#targtower reader

Your fingers curl tightly around each other, clutched around the silver seven-pointed star that hangs from your neck. It was a passing gift from your mother, the only fading reminder you have of her before she shipped you and Daeron off to Oldtown. The sharp edges press into your palm, your firm grip baiting it to pierce the skin and let you bleed. You hold it as if it will provide you with sanctity, with answers, as if it carries enough weight to anchor you against the storm inside your own mind.

Prayers leave your lips in whispers, so soft that they may blow away with a gentle breeze, only heard for the Gods above.

The words are so familiar to you that no thought is needed when speaking. The prayers have been woven into you since you were a mere child, your first memories in Oldtown coming from the countless mornings within the grand septs as the watchful eyes and ears of septas linger on your every word.

You recall the nights when sleep refused to come, so alone in your thoughts that your only salvation was the comfort of the Seven who would watch over you. Who would listen to you like no one else would.

"Father above, judge me fairly."

Your voice trembles only slightly, memories of the day’s happenings washing over you like a typhoon that seeks to destroy everything in its path.

"Mother, grant me mercy."

Your eyes remain shut. You do not wish to see yourself reflected in the polished marble before you. The face of a Targaryen, a face that belongs to a family infested with sin and poison.

"Warrior, grant my brother strength."

Your lips curl up as your twin Daeron’s face comes unbidden. Your other half.

The two of you had entered the world together amid an established legacy and fierce politics that were only more ignited with the birth of Rhaenyra’s first bastard mere moons before you.

Daeron was the perfect image of what a prince should be, just and kind and gentle. Raised in Oldtown with the Faith illuminating his path forward.

You found your purpose to be more muddled. Women of your age have already been married off, given away to men for favors, for alliances, for power. Yet when you bring up your future to your Lord Ormund, he dismisses you with a delicate caress of your face and more questions left in the air than answers to fill your mind.

The abrasive huff of Daeron’s dragon interrupts your prayers as your hands tighten around each other. You resist the urge to open your eyes and glare. Perhaps your brother’s only fault was the affection he held too tightly onto for his beast, the unmistakable connection that revealed his roots.

Two dragon eggs had been sent to Oldtown amongst the blankets and cradles of yourself and your brother, a chain that bound you to the impure blood of House Targaryen. Daeron’s egg hatched as he grew, a beast he called Tessarion.

Yours never hatched.

When it was clear your egg was never going to transform into a beast, bearing scales upon the hard shell that remained ice cold despite constant heat from hearths, Lord Ormund had pulled you onto his lap and held you with open affection that you had never witnessed before.

“It is a sign of your purity,” he said to you amidst your tears and confusion, naivety leading you to think something was wrong. You remember the warmth of his hand as it stroked your cheek. “Proof that we can cleanse the wretched blood right out of you.”

His satisfaction was perhaps your only saving grace.

"The Maiden, preserve my innocence."

Your throat tightens and you almost laugh at the irony.

There had never been innocence for those born into House Targaryen with madness flowing through your veins. There was the constant knowledge that one day, your blood would be judged by what your ancestors had done.

And the bloodshed that lies beyond the very doors you have barricaded yourself in is just more proof of it, of the destruction that lies within the bones of those who are cursed to carry their name.

"...the Crone, grant me wisdom."

You lower your head more, blocking out any slivers of light that may pass into your vision.

Wisdom enough to understand, to forgive. Wisdom enough to know whether you are truly different from the monsters history claims your family to be.

Your final prayer catches in your throat. It is a name rarely invoked, but one you have found yourself needing to utter recently.

"The Stranger..."

The words feel heavier than usual. They feel more imminent with every passing second that war rages on around you.

"...when my hour comes, receive me kindly."

You quietly bask in your solitude, save for the beast that has calmed since its earlier destruction, granting you a moment of privacy when none can typically be afforded. No footsteps surrounding you, no whispers full of venom in your ears, no judgement to be cast upon your pious display.

There is only peace.

But peace always yearns to be broken.

The heavy wooden doors of the sept groan beneath the force of an impatient hand.

Your eyes remain closed.

For a moment, you allow yourself to be lulled by the illusion that you did not hear it. That the Gods have granted you one final breath of silence before the world demands you return to it.

But the footsteps that follow are too familiar, ones you’ve heard all your life that ring with careful measure and heavy authority. You do not need to turn around to know who has entered.

“My dear girl.”

Lord Ormund Hightower’s voice echoes through the sept, carrying with it the same weight of control that is flaunted by the banners of Oldtown that now hang over the conquered land of Tumbleton.

His. 

You scold yourself for the way that your heart still recognizes the sound of his voice, stuttering at the familiar smooth tone that brings you familiarity in a strange, war-torn place. You hate that some small, foolish part of you still searches for comfort in it when your mind knows that none can be afforded to you.

