Chapter Text
The Red Keep no longer smelled of power. It would smell of dried blood, of smoke, and of that strange silence that remains when a city has just changed hands.
It had been only two weeks since the black standards flew over the towers and Aegon II was forced to scape. Rhaenyra sat on the Iron Throne, but the victory had a bitter taste. Jace was dead in the Gullet. Luke had been dead for almost a year. And you... you were the only thing left of Harwin Strong's blood that still breathed within those walls.
You were standing in the chamber of the Tower of Maegor, facing your mother. She wore the black and red of her house, her silver hair tied back with severity, but her eyes betrayed her exhaustion. She had won the city and lost another son almost at the same time.
—"You can't stay," she said without preamble.
—"Mother..."
—"Jace is dead. Luke is dead. Aegon and Viserys are too young. You have no dragon." —Rhaenyra rose from the chair and approached. She took your face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed your cheekbones—. "You have your father's eyes. Brown. Warm. Too human for this place."
You clung to her wrists.
—"I can stay. I can help. I can..."
—"No." —Her voice trembled for only a second—. "I have already lost two. I will not lose you too. I will send you to Pentos, with your younger brothers. You will be safe there until this is over for good."
—"I don't want to leave."
Rhaenyra hugged you tightly. The smell of lavender and burnt iron enveloped you.
—"I love you too much to keep you here," she whispered against your hair—. "If anything happened to you... I couldn't bear it. Tonight. There is a ship waiting at the royal dock. You will travel without standards, without a large escort. No one has to know that you are my daughter."
Daemon was standing by the door. He said nothing. He only nodded when he looked at you. It was the way he had looked at you since you were six years old: as if you were truly his.
They separated you from her gently. Two guards in black escorted you through the corridors that still smelled of the city's capture. The sea wind hit your face as you stepped onto the dock. The ship was small, with gray sails. They helped you aboard without ceremony.
As the lights of King's Landing began to fade, you stood at the bow, watching them until they became tiny dots. Only then did you let the tears fall.
Three days of open sea.
You slept little. You ate less. The nausea wasn't just from the ship; it was from knowing that every mile that took you away from your mother was a mile closer to something you couldn't name. You spent hours staring at the black water, thinking of Jace, how he had hugged you the last time before leaving for the Gullet, the way he had said "take care, sister" as if he still believed you would both see each other again.
On the fourth night, the storm came.
The sky broke open suddenly. Rain fell in gray sheets. The ship shook like a toy. You were in the cabin when you heard the shouts. They weren't from the crew. They were from men climbing over the gunwales.
The first knock echoed against the door. The second shattered it.
Three of them entered. Green and white tabards. The Hightower.
One of them, a middle-aged man with a scar on his cheek, stopped short when he saw you. The torch trembled in his hand.
—"Wait..." —he murmured—. "I know her."
The other two looked at him.
—"What are you saying?"
—"I saw her in King's Landing. Years ago. At court. She was with the black queen when she was still just a princess. Brown hair, brown eyes... she's Rhaenyra's bastard. The Strong one."
They looked at you with different eyes. The man with the scar smiled with yellow teeth.
—"The black queen tried to hide her. What the hell."
You tried to draw the dagger you wore at your belt. They knocked it from your hand with a swipe. The blow to your temple made you see stars. When you caught your breath, you were already gagged, your wrists tied behind your back and your body being dragged across the wet deck.
The Hightower ship was larger. They pushed you into a narrow, dark cellar that smelled of rats and stagnant water. There you spent the rest of the night, listening to the lapping of the waves and the murmur of the soldiers above. The cold seeped into your bones. Hunger began to gnaw. You thought of your mother. If she had already found out. If Daemon had flown to look for you. If anyone had even realized the ship never reached Pentos.
At dawn, they took you out.
The landscape had changed. It was no longer the open sea. It was low hills, burned fields, the smell of ash that stuck to your throat. Tumbleton.
They mounted you behind a horse. A soldier held you by the waist with a thick arm. He didn't speak. He just tightened his grip when you tried to move. The road was full of green soldiers, carts, makeshift tents. The town had been taken recently; it was noticeable in the broken doors, in the frightened faces of the common people who clung to the walls as they passed.
