Chapter Text
Daeron
Daeron took three steps, awaiting the oncoming tantrum that Ormund was surely about to throw. He had already sent out the servants, a good decision, as his grand-uncle seemed to be rapidly losing the battle against his temper. All he could do now was pray to the seven that his uncle Gwayne would return soon. Although he was technically (and legally) Ormund’s ward, Gwayne had always kept an eye on him.
It had been Gwayne who sat beside his bed after nightmares, rubbing slow circles across his back until his shaking eased. Gwayne who had carried him perched on his hip long after Daeron had grown too heavy for it, laughing whenever Daeron protested that he was much too old to be carried. Gwayne who had patiently cleaned every scraped knee, every split lip and bruised elbow earned from climbing walls or chasing squires through Oldtown's gardens, all while pretending the injuries were dreadful enough to require the attention of a maester. Whilst Ormund scared him, Daeron had always felt safe with Gwayne.
As Ormund finally lost his temper, swiping his quill, parchment and several books onto the floor, Daeron considered his relationship with his uncle further. He supposed, in a way, Gwayne was more of a mother to him than his true mother had ever been. He knew Alicent had sent him away out of love, or so everyone insisted. Oldtown had been safer than King's Landing. More stable, better for a babe born into a family forever teetering upon the edge of violence, but he couldn’t even remember her face.
He had been an infant when she had sent him away, not yet weaned off his wet nurse. His earliest memories belonged not to King's Landing, but to Oldtown, to Gwayne's laugh echoing through the corridors, to his warm hands lifting Daeron into the saddle for the first time, to the comforting weight of Gwayne's cloak wrapped around his shoulders whenever autumn winds turned cold. He had grown with Gwayne doting on him and Ormund berating him. When he was very young, he had called Gwayne Muña more than once.
The memory still burned warm in his chest. He remembered toddling through the corridors on unsteady legs, reaching both arms upwards with complete confidence that Gwayne would lift him.
“Muña,” he chirped, as naturally as breathing.
Gwayne had smiled, simply gathering Daeron into his arms before gently brushing soft hair from his brow.
“No, pup,” he had murmured, warm amusement softening every syllable, “Uncle Gwayne.”
Firm enough that Daeron learned. Gentle enough that he never felt ashamed.
Ormund let loose a scream of fury as he hacked at the great oak table, each savage blow sending splinters skittering across the floor. Deep gouges appeared in the polished wood, the violence echoing through the solar until Daeron's ears rang. He screamed over and over again, letting loose his rage and taking it out entirely on the ancient wood. Daeron felt a small surge of relief that that anger was not directed at him. More than once he had been on the receiving end, just the thought of the sharp sting of his grand-uncle’s backhand still made him wince. He turned his thoughts back inward and away from Ormund’s fury.
He was old enough to know better now, to understand that no matter how often he prayed, Gwayne would never truly be his muña, even if his uncle did often refer to Daeron as “His pup.” The title of muña still belonged to Alicent, whether memory served her or not. Still… Sometimes, when Gwayne called him his pup, the old ache stirred again. Ormund had once scoffed that it was simply an omega's habit. Gwayne had always possessed those softer instincts, forever fussing over him.
Daeron had only presented as an omega a few moons ago, and so far he had discovered little within himself that resembled Gwayne's effortless nurturing. He did not feel compelled to gather the younger pups of the court close, nor soothe their tears or fuss over scraped elbows. Though there were only three little ones in Tumbleton besides, and he scarcely knew any of them, maybe such instincts came with age.
Finally running out of fury, Ormund sheathed his sword once more, settling back into his seat before sighing heavily.
“Your Uncle Gwayne has sent word,” he said at last, “It seems your brother, Aemond, will not be joining us after all.”
For a moment, Daeron felt a brief spark of hope so deep in his chest that it almost hurt, “Is…” He hated how eager he sounded, “Gwayne coming to Tumbleton?”
For one glorious heartbeat he imagined familiar arms pulling him into a brief embrace, imagined hearing “there's my pup,” in that fond, easy voice.
“We must alter our scheme,” Ormund replied instead.