You lower your head further, bowing before the Seven that have guided you with structure and discipline instead of the man whose unpredictability has uneased you so.

“Lord Ormund.” You respond barely above a whisper.

You do not call him father, but the word has always lingered at the base of your tongue.

He is the man who raised you, who held you in his arms as an infant and held your hand when delivering you to the sept for your lessons. The man who took you and your brother in when your mother pleaded, desiring children who were raised to be Hightower and not Targaryen despite the curse that she herself had granted upon you.

Yet he is not your father. He is not a man who loves you unconditionally, and what you feel for him is not the love of a child to their father, but what a devotee feels about their object of admiration.

You were raised to be a perfect Hightower daughter, proof that a Targaryen could be cleansed—proof that he could be the one to strip a Targaryen of the poison that flows through their every fiber of being.

And you silently thank the Gods for it.

But still. Every day is a test, every look sent your way with pointed eyes is another way to see if you will fail him, fail his teachings, fail the undeniable proof of his power and influence.

You find the violence of war pushing on the very foundation of what he has enlightened you to, of the Faith that you have had anchored into your soul, into your very way of life. The blood that spills from every death leaves stains behind that taint the very meaning of the Father’s justice, and taints your understanding of Lord Ormund’s piety.

His boots scrape against the stones below him as he approaches, each step slow and deliberate, but with purpose.

“You should not be here.”

Your eyes open, staring straight ahead as you halt your prayers. The dim light from the candle flames around you fill your vision, the scaly snout of Daeron’s beast glowing faintly in the corner of the room. The sept envelopes itself in darkness as the doors close behind your guardian, leaving you at his mercy.

A bitter laugh almost escapes you, and you respond without turning to look at him, perhaps out of the cowardice that would manifest the moment you lay your eyes upon his face. “I should not be in the sept? Where else do I belong while your men plunder the streets like barbarous creatures?”

He sighs, stepping closer until a gentle but firm hand lays itself upon your shoulder. You resist the urge to flinch at the touch. “Do not be smart with me. You know what I mean.”

Your fingers tighten around the seven-pointed star, as if squeezing it tight enough will provide you with an answer you need.

You know exactly what he means.

You should not be near the place where blood was spilled. You should not have seen what happened. You should not question what you witnessed.

You should simply bow your head, find a more acceptable place to pray, and accept that the men with swords and shields donning the symbols of Oldtown know more of righteousness than those forced to kneel before them.

“The Gods hear all prayers,” you whisper.

“They also hear the commands of their chosen servants.” His thumb rubs against the small sliver of skin uncovered from your gown.

You finally crane your neck to look up at him.

The candlelight flickers against his face, illuminating the familiar features that once brought you safety as a child.

You remember climbing into his lap after nightmares, the way his hand rested on your hair as he told you the Seven watched over you, how he watched over you with the same reverence, to look for their guidance and his to light your way forward.

Agitation simmers deep within you.

“You burned him.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

Lord Ormund does not react with words immediately. Instead, his hand stills and he looks at you with the same expression he wore when you were a child confessing some minor mistake.

Disappointment.

“He was a rebel.” His voice hardens as if sensing that defiance that stirs within you.

“He was protecting his wife,” you bite back.

“He committed violence against a Hightower soldier.”

“He was afraid!” Your voice cracks slightly as it raises for the first time. You stand hastily and whip towards Lord Ormund, and he lets you, the hand on your shoulder almost instructing you to move closer to him. “He saw a man who was to harm his wife and he was afraid.”

His jaw tightens. The hand on you tightens, as if telling you to stand down without words.

“Fear does not excuse an act of treason.”

“And does faith excuse your cruelty?”

The question lingers in the air, imposing on propriety and inviting danger to mingle in the tension that has built between the two of you.

It was a question you knew better to ask. One that causes the brief inception of rage to flicker in his eyes, rage of what rebellion you have let inside of your head and make a home out of your purity he has worked so hard to protect.

You know what he sees in you now. A girl who questions. A girl with too much of her father’s blood still flowing through her veins, with too much of her mother’s weak conscience.

A girl who he has not yet finished training.

“You have spent too much time with your brother,” is what he deigns himself to say.

Your stomach twists with the thought of Daeron. Poor Daeron, too just and kind to be thrown into the boughs of merciless war.

“Daeron is good.”

His smile is tight as his thumb resumes brushing against your smooth skin.

“Indeed he is,” he murmurs. “But he is still a Targaryen. And I’m afraid you still are, too.”

The words strike harder than you expect. Even after all these years, all your lessons and prayers, you are still burdened by the name that you carry.

You were still the daughter of a Targaryen, a daughter of dragons, and Lord Ormund never let you forget it.

