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Three dragons slept on the hills east of the camp, and the earth trembled with their breath. Even from half a league away, the heat rising from their bodies distorted the air, making the horizon wavering and unreal.
Silverwing, Vermithor, and Caraxes.
Ormund Hightower had read the reports of the bastards who had mounted dragons, so he fully expected their arrival. He was not at all surprised when an enormous shadow covered the plain and blotted out the sun overhead. He quickly signaled to the leader of the small detachment and climbed onto his own horse, spurring it on. Ten knights, a banner bearing a green tower, and a youth on a grey horse were beside him within a minute. The one who stood out most among them was a boy of about fourteen. He was indeed handsome: tall, slender, with silver hair pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of his neck, and pale, doe-like eyes. His hands in suede gloves convulsively gripped the reins, and his back was unnaturally straight—so straight that it seemed he held it upright by will alone.
"Do not tremble," Ormund said quietly, without turning his head. His voice was calm, like the water in a moat on a windless day. "Dragons sense fear. And Daemon does too."
The youth swallowed and tried to steady his breathing. He did poorly.
"I will not fail you, my lord," he whispered.
Ormund finally looked at him—a long, studying gaze that held neither warmth nor approval. Only cold calculation.
"I know," he agreed. "Because otherwise, your mother will lose her head before you have time to come to your senses."
The youth paled but nodded. He knew what he had agreed to when Lord Hightower offered him this role—a lifelong role that could end today. Son of a wealthy merchant from House Capwell, a distant relative of the Tarlys through the female line. The threat was enough to compel the boy to obey.
At the entrance to the royal pavilion, they were met by guards in black armor adorned with a three-headed dragon. Ormund and his knights were disarmed without ceremony—swift, routine, as if he were not a lord of a great house but an ordinary supplicant. Ormund himself was searched from shoulders to boots, and he endured it with the same stony expression with which he had once accepted insults at royal councils. But no sooner had they entered than the rogue prince met them at the entrance.
The prince consort looked exactly as the reports had described him—warlike. He was slightly past forty, but time seemed only to have sharpened his features without touching them with decay. His silver hair, pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck, gleamed in the sunlight like molten metal. His face—narrow, with sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose—held an expression of arrogant boredom, the kind common to men accustomed to getting everything on demand. His eyes—pale lilac, almost translucent—moved slowly, lazily, but Ormund knew this laziness was deceptive. Behind it lurked a mind as swift and merciless as a dagger thrust.
Daemon was clad in black velvet and black leather embroidered with crimson thread. A short cloak rested on his shoulders, fastened with a dragon brooch, and heavy rings glittered on his fingers—rubies, sapphires, obsidian.
"Lord Hightower," Daemon said, and his voice was lower than one might expect from a man of his build: deep, resonant, with a slight hoarseness. "The usurper is dead. The rightful queen now sits the throne. Kneel. Your refusal will be considered treason."
Ormund, after a brief hesitation, lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head. He had no desire to give Daemon satisfaction. The man would joyfully, in mad glee, without a second thought, atop his red beast, burn an army to ash in half an hour.
"My prince," Ormund said, not raising his eyes. "I pledge my fealty to Queen Rhaenyra and to you as her consort. I affirm my loyalty in word and deed and place my house, my lands, and all who are under my protection beneath your patronage."
Daemon did not answer at once. He regarded the kneeling lord with an expression of mild interest and obvious enjoyment.
"I did not expect you to bend the knee so easily," he said at last, with feigned disappointment. "The rumors about you were rather different."
"With all my prudence," Ormund replied, not altering his posture, "I understand that I cannot contend with three full-grown dragons, and my soldiers would least of all wish to burn alive."
Daemon laughed—short, hoarse, like the cawing of a raven.
"I like it, though it is a bit disappointing. Hand over my nephew and you may go to Oldtown, to live long and happily," Daemon answered dismissively, and his gaze turned to the youth standing beside Ormund. That gaze changed. The boredom left it. Something else appeared—something sharper, more intent.
"He will be a hostage?" Ormund did not ask but stated, with a bitter smile on his lips.