Nothing more. The fragile hope withered as quickly as it had come, his heart sinking once more. He struggled to compose himself, drawing a slow breath through his nose as Gwayne had taught him whenever anxiety threatened to overwhelm him. But the look in Ormund’s eyes as he turned to face Daeron at last told him he had failed. He hastily took his leave hurrying away down the corridor as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion.
He made his way through the corridors, usually he would run to Gwayne, take shelter in the omega’s chambers, but Gwayne wasn’t here, so instead he made a beeline for Tessarion, the only one here who truly cared for him here. He descended the steps into the small room she had been confined to, her blue scales reflecting the flickering candle light and casting strange shadows across the room.
She perked up as he entered, chirping happily and following it up by a soft keening trill that vibrated through the stones themselves. Her tail thumped once against the floor in a way that reminded him a lot of a dog pleased at the return of its master. He crossed to her in three short strides. Despite everything, Daeron felt the corners of his mouth lift.
Slowly the tension seeped from his shoulders as he rested his head against her great one. Heat radiated through her scales, steady and comforting. It wasn’t really that long ago that she had been small enough for him to carry. Now she was large enough to carry him. Now her head alone was larger than his torso. She could bear him through the sky for hours without tiring. Tessarion shifted beneath him and released a plaintive whine.
“Patience my girl.” He murmured to her, “Won't be long before we can fly again.”
Then, abruptly, she jerked upright and chittered toward the doorway. Daeron’s stomach tightened even before he heard the footsteps.
“I have warned you against indulging in affection for that beast.” Ormund scolded him as he entered, striding down the steps toward them. The warmth vanished from the room.
As usual, Tessarion reacted poorly to Ormund's arrival. A rumbling growl rolled through her chest, deep enough that the candles trembled in their brackets. Ever since the day Ormund had struck Daeron across the face in front of her, when she had been too small to do anything but shriek helplessly, she had hated him. She growled and snarled at him whenever he dared get close to Daeron. She had never forgiven Ormund. As Ormund advanced into the room, she moved to meet him, another rumbling snarl emerging from her throat.
“Likiri.” Daeron hastened to her side once more, trying to calm her. She chirped at him, offended but obedient, and retreated a single pace, though the growl continued to vibrate through the floor.
Daeron folded his arms behind his back, straightening his back as he turned back to face his great-uncle, “I know.” He said softly, moving to stand between Tessarion and Ormund.
Ormund stopped before him. A small smile touched his mouth, the sort that never reached his eyes, “You are a good boy.” He praised Daeron, “You speak kindly and you say your prayers. I have raised you in the light of the seven and the father smiles upon you.”
Daeron tried not to visibly react, it was not often that Ormund praised him and the words were a sweet balm in comparison to the usual sharp digs that were often aimed his way, whether about his father’s side of the family or his blood in general. He hated that part of him still reached for it.
But Ormund continued, “But there is a taint in your blood. The Targaryen's are a savage race, poor in intellect but rich in cunning.”
Daeron kept his face carefully schooled into neutrality. It was not the first time Ormund had gone on a verbal tirade against them. Against him. He had heard this sermon before.
“With dark spells they created abominations to subdue what was rightly ours. We are the superior men. But against that…”
Tessarion growled again. Ormund’s eyes flicked toward her, and the naked disgust in them made Daeron’s hands curl into fists behind his back. He turned briefly to look at her instead. His beautiful girl. The blue glow of her scales painted the walls around her like reflected moonlight.
“…we could not stand.” Ormund finished, reaching for Daeron.
Tessarion snarled, lunging a pace toward them. Ormund recoiled instinctively.
“The gods have put you to divine purpose, my boy.” Ormund said as he turned to take a few paces away from Daeron.
“What purpose, sire?” Daeron asked, keeping his voice neutral as his great-uncle continued to pace away from him,
“The brutes raise a woman to the Iron Throne.” Ormund’s voice rose with incredulous outrage, “A desecration! Where is reason? Where is propriety?” He turned at last back to face Daeron,
“It was a blessing that you came to ward in Oldtown.” He made his way back to Daeron, “Your brothers are lost, but you…” He placed his hands on Daeron’s shoulders and Daeron ached to step back, to put space between them once more. Daeron’s skin crawled beneath Ormund’s grip. Every instinct urged him to step away, yet he stood rigidly still.