“I have spent my entire life trying to prove that I am not.” You know you sound pathetic, desperation dripping from your words for some semblance of acknowledgement, of belonging. Of acceptance you have never received since the moment you left the womb a cursed child. His expression dampens, but only slightly. In his features there lies a dangerous kind of softness that has always confused you.

“You should not have to prove anything.” His hand moves again, this time caressing your chin with his thumb and index finger. “Yet time and time again you show me that there is still some of that fire in you that I have worked so hard to snuff out. You still kindle the sparks with these impulses. I only mean to save you from it, my dear.”

You almost believe him. Warmth spreads across you, a feeling you have been longing for since the day a raven delivered the news of his death and Aegon’s ascension.

But that warmth is snuffed out almost as quickly as it had spread, dying out as both of his hands gently lift to your face.

It is a gesture you know all too well.

They are the same hands that have comforted you.

The same hands that wiped your tears when you were young.

(The same hand that caressed your brother’s cheek mere hours earlier and called him a good boy before subjecting him to a savagery that makes a mockery out of the justice and mercy that the Father and the Mother promise to uphold.)

His hands move your head to look at him, his eyes searching yours for something that you cannot name. Repentance? Acceptance?

“You were given a blessing most Targaryens never receive.”

Your body stiffens under his touch.

“Guidance.”

The word is gentle, but you know the meaning behind it is not.

“You were raised among the faithful. You were taught humility. I have protected you from the corruption that has plagued your family for generations.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “You were spared.”

Your breath catches with his words, because that is the cruelest part.

Somewhere deep inside, you have always wondered if he was right. If the Gods truly had spared you.

If your dragon egg remaining cold was a sign that you were good, that you could be saved. That your inability to claim a beast meant you were never supposed to be like them.

And yet you think of Daeron, of his compassion and kindness. Of the way he feels a kinship with his beast, of the way you knew he felt sympathy for the people Oldtown had conquered when others only saw their usefulness.

You think of your mother.

Of the small glimpses you remember from the last time you saw her, before even reaching ten. Of the deep red hair that Daeron had inherited, the plushness of her lips as she kissed your forehead in a fleeting goodbye, the way her trembling hands moved to clutch the seven-pointed star around your neck as she whispered, my girl.

Of the woman who you know deep in your heart loved you enough to send you away despite delivering sin into this world.

And you wonder what your duty is, what the Gods truly have planned for you if not to follow their ways.

“Was it righteous?” you ask quietly.

Lord Ormund’s hands still.

“What do you speak of now, darling?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours as a faint crinkle forms in his brow, perhaps out of concern.

“With what happened today.” The topic feels like stepping onto thin ice, crackling beneath the weight of undiscovered consequence. 

“Was it righteous?” you repeat.

His expression falters for a brief moment. But you catch it, and you see it—the realization that you are not truly asking about the man who was put to death, but of Daeron. Of him.

You are questioning him. His decisions. His teachings. His devotion.

You are questioning the man who raised you to fear the monster within your own veins while slowly showing you that monsters could wear the colors of the Faith.

“You question your brother?” His voice is steady and flat, answering you more with a firm response rather than a question. It feels too harsh coming from the man before you, the root of a warning that threatens to grow into a ferocious weed.

“No.” Your answer comes quickly and you raise your hand to cover his own that still rests upon your cheek, still seeking his tenderness despite it all. Tears sting your eyes and you inhale with a shuddering breath as Lord Ormund pulls you close to his chest at the sight.

“I question myself.”

And that, more than anything, is what seems to wound him. Because Ormund can tolerate hatred and rebellion. He can fix that, mold you back into the good girl he knows you can be. But he cannot tolerate the possibility that you do not see him as your salvation.

He leans forward slightly, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.

“You are tired, my dear girl.” His voice lowers as he brings his lips to your ear, stroking your face in a dull pattern that seeks to lull you. “You have seen too much today.”

Perhaps you have, and perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you have seen enough to know that the world is not divided as cleanly as the sermons claimed.

Good and evil, faith and sin, purity and impurity, all tangled in the same wretched roots that have been made to sow war and deceit and violence. All trampled among the feet of soldiers fighting battles they do not have answers to.

Perhaps the Gods are not asking you to choose between the blood in your veins and the prayers in your heart. Perhaps they are asking you to understand why both exist.

And yet no answers come. You do not know what they are looking for. Just as you have not known the answer to anything, only knowing the way your knees scrape the stones when you pray for long hours, and the way that the Seven provide comfort when no one else can. 

Somehow the uncertainty frightens you more than the war ever could.

“I need to confess to you, my Lord.”

My Lord. The words sound like pure honey and lavender to his ears, the sweet unease of your voice a gift for him from the Gods themselves. It is what you called him when you were a young little thing, tiny hands clutching onto his doublets, unsure and untaught about the proper rules that a young girl must follow.

It reminds him of when you were good, when you listened to his every word like he was whose name was on your lips every time you knelt and prayed before succumbing to the vulnerabilty of sleep.

