault, then there must be something wrong with me.

Then it is over. Ormund sits in his chair. They do not look at the splinters on the floor. Daeron fights to breathe, Ormund fixes his hair.

“Your uncle Gwayne has sent word.” He carries on speaking but Daeron hears nothing but breath.

“Is—” Daeron almost stops. Ormund is a jealous man and there is still violence in the air. It surprises Daeron, when he speaks again. He must love Gwayne more than he allows himself to remember.

“Is Gwayne coming to Tumbleton?”

Ormund looks at him like a traitor.

you're his little treasure now