But Daemon was no longer paying him any attention.
"Raise your head, boy."
The youth obeyed. His face was pale but remained calm. The fear that had flickered in his eyes just minutes ago was now driven deep inside. Pale eyes met lilac ones, and a long, tense pause hung between them.
Daemon examined him the way one examines an expensive horse before purchase. The man extended a hand and touched his chin, tilting his face toward the light. His fingers were hot and dry, and his touch was firm, possessive. The youth did not recoil, though his Adam's apple twitched.
Daemon did not hide his interest, did not mask it with politeness. He scrutinized the youth with the frankness of a man accustomed to taking what he liked without asking permission.
"Fourteen years, is it?" Daemon said thoughtfully. "I have heard that you are clever and extremely skilled with a sword. That you know history and languages. That you are beautiful—this I can see for myself. What else can you do?"
The youth did not answer. His spine tensed, but his head remained raised. Ormund, standing nearby, did not stir. His face held an expression of stony calm.
"Cat got your tongue?" Daemon smirked and circled the youth, stopping in front of him. "No matter. That can be remedied."
He released the youth's chin and turned to Ormund.
"You have raised him well, Lord Hightower. I see that he is obedient. That is a valuable quality. Especially in young men with dragon blood in their veins—usually they are too willful and capricious."
"Daeron has always been an obedient boy," Ormund replied. His voice was level, dispassionate. "I put considerable effort into it."
"Daeron," Daemon repeated, tasting the name. "My nephew. You bear a resemblance to your mother. Particularly here." He touched a finger to the youth's forehead, tracing a line down to the bridge of his nose. "Alicent had the same line. And the same eyes—full of tears."
The youth was silent. His face was frozen, and his hands, hanging at his sides, trembled slightly.
Daemon stepped back and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. His gaze slid to Ormund—appraising, piercing—and his lips curved into a smirk.
"Lord Hightower, will you join us? Watch how your ward is treated with all the respect his blood deserves." He took the youth by the elbow and drew him toward the pavilion.
It was not an invitation. It was an order. Ormund bowed his head and followed them.
Inside, Daemon's pavilion proved to be luxurious, yet quite modest. It contained a low bed covered with black silk embroidered with red dragons, several high-backed chairs, braziers that gave off a heady heat, and a small table with wine and fruit. The air was heavy with incense—the sweet smoke of sandalwood mingled with something musky, animal, and in this haze, Daemon's face appeared older, sharper, more dangerous.
As soon as the flap fell behind them, cutting them off from the outside world, Daemon released the youth's elbow and turned to Ormund. His movements were unhurried, almost lazy, but in that laziness was the particular grace of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
"Wine, Lord Hightower?"
"Thank you, my prince."
Daemon poured two cups—one for Ormund, one for himself. He did not offer one to the youth. The wine was Dornish, dark and thick, and Ormund accepted the cup with a bow but did not take a single sip. He waited.
"Take a seat," Daemon gestured to a chair against the wall—a heavy one, with armrests carved like dragon heads. "Make yourself comfortable. Feel at home. After all, we are one family now."
The last words were laced with mockery, but Ormund pretended not to notice. He lowered himself into the chair, straight as a blade, placed the cup on the armrest, and folded his hands. His face was calm, impassive—a mask he had honed over decades of political games. But inside, beneath that mask, a cold, calculating mind was at work. He analyzed Daemon's every gesture, every intonation, every movement. And waited.
Daemon seemed to have forgotten about him. All his attention was now fixed on the youth standing in the center of the pavilion—lost, tense, with poorly concealed horror flickering in his eyes. That horror was genuine, and Ormund noted this with grim satisfaction. Good. If the boy is truly afraid, it is all the more convincing.
"Come closer," Daemon said, settling onto the edge of the bed. "Let me get a proper look at you."
The youth took a step forward. Then another. The light from the braziers played on his silver hair, making it shimmer like molten moonlight. In this light, he was beautiful—young, slender, with that particular fragility that so attracts men like Daemon. Ormund knew this. He had chosen the youth precisely for this—for the resemblance, for the beauty, for that tremor in the knees that so unerringly affected men accustomed to power.