“Speak.”

His voice is commanding, shepherding you to a guiding light. To his guiding light.

A shuddering breath leaves your lips, and a tear glides down your cheek from the corner of your eye. Ormund wipes it with his thumb, his touch lingering on the proof of your possible atonement that he may grant you.

“I do not know what I am supposed to be. What you wish me to be.”

The confession is barely audible, so low that if his breath were not mingling with yours, he may have missed it entirely.

In that moment, Ormund does not see you as a symbol, or as a Targaryen. He sees you as a frightened girl pleading before the Seven. Before him. A girl in desperate need of his guidance.

“Dear girl, you are mine.”

The words bring only a small semblance of comfort to you, despite understanding what they mean. You are his possession, his responsibility, his girl.

You are someone that he loves to keep, loves the idea of, and naively, you think that this means he has come to love you.

They are words you have heard before, words that have been uttered when no one else can impede. Words only meant for the two of you to hear. It feels special, somehow, an important secret he has placed his trust in you to keep.

And yet your gaze drops back to the seven-pointed star in your hand, resting upon your chest, of the confliction that still refuses to settle itself inside of you.

"But I belong to the Seven."

Ormund watches you carefully, searching your features for any touch of disobedience.

"And the Seven gave you to me."

You don’t know how to respond. The silence that follows is colder than any winter the North may suffer.

Behind you, Tessarion lets out a faint grunt, a potent reminder of the vileness that Ormund has worked so hard to erase from your very being. The connection of your twin, your other half, that cannot deny the dragon blood that flows through him. The piece of you that Ormund has taught you to deny, to distance yourself from.

His eyes flicker toward the beast with open disdain before returning to you. There is something unsettling in the calm with which he studies your face, as though weighing whether the girl he raised still exists beneath the blood he has spent a lifetime trying to purge.

"Look at me," he says.

You do, without hesitation.

His fingers tighten beneath your chin, leaving no room for you to turn away. The gesture is practiced, almost gentle, but you recognize it for what it is. It is not affection, but direction, a means to instruct your way of being.

Before you can make sense of the look in his eyes, he leans forward.

His lips brush against yours.

The contact is brief. Colder than you could have imagined. It steals the breath from your lungs not because of its tenderness, but because every instinct in your body rebels against the unknown feeling, rebels against your Lord Ormund indulging in weakness, into a dangerous spiral of depravity. You freeze completely, a closed fist against his strong chest, your mind emptying as though the Stranger himself passed a hand over your thoughts.

When he draws back, lips glistening with saliva and new breath filling his lungs, you cannot meet his gaze.

Shame blooms hot beneath your skin, and you feel more stained than the stones covered in the faint red of spilled blood beneath your feet.

Your fingers fly to the seven-pointed star hanging at your throat. The pointed silver bites into your palm as you clutch it desperately, as if the familiar edges might anchor you to something holy.

You silently think of the Mother—of your mother, fleetingly,—and pray for an answer, a means to understand.

Nothing comes, and your mind remains silent, the previous storm settled into an eerie calm.

“My Lord…” you start, but the words you wished to say escape you and shatter into miniscule pieces of uselessness.

Ormund's expression remains composed, almost paternal, almost affectionate, as though nothing improper has occurred. As if he has not made you question your entire livelihood, the true intentions he hid from you in your upbringing.

“Do not look so frightened, my girl,” he says quietly, too intimate for your liking. “You have always sought my guidance. Let us not stray from that now.”

The instinctual feeling of reassurance in your stomach fills you with quiet horror.

His eyes search yours as he lifts your head back to him. He’s looking for your agreement, your submission. A nod.

You nod.

A smirk pulls at his lips as he caresses your face once more.

“Come.” He pulls away, and you curse yourself for chasing after his warmth, the familiarity of his touch. You link your arm into his as he begins walking away.

“Where to?”

His eyes find yours again. “Back to our lodging.” He squeezes your hand that rests on his arm, as if silently anchoring your hold to him. “Your brother needs you.”

You almost ask if it is Daeron that needs you or you that needs Daeron at this moment, but you smartly hold your tongue this time.

Instead you decide to give into your weaknesses, sinking back into the contention that Lord Ormund’s touch brings you, a feeling that you can predict and that you can rely on even if deep down you know you shouldn’t.

Next to you, Ormund smiles as he feels you return back to him, your head resting against his shoulder as he leads you out of the sept, you letting him control your path forward.

His darling girl knows that he will save her from her innate faults. That he will save you from falling into the wickedness that rules over your namesake.

He will continue to show you what you can become. What he can make you.

A girl that he can mold to prove that blood can be overcome from devotion. 

A girl that will worship him as one would a God, who would bring her to her knees and cry out for him, for him to grant her salvation.

His, his, his.