Ormund continued, lifting his hands to cup Daeron’s face as he spoke, “remain a Hightower, raised in the shadow of the Citadel, in the light of the Starry Sept. Now… you must be king.”
As the words sunk in, Daeron could not help but shake his head. Mad. His great-uncle had turned to insanity.
“You would not wish, surely, for me to turn cloak against my brothers.” He asked, certain that Ormund could not mean such a thing. Was it perhaps a joke made in poor taste? He could not tell,
“You will restore our ancient order. Victory will be ours. It is the will of the gods.” Ormund beckoned and the guards dragged forth a man in chains.
Daeron’s heart stopped briefly as recognition set in, “I thought you let him go.” He blurted out, unthinkingly, as the man was dropped to his knees before him,
“A righteous king must demonstrate he upholds many virtues. Honor, wisdom. Justice.” Ormund reeled off,
“He only acted when our man attacked a woman.” Daeron argued, this was not right. This was not justice.
“He laid hands on a Hightower. That soldier is an extension of you, of the crown. Justice must be done.” Ormund scolded him once more,
“Is not mercy a kingly virtue?” Daeron argued, desperate.
“That sounds like something your father would say.” Ormund snapped, his voice full of accusation.
Daeron took a step back. He knew what Ormund thought of his father. Weak. Spineless. Pathetic. He refused to be like him, refused to behold the same qualities his father had, the qualities that had led them here in the first place. Behind him Tessarion chittered anxiously, sensing his distress.
“I’m sorry.” Daeron murmured. He could not do it. Though he was thoroughly chastised, he still backed away. Again Tessarion chittered, but as Daeron folded his arms back behind his back she sank into an uneasy crouch.
It was then that Ormund drew his sword, disappointment clear in his eyes as he advanced on Daeron once more. Then he extended the weapon toward Daeron. Daeron recoiled, horror surging through him.
“I have risked much and more to raise you up. Surely, you do not wish to disappoint me.” Ormund said, offering him the sword once more,
Daeron reached with shaking hands to take it, letting his great-uncle place it into his hands. He looked slowly up at the man cowering on the floor, trembling violently, chains rattling. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. But Ormund was watching. Waiting. He was expecting Daeron to do it. And if he didn’t? Ormund would only do it anyway and then he would punish Daeron as well. He slowly changed his grip, taking the sword by the hilt, testing his grip, the weight of it.
“My lord. My lord, please. Please.” The man started to beg.
Ormund nodded at him and Daeron took a few hesitant steps forward, advancing slowly. Each step felt unreal, as though someone else moved his body.
“No, please, I beg you. My lord. Please. I beg you.” The man stuttered out, “I have a family, my lord. I have a family. Please. Please, please.”
He drew one shuddering breath. Then he thrust. The movement was so abrupt it startled him as much as the prisoner. The blade punched into the man’s chest with sickening resistance. A cry tore from the prisoner’s throat. Daeron yanked the sword free. The man slumped to the floor. Daeron stared at the sword, covered in the man's blood.
For a heartbeat Daeron could only stare. He had done that. He had just slaughtered a man. A man with a family. His breath came in uneven gasps and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blood glittering on the blade. The sword felt unbearably heavy. With a surprising gentleness, Ormund took his sword back. There was something akin to pride in his eyes, but Daeron had never felt worse. Ormund inclined his head, a sign he was pleased with Daeron, but the praise felt hollow. Brittle.
Casually, Ormund wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s shoulder, before sheathing it, turning to stride back up the steps. Daeron’s eyes fell once more on the body. Still. Unmoving. Dead. His eyes welled with tears which he desperately fought back. Tessarion, sensing his emotions once more, moved forward, fire already in her breath. She shrouded the body in it, destroying it forever.
Daeron looked away, unable to force him to watch, instead his eyes caught on Ormund as he watched with delight. Daeron’s stomach twisted.
“And now we begin.” Ormund declared.
Tessarion moved forward the sickening crunch of bone echoing across the room as she devoured the flame roasted body before her. Daeron squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch.