Chapter Text
“Raise your cup and drink tonight, for morning steals the boldest knight. The Stranger waits beyond the dawn and asks no man what side he’s on!”
Gwayne jolted upright in bed, his hand already reaching for the dagger resting on the table beside him. His heart hammered in his chest as his eyes adjusted to the light shining through the open window, out where the full moon hung low and dim behind a covering of grey clouds.
The room was still. No one lurked in the corners, waiting to catch him at his most vulnerable. He let out a breath and slumped back down against the mattress.
Below, the chorus of drunken laughter and stumbling boots faded out. In another life, Gwayne would have been furious at the men carousing outside his window on the eve of battle. Yet now, he found himself quite apathetic. Who was he to deny these men anything when most of them would be dead this time tomorrow?
He might’ve even brought someone into his own bed, had Daeron not taken to sleeping at his side these past few nights. There was a Roxton knight he knew from his earliest tourneys who would often seek him out for comfort whenever they found themselves in close proximity. He was kind and, unlike most of the men Gwayne had fallen into bed with over the years, had never put an end to their encounters by taking a wife. Some of them made it clear they would have been happy to continue on, of course. But Gwayne had never been able to stomach it.
Ser Garlan was a habit that had lasted years, though it meant little to either of them. Yet with his dark hair and black-brown eyes, fingers thick and calloused, Gwayne could’ve closed his own eyes and pretended, one last time…
But that didn’t matter now.
What mattered was that Daeron’s side of the bed was empty, the linens rumpled where he had pushed them back. The boy was brave, yes, but Rhaenyra’s attempt to take his life had rattled them both badly enough that Daeron preferred to stay within arm’s length of his uncle now.
If Ormund knew Daeron was leaving his room at night, he wasn't stopping him. Perhaps the assassins had finally made him realize how little protection he could offer his own “king.” Gwayne doubted it. More likely, he was simply too consumed with himself to notice.
It was a fine enough arrangement for Gwayne, who now found that sleeping alone in the silence of a safe room felt nothing short of terrifying. After weeks on the road where he often slept in shifts of two or three hours, a fellow knight with a sword always nearby, having Daeron close at least created an illusion that allowed Gwayne’s body to finally rest.
Gwayne shook himself awake and strapped the dagger to his waist. He tugged his robe over his nightclothes and crept from the room, following the candlelit staircase down one flight, then another.
He already knew where the boy had gone. But for just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that Daeron had freed the Blue Queen from her chains and vanished into the night, never to be seen or heard from again. Gwayne had no fear of death now—only of dying without knowing what would become of the child he’d raised. Let Daeron be anywhere else in the world, just another legend they would whisper about, and Gwayne would meet the Stranger without regret.
He reached the top of the final flight where he, as he knew he would, found Daeron down in the sept. The boy was sitting against the stone wall, legs folded under him, his hand moving along Tessarion’s snout as she snored and rumbled beside him.
Gwayne's foot came down heavily on the last step and Daeron startled upright. Tessarion's head snapped up beside him, her sudden movement sending the candle flames trembling along the altar.
“I’m sorry,” Daeron blurted. “I didn't—I wasn't–”
His words caught as Tessarion's growl rolled through the sept, low and warning.
Gwayne stopped where he was, feeling the panic curl and fester in his body as he fought the instinct to run. It’s only Tessarion, you’ve known her since she was smaller than a house cat. He tightened his grip around the banister and forced himself to breathe.
“Daeron, it’s me.”
Daeron gasped, his hand finding Tessarion's muzzle at once. His fingers moved slowly over the blue scales, soothing her.
“Easy, sweet girl,” he murmured. He pressed his forehead against her. “It's only Uncle Gwayne.”
The dragon's growl rattled and faded. She settled her head back against the stone, though one red-gold eye remained fixed on Gwayne.
Daeron looked up at him, sheepish in a way that made him seem younger than his sixteen years.
“I’m sorry. We thought you were him.”
Gwayne lowered his eyes as he descended the rest of the way and settled onto the last step, keeping a respectful distance. Tessarion's nostrils flared, but she seemed at ease now, chittering as she leaned into Daeron's hand.
He had never minded Tessarion, and Tessarion had never minded him. Back in Oldtown, whenever he trained Daeron with wooden swords, she would bask in the sun nearby in the courtyard. “You knock him down and that beast will tear you apart,” Ormund had warned him once. But Tessarion had never done more than watch them. If anything, Gwayne had been grateful for her presence. As long as she was close, he knew no harm would come to his nephew.