"Take off your tunic," Daemon commanded.
The youth froze. His gaze darted to Ormund—instinctively, seeking support or at least guidance. Ormund gave a slight nod, not averting his eyes. Every second of this spectacle had to convince Daemon of the authenticity of what was happening.
"Do you seek permission from him?" Daemon intercepted the glance and smirked, shaking his head. "Here, I give the orders, boy. Get used to it. Your uncle no longer holds power over you."
Uncle.
The word hung in the air, and Ormund felt something cold and sharp stir in his chest. Not remorse—he had long since trained himself out of that feeling. Not fear—he was confident in his plan. It was something else—something dark, possessive, almost triumphant. Daemon called this youth his nephew. Daemon believed that before him stood Daeron Targaryen. And in that belief lay his weakness.
Slowly, as if overcoming the resistance of water, the youth raised his hands and began to unfasten the clasps of his tunic. His fingers trembled—good, very good—and the fabric slipped from his shoulders, baring his torso. Slender but muscular, with pale skin through which bluish veins were visible. Ormund ran his gaze over him and noted: there was a resemblance, but only superficial. The real Daeron had a scar on his left side—a mark from an old training accident, when he, at twelve, had attacked the captain of the guard too overconfidently and received a gash. This youth's skin was smooth. But Daemon did not know about the scar. No one knew, except Ormund himself and the real Daeron.
The thought of the real Daeron distracted him for a moment. Where was he now? In the camp, among the soldiers. With short hair dyed a dull red, in a simple squire's doublet. Two loyal knights stayed close, ready to spirit him away in case of danger. Ormund had personally instructed them. He had personally checked the dye the maester had prepared for the hair and applied to his nephew's silver locks.
Daemon, meanwhile, leaned forward and ran his palm over the youth's bare chest. His fingers—long, heavy with rings—slid over the collarbones, the sternum, the stomach. The gesture was proprietary, appraising. The way one touches expensive fabric before buying. The way one strokes a thoroughbred stallion.
"Beautiful," Daemon said thoughtfully, and his voice sounded low, almost intimate. "Very beautiful. Lord Hightower, you have done excellent work."
Ormund did not answer. He watched as a stranger's hands touched the body that should have belonged to Daeron. Watched as Daemon circled the youth, feeling his shoulders, back, waist, as if surveying territory before conquest. Watched as the prince consort's fingers slid along the line of his spine, making the youth flinch.
And in this moment, in this humiliating spectacle, Ormund felt a strange, perverse pleasure. Not from the spectacle itself—it aroused in him only cold revulsion. But from the realization that Daemon, with all his dragons, with all his power, with all his legendary cunning, had been caught. Like a boy. Like a simpleton.
The youth whimpered when Daemon's fingers squeezed his buttocks—roughly, without warning. Ormund did not look away. He continued to watch, and his face, he hoped, bore an expression of sorrowful submission. But inside him, another voice sounded—cold, mocking, triumphant.
The real Daeron is safe now. He is in a plain tent among the camp followers, watching with a haughty expression as soldiers discuss the capture of the prince and the weakness of their lord, and likely cursing Ormund for making him cut and dye his hair.
"Undress completely," Daemon commanded.
The youth hesitated only a second. Then his hands went to his belt. His breeches fell to the floor, followed by his smallclothes, and he stood naked in the center of the pavilion. He was well-built, this youth, with narrow hips and long legs—in build he indeed resembled Daeron. Ormund had chosen him for this, among other things.
"Turn to me."
The youth turned. His eyes were wide, and there were tears in them. Genuine tears. Ormund knew the youth was not pretending. He was truly frightened. He was truly pained by the humiliation. But Lord Hightower felt no regret. He had coerced this boy and deliberately concealed what he might face. The appetites of the rogue prince were known to all the court.
Besides, Ormund thought with cold pragmatism, he will sleep with the prince consort, not with a dragon. That is not fatal. Humiliating, but not fatal.
"Closer," Daemon said.
The youth came close. Now they stood face to face—the prince consort and the false prince—and Daemon, not taking his eyes off him, placed a palm on the back of his head and pulled him close. Their lips met.
The kiss was long. Deep. Demanding. Daemon kissed the way he did everything in his life—with full commitment, with absolute authority. His fingers buried themselves in the youth's silver hair, gripping it, guiding his head. The boy let out a pitiful moan, feeling a foreign tongue in his throat, but did not pull away.
When Daemon finally pulled back, there was fire in his eyes. Real fire—the kind Ormund had seen in men who had gotten their hands on coveted prey.
"On your knees," he said.
The youth lowered himself. His knees touched the carpet—Myrish, with a thick pile—and Daemon, not taking his eyes off him, began to unfasten his own belt. He did not hurry. Each movement was calculated for an audience—for the sole audience member sitting in the chair against the wall.
Ormund watched. His face remained impassive, but blood pounded in his temples, and that pounding echoed in his ears in a dull, measured rhythm. He thought about how strange the world was. A month ago, he had held the real Daeron in his arms—had felt his trembling, his heat, his desperate, hungry love. A few days ago, he himself had been the one to receive that youthful passion—coldly, calculatingly, but still received it. And now he sat in the enemy's pavilion and watched as another youth played the role of his nephew, and another man did what should have belonged only to him.
Daemon, meanwhile, had freed himself from his clothes. His body—still strong, despite his years, covered with scars from countless battles—gleamed in the light of the braziers. He was aroused. His flesh, bare and hard, pointed at the youth kneeling before him.
And then he turned his head to Ormund.
"Watch, Lord Hightower," he said. His voice was low, hoarse with desire, but it also held mockery—that particular, cruel mockery of a victor over the vanquished. "Watch your ward. I want you to see how he serves his new master."
Ormund raised his eyes. He met Daemon's gaze and did not look away. This was part of his role—the role of a humiliated lord forced to endure while preserving his dignity. He watched as Daemon placed his palm on the back of the youth's head and guided it toward his groin. Watched as the youth's lips parted, accepting him. Watched as the boy gagged but continued—because there was no choice.
And in that very moment, looking into Daemon's triumphant eyes, Ormund was thinking of something else.
He was thinking of that morning when the real Daeron had sat at his feet for the last time. It had been only three days ago—three days that seemed an eternity. Daeron had been quiet and pensive then, and Ormund, noticing his mood, asked what was wrong.
"What if Daemon finds out? What if he realizes you deceived him?"
"He will not realize," Ormund had answered. "He sees what he wants to see. All men are made that way, and Daemon—especially so. He wants to see a humiliated enemy and a pretty boy he can use. He will see both."
"He will burn you if the boy lets something slip, uncle," Daeron had remarked bitterly, lowering his gaze. Ormund knew that what bothered his nephew was not so much the humiliation of having to pretend to be a squire. It was something else.
Daeron worried too much about him, though he did not want to admit it. He did not like the plan.
"The boy will not let anything slip."
"And what if Daemon demands... proof?"
"Proof of what? That you are a Targaryen?" Ormund had smirked. "Daemon will not check. Why would he doubt? He will see the silver locks and forget everything else. You are the trophy he so craves."
Daeron was silent for a moment, digesting what he had heard. Then he asked—quietly, with that particular intonation Ormund had learned to recognize over these months:
"And that youth? The one who will take my place? What will happen to him?"
"He will do his duty. As you do yours."
"That is not an answer."
"That is the only answer I can give."
Daeron raised his eyes to him, and there was something in them that Ormund had not seen before. Not judgment—Daeron never judged him. Not anger—Daeron had long since stopped being angry with him. It was something else. Understanding. A bitter, adult understanding of how the world they lived in worked.
"I will do whatever you say," he said at last.
"I know," Ormund had answered. "That is precisely why you are still alive."
Now, in Daemon's pavilion, those words rose in his memory with particular clarity. That is precisely why you are still alive. Because Ormund was ready to sacrifice anyone—the other youth, his reputation, his pride, his own life—to preserve the life of the real Daeron.
Daemon groaned—low, guttural. His hips moved rhythmically, driving his flesh into the youth's throat, and the boy accepted it, shuddering with his whole body. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with saliva, and Ormund watched this with the same expression of sorrowful submission he had worn from the very beginning.
Daemon pulled back, breathing heavily. The youth coughed, gasping for air, and the prince consort, looking down at him, smirked.
"Good," he said. "Very good. You have a talent, nephew. Lord Hightower, you should be proud—your ward is excellently trainable."
Ormund bowed his head, accepting the mockery as praise.
"Thank you, Your Highness," he said, and his voice was level, dispassionate. "I strove to raise him in respect for his elders."
Daemon laughed—hoarsely, contentedly. Then he bent down, lifted the youth from his knees, and pushed him onto the bed. The boy fell onto the black silk, arms flung wide, and Daemon loomed over him, bracing a knee on the edge of the mattress.
"And now," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper, "let us continue our acquaintance."
He turned the youth onto his stomach. The boy did not resist—he lay with his face buried in the pillow, his shoulders trembling. Daemon ran his palms over his back, over his buttocks, parting them, and the youth let out a quiet sob.
"Oil," Daemon threw over his shoulder, and Ormund realized it was addressed to him. "There, on the table. Bring it."
This was the final humiliation. To make a lord of a great house serve—not as a vassal, but as a servant. Ormund rose, took the vial of oil from the table, and approached the bed. He extended the vial to Daemon—the prince did not take it, merely held out his palm. Ormund poured the oil onto the prince consort's fingers and returned to his place.
And as he walked back—four steps, no more—he thought about how easy it would be to kill Daemon right now. No weapon. No dragon. Simply come up behind him while he was engrossed in a young body and snap his neck. Or strangle him. Or smash a jug and drive a shard into his throat.
But he did not do it. Not because he was afraid, but because it was not part of the plan. Without Daemon, outside there awaited two enraged, enormous dragons, which Daeron, with all his desire, could not contend with. Tessarion was a strong and deadly she-dragon, but still very young. Ormund was delaying in every possible way the moment his nephew would have to enter battle.
Daemon, meanwhile, prepared the youth—quickly, without much gentleness. The boy lay clutching the sheets, quietly moaning from pain and shame. Then the prince consort positioned himself from behind and entered him with one sharp thrust.
The youth cried out—short, stifled, as if his throat had been blocked. His body tensed, arched, but Daemon did not let him escape. He bore down from above, pressing him into the mattress, and began to move—slowly, deeply, with that particular, cruel steadiness that spoke of years of experience.
Ormund watched. He watched as the youth's body shuddered with each thrust. Watched as his fingers scrabbled at the silk, crumpling the dragon embroidery. Watched as Daemon leaned down and bit his shoulder—not in a fit of passion, but coldly, calculatedly, leaving a mark.
The real Daeron had never been so pliant. Even when Ormund took him—even when he himself had begged for it—there had always been a core in him. Some inner defiance that did not vanish even in moments of total surrender. The man had felt it beneath his fingers—that trembling, that heat, that silent challenge.
This youth was different. He had surrendered completely. Perhaps because he was not a Targaryen. Perhaps because he was simply a boy following orders. Perhaps because he lacked that inner fire that distinguishes a true dragon from a counterfeit.
Daemon did not notice this. He saw the silver hair and the pale eyes and thought he saw a dragon. But dragons do not weep into pillows. Dragons do not tremble at a single touch. Dragons burn.
His Daeron burned. Even now, when Lord Hightower had forced him to cut his hair and wear another's armor, even now, when he hid among the camp followers like a rat—even now, he burned.
"Look at Lord Hightower, boy."
The youth did not immediately understand what was required of him. He lay on his stomach, face buried in crumpled black silk, and his entire being was focused on enduring. Enduring the weight of a foreign body pressing him into the mattress. Enduring the rhythmic, deep thrusts that made sparks flash before his eyes. Enduring a humiliation he thought he would never be able to forget.
Daemon's fingers tightened in the foreign hair—long, silver, just like the real prince's—and yanked back, forcing his head up. The boy cried out—not so much from pain as from surprise—and his gaze, clouded with tears, darted around the pavilion until it found the sole spectator.
"There we are," Daemon whispered, and his breath seared the youth's ear. He slowed his movements, making them almost lazy, stretching out the moment, savoring every second. "Look at him. Do not avert your eyes. I want you to see his face when I take you like a common whore."
The youth looked. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with sweat, and he could not stop them. He saw how Ormund's knuckles, gripping the armrests of the chair, had gone white. Saw how the sinews on his cheekbones had tensed—the only thing betraying his feelings. Saw how his eyes, those pale, cold eyes that once held only calculation, were now filled with something dark. Something that resembled pain.
"Do you see him?" Daemon continued, twisting a lock of hair around his fist. His hips moved in the same rhythm—slowly, deeply, with a force that lifted the youth on the sheets. "Do you see how helpless he is? How he can do nothing? He sits there watching as I fuck his beloved nephew, and he can do nothing—nothing, boy—about it."
The youth sobbed. He wanted to turn away, to hide his face, but Daemon held him firmly, not allowing him to escape the sight. Ormund's eyes—empty, terrible in their stillness—drew him in and repelled him at the same time.
"Do you know why?" Daemon leaned lower, his lips nearly touching the boy's ear. His voice dropped to a whisper—intimate, mocking. "Because he has nothing. He sold you for his own safety. He sold you because he decided you were not worth fighting for."
He made a particularly sharp thrust, and the youth moaned—loudly, obscenely, unable to restrain himself. His fingers scrabbled at the sheets, and he saw something twitch in Ormund's face at that sound. Saw the emptiness vanish for an instant and fury break through.
"Tell him," Daemon commanded. "Tell him how good it feels. Tell your uncle that you no longer belong to him."
"I..." the youth began, but his voice broke, turning into a strangled rasp. "I belong to Daemon Targaryen."
Daemon laughed—quietly, with satisfaction—and quickened his pace. His breathing became rapid, erratic, and he groaned—low, guttural, almost bestial. The youth beneath him was no longer crying out—only whimpering quietly, his face buried in the pillow, his body mechanically responding to the thrusts.
"I must thank you, Lord Hightower," Daemon breathed, not ceasing his movements. "For raising such an obedient... such a beautiful boy."
Ormund was silent. He looked into Daemon's eyes—those pale lilac, almost translucent eyes, now clouded with lust and triumph—and thought that before him was a man who considered himself the victor. Who was certain he had broken his enemy. Who had no suspicion that the enemy had already outplayed him.
Daemon's movements became sharp, erratic. He threw his head back, and his throat tensed, baring the line of veins.
Daemon came with a hoarse, drawn-out moan. His body tensed, then went limp, and he collapsed onto the youth, pinning him to the bed. For a few seconds he lay motionless, breathing heavily, then rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling of the pavilion. His chest heaved, sweat glistened on his brow, and his lips curved into a satisfied, sated smirk.
The youth did not move. He lay on his stomach, face buried in the crumpled pillow, his back trembling faintly. Red marks from Daemon's fingers were visible on his thighs. A darkening bruise bloomed on his neck. He looked broken.
"You are free to go, Lord Hightower," Daemon said, not turning his head. His voice was lazy, relaxed. "Return to your tower and live in peace."
Ormund rose. His legs had gone numb from sitting so long in one position, but he did not allow himself to sway. He straightened his cuirass, adjusted his cloak, and bowed his head in a farewell gesture.
"As you command, Your Highness."
He moved toward the exit. Passing by the bed, he let his gaze linger on the youth for a moment. The boy lay as motionless as before, but now his eyes were open. He was looking at Ormund—not with reproach, not with entreaty, just looking. His gaze held emptiness.
Ormund gave a barely perceptible nod—a gesture that could mean anything: gratitude, farewell, a promise. Then he pushed back the flap and stepped outside.