The city was occupied. Green flags flew from every tower. Soldiers on every corner. They brought you down in front of a large stone house, almost a small castle, that dominated the square. Inside, the air was warm and heavy, full of male voices and the smell of wine and wet leather.
They pushed you to your knees in the middle of the main hall.
There was a man sitting behind a long table, frowning as he reviewed maps and letters. He wasn't particularly tall, but it was clear he was used to being listened to. He had perfectly combed brown hair despite the dust of the road, a carefully trimmed beard, and an expression of profound ill humor. A messenger had just left the room, and the tension still hung in the air.
When they dragged you before him, he looked up with irritation, as if you had interrupted something important.
You didn't recognize him immediately.
You only saw an elegant man, in clean clothes despite the war, with a dark green cape and a heavy ring on his finger. He had blue eyes, cold, and a way of looking at you that made you feel dirty just for existing. At one point, he took a small, worked silver sphere from his clothes, brought it to his nose, and inhaled sharply, as if the air in the room was intolerable to him. Afterward, he lowered it, but kept it between his fingers, turning it slowly.
The man with the scar stepped forward, puffed up with importance.
—"My lord... it's her. Rhaenyra's daughter. The Strong bastard. I recognized her. I saw her at court years ago. Brown hair, brown eyes... there's no doubt."
The man at the table froze. The blue eyes narrowed. For the first time since you entered, he really looked at you. Slowly. From top to bottom. The tangled, dirty hair. The shape of your face. The dress in tatters. And finally, your eyes.
The ill humor did not disappear. If anything, it became sharper, more personal.
—"Rhaenyra's daughter?" —he repeated, as if the words tasted bitter to him—. "The one with no dragon?"
He rose abruptly. The chair scraped back with a screech. He crossed the distance between you in three long strides and grabbed your chin with a rough hand, forcing you to lift your face. His thumb brushed the wound on your temple with little delicacy. He forced you to look him in the eyes.
—"Damn it..." —he muttered through his teeth—. "Just what I needed."
He let go of you suddenly, as if you had burned him. He took a step back and wiped his fingers on the fabric of his cloak with a barely disguised gesture of disgust.
—"To the dungeon, lock her up." —he ordered, his voice sharp—. "Let no one touch her. No one. If anyone comes closer than necessary, answer with your head."
He turned back to the men, already busy with the maps again, as if you had ceased to exist the same second he gave the order.
—"And clean this hall. It smells of blood and stupidity."
They lifted you by force. As they dragged you down the dark stone hallway, you heard his voice one last time, lower, almost to himself:
—"The black queen takes the capital... and I end up with her daughter in the basement. What a shitty irony."
Only then, as they were taking you down the dark stairs, the name settled in your head.
Ormund Hightower.
The Lord of Oldtown. The one with the largest army in the Reach. Alicent's cousin. The man who had raised Daeron as his own. And now he had you.
The cell was small. Three steps long, two wide. The floor was packed earth mixed with old straw that smelled of dampness and dried urine. There was no window. Only a thick oak door with a narrow hatch at eye level. The ceiling was low. The air was heavy. Every breath tasted of stone and abandonment.
They pushed you inside. The door slammed shut with a roar that resonated in your bones. You heard the sound of the key turning, the bolt falling, the footsteps of the guards walking away down the hall.
They left your hands tied in front of you. Your shoulder, where you'd been hit on the ship, throbbed. Your dress was in tatters. Your hair stuck to your face with sweat and dried blood. You sat against the farthest wall, your back against the cold stone, and closed your eyes.
You didn't know how much time passed. Hours. Maybe a whole day. Hunger began to gnaw at your stomach. Thirst was worse: your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, your throat burned. You tried to count the drips of water falling from the ceiling to keep from going mad. One. Two. Three. Until you lost count. You thought of your mother. The way she had hugged you for the last time, how she had said she loved you too much to keep you here. You thought of Jace, of his laugh. You thought of Luke. Of Daemon. Of whether anyone had yet realized the ship never arrived.
And you thought of that man's blue eyes when he looked at you. The way he wrinkled his nose when he smelled you. The silver sphere he brought to his face as if your very existence were an offense. The sharp voice when he ordered you taken to the dungeon without another glance.
Ormund Hightower.
Now you knew the name. And you knew, with a cold certainty that settled in your chest, that you would not leave that cell until he decided otherwise.