He had even climbed to the top of the Hightower once or twice just to watch her trace lazy circles across the sky. His maesters had taught him that dragons were relics of a different age, creatures kept now for pageantry and symbolic power. That Oldtown was lucky to have her in its skies. Gwayne had believed it all once.
Now the fear ran so deep in him that even the screech of an eagle above could freeze the air in his lungs. Ser Criston would always look over at him with something like pity in his eyes when it happened, numb to the terror himself. Gwayne should’ve known then.
“I didn’t mean to wake her,” Gwayne said softly. “She ought to rest before the sun rises. And so should her rider.”
The corner of Daeron’s mouth turned up into a small smile. He crossed over to the stairs and dropped down next to Gwayne.
“They’ll bring her out to feed at dawn,” he said, voice low. “I wasn’t sure when…if…I’d see her again. I didn’t want our last moment to be in battle.”
Gwayne reached out and drew Daeron close to his side, watching Tessarion carefully as he pressed a kiss to the boy’s hair. She was settled back down against the cool stone and blinking at them slowly—a sign of affection, Daeron had once claimed.
They stayed like that for a moment, watching Tessarion drift back to sleep. Finally, Daeron pulled back and lifted his gaze.
“What will happen? When they take Tumbleton?”
Gwayne closed his eyes. The question had been lingering between the two of them for days, though Gwayne had not yet found the strength or the right words to detail out their fate. But he knew he owed the boy honesty. His own integrity was perhaps the last gift he could give him.
“You’ve seen battle before,” Daeron pressed. “If we are to lose, I want to know what will happen.”
“We can hope the smallfolk will be spared,” Gwayne said, swallowing around the growing lump in his throat. “As our cousin has said, they are Rhaenyra’s subjects, after all. But the Black’s dragons are unpredictable. And the men, left to their own devices, will not act in the image of their Queen.” Gwayne hesitated. “I don’t know Daemon well enough to say what he might do once Tumbleton has fallen to them. But he’s not known for his compassion.”
Daeron nodded slowly. “And Rhaenyra?”
“It’s likely they’ll take you to her. She once had affection for your mother, and that could sway her toward mercy, though Ormund has burned every favor you might have had. And with Daemon in her ear…”
Gwayne paused for a moment, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as the hopelessness of it all struck him once again. None of this was fair. How had it come to this—to Gwayne being the only one left who cared more about Daeron's life than his claim to a throne he had never asked for?
Daeron squeezed his arm and Gwayne nearly pulled away, ashamed. It felt wrong to be the one receiving the comfort.
“If you are able, ask for Corlys,” Gwayne continued, clearing his throat and sitting up straight again. “There’s a slim chance, but a chance still he might advocate for you. He’s the only one of them who has seen you with Ormund and might understand this was never your will.”
“And what if there’s no escaping it?” Daeron asked quietly.
“Tomorrow, I’ll give you a nightshade capsule to keep on your person. Somewhere well-hidden. You’ll-”
“That would go against the Faith,” Daeron cut him off, stunned. “The Warrior demands fortitude and honor.”
“Daeron, there is nothing honorable about any of this.” Gwayne turned toward him and caught him by the elbow. “If I can’t save you, I at least want to know you will leave this world in peace and not fear.”
Daeron stared back at him, wide-eyed. Gwayne’s shoulders sagged and he released the boy’s sleeve.
“It is a painless death, I’m told,” he said quietly, threading his fingers together in his lap. “Highborn men have carried such things into battle before.”
“Uncle–”
“I want you to at least have the choice, Daeron. Please. It is easy to say you will brave the noose or the sword until you are standing before it.”
Daeron stared down at the floor in front of them, his face softening. “I will take it with me, then.”
Gwayne nodded, relieved for only a moment before he felt the waves of guilt and disgust. The rational part of him knew he was right to prepare his nephew for what felt like an inevitability. Yet he still had every instinct to search for some impossible way to spare him.
Daeron looked over at him tentatively now.
“And when they take you?”
Gwayne managed a tight smile. He had spent enough nights imagining his own death. A sword, dragonfire, an infection, exhaustion. It hardly mattered to him anymore.
“What use is a Hightower hostage if the rest of the Hightowers are dead?” Gwayne asked. “I don’t imagine I’ll warrant much discussion.”
But even as he spoke, he wondered whether that was true. With the hatred he’d had for Otto, Daemon Targaryen would likely get some sick satisfaction out of making Gwayne’s final days as wretched as possible. But it was just as likely someone would put a sword through him and be done with it.
He looked over at Daeron and saw that, for the first time, his eyes were wet.
“You should have left.”
Gwayne frowned. “I’m sorry?”
Daeron swallowed hard, staring back down at the floor now.
“When Ormund granted you his blessing, you should’ve left for home that day.”
“You begged me to stay,” Gwayne reminded him gently.
“And you should not have listened!” Daeron cried, his voice carrying through the sept. Tessarion stirred at the sound, lifting her head and blinking sleepily toward them. Daeron's face crumpled almost immediately. “If you had gone then…”
Gwayne shook his head as he trailed off. “Leaving you to this would’ve been the greatest regret of my life, whatever would’ve been left of it.”
Daeron reached out, seizing his hand so tightly the bone crunched.
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” Gwayne said. He pulled him to his chest and held him there, tracing shapes into his back the way he used to when Daeron was much smaller and would fall asleep in his arms. “Our families have become so blinded by greed and the promise of power that they have reduced us both to nothing but pawns trapped in their game. If there is any justice left in this world, they are the ones who will carry the shame of it.”
For a few minutes there was silence as Gwayne stroked his hair idly, studying the warm auburn. It was identical to Alicent’s, a true Hightower red. Not a trace of silver.
“There is another option,” Gwayne ventured carefully. “One that might bring you grief in the short term, but would ensure your survival.”
Daeron pulled back and frowned up at him, seemingly already aware of what Gwayne meant to propose. “Uncle–”
“Fly away on Tessarion. In the morning, when they bring her out to feed. Take her as close to Oldtown as you can get. You would have to leave her for good, of course, but we have family there who would take you in and raise you as a Hightower. No one would ever know.” He cupped Daeron’s cheek then. “You could claim to be my bastard, for all I care–”
“No,” Daeron said, drawing away from him with his jaw set. “Tessarion would never leave my side. I wouldn’t be able to hide, not with our bond. And it is as I told you before—I won’t leave my men.”
“You are still a boy,” Gwayne tried to reason, though he knew it was futile. “It’s Ormund who owes them loyalty, not you.”
Daeron shook his head stubbornly. “Then I won’t leave you.”
Gwayne let out a sigh, defeated. This was at least the fourth time he had presented some version of this plan to Daeron, though it was the first time it involved abandoning his beloved dragon. He should’ve known Daeron would reject it, but they were running out of time.
He stared into the candles for a long moment, watching the lights dance along the wall and over Tessarion’s scaled body. It had been weeks since he last prayed and he had no intention of starting again, no desire to appeal to any god who had abandoned them here to die. Somewhere back on that hopeless march with Criston he had realized, with startling clarity, that no one was really listening.
“I have already told Ormund I will remain by your side tomorrow,” Gwayne said, half under his breath. “I don’t plan to leave you until I have no other choice. I will do everything I can, Daeron, to–”
The words caught in his throat, the tears finally springing to his eyes.
“–to keep you from meeting this end.” Gwayne dropped his head in his hands, then, muffling a choked sob. “Otherwise I will have failed every promise I made to your mother.”
It was not the first time Daeron had witnessed him cry—he had never wanted the boy to feel ashamed to do so himself and didn’t see the point in ever concealing it. And so, instead of shrinking away with unease, Daeron slipped his hand into his and squeezed again.
“That’s not true. I remember every story you ever read to me. Every sword and riding lesson. Every scraped knee you cleaned on your own.” Daeron’s voice cracked. “Every time you stood between me and Ormund when he was blinded by his rage. As long as you were near, I knew he couldn’t touch me.”
“I was only doing what anyone would’ve–” Gwayne stopped himself, realizing.
“No one else did. Just you.” Daeron’s smile trembled. “I want you to remember that I was never afraid when I was with you. Tomorrow will be no different.”
Gwayne laughed softly through his tears as he reached up and smoothed a stray lock of Daeron's hair from his brow. Somewhere along the road from Oldtown to Tumbleton, the little boy he’d promised to protect had vanished. In his place sat a young man with more grace and courage than any of them deserved.
He pressed another kiss to Daeron’s head before rising to his feet.
“Fifteen more minutes,” Gwayne said, smiling faintly. Suddenly he was back with Daeron in Oldtown’s dragonpit, calling for him to come inside as the sun lowered. “Then you need to sleep.”
Daeron smiled back. “Twenty.”
Gwayne turned and climbed the steps from the sept and made his way to Corlys Velaryon’s cell, where he would make his final appeal.