Cold air struck his face, and he took a deep breath, clearing his lungs of the sweet incense smoke. Daemon's guards parted, letting him through, and he passed through their ranks with the same stony expression he had worn inside the pavilion.
Only when he was in the saddle and his knights surrounded him, cutting him off from prying eyes, did he allow himself to exhale. His face, which moments ago had been a mask of sorrowful submission, contorted for an instant—but not with grief. With a fierce, triumphant grin.
He had outwitted Daemon Targaryen. He had given him a false dragon, preserving the real one. And now, while the prince consort amused himself with a counterfeit, the real Daeron was safe, in the heart of the Hightower war camp, dressed in a squire's armor and with hair the color of dark copper.
Ormund spurred his horse and rode away from Daemon's pavilion—toward that part of the camp where, under the vigilant watch of two loyal knights, the true prince waited. The one for whom he had just endured this spectacle. The one for whom he was ready to endure far more. Far more, if the Gods demanded it.
Ormund dismounted at the picket line, tossed the reins to a groom who ran up, and without a word, headed deeper into the camp. Knights he encountered along the way silently parted before him. No one dared voice any objection aloud.
He passed rows of tents, skirted the smithy, walked past the supply wagons, and stopped before an inconspicuous tent at the far end of the camp—grey, patched, no different from dozens of others. Only the two fully armed knights standing at the entrance betrayed that someone important was within.
"Dismissed," Ormund threw out, without slowing his stride. "Both of you. Wait by the fire."
The knights exchanged glances but did not argue. They bowed and melted into the throng of the camp, among the other men, leaving the lord alone before the tent flap.
Ormund stopped. For the first time in this endless day, he allowed himself a pause—a brief one, the length of an inhale, an exhale. He stood and looked at the coarse fabric that separated him from the one for whom he had just trampled his pride, his honor. Then he pushed the flap aside and entered.
It was dark inside. Only an oil lamp burned on a camp table, casting a trembling circle of light. In that circle, sitting cross-legged on a camp bed, was a youth. His short, dull-red hair was pulled back and plaited into a small braid. His face, usually haughty and capricious, was now pale and haggard. He was dressed in a simple dark green doublet—the colors of House Hightower—and the dark leather breeches of a squire.
But when he raised his eyes to the man who had entered, Ormund saw what neither dye, nor another's clothes, nor the darkness could conceal. A violet gleam. That same, unmistakable gleam belonging to only one person in this camp.
"Uncle..."
Daeron's voice was hoarse, cracked. He had not slept. He had sat in the tent, listening to every sound from outside. He knew he was not supposed to join battle, but his hands trembled with anticipation. Daeron thirsted for combat, his heart demanded victories, he waited impatiently for the moment he could mount Tessarion and burn the traitors to ash.
Ormund answered nothing. He took a step forward, then another. His hand rose and touched the youth's cheek—cautiously, almost reverently, as if he did not believe he was real. Fingers slid over a cheekbone, along the jawline, burrowed into the short hair. And only then, feeling the living warmth beneath his palm, did he exhale—a long, ragged exhale that seemed to draw from his chest all the air that had gathered there in the past hours.
"My boy," he whispered. "Mine."
"I thought..." Daeron began, but his voice broke. "I thought you would not come. I thought something had gone wrong. I heard... I heard the soldiers talking about the dragons. About how cruel Daemon is. I thought..."
"Hush."
Ormund sank to his knees before the bed—Lord Hightower, ruler of Oldtown, first among equals in the Reach, knelt in a dirty tent before a dyed-haired youth in squire's garb. And it was the most natural movement of his life.
He took Daeron's face in his hands—rough, calloused from the sword, still trembling from what he had endured—and drew him close. Their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled.
"Everything went as it had to," he said quietly. "Daemon believed. He... accepted the gift."
Daeron flinched. He knew what that "accepted" meant. Knew what was happening right now to the youth who had taken his place. Knew the price another person was paying for his safety. And at that knowledge, his face contorted—with pain, guilt, shame.
"I should be there," he whispered. "It should have been my burden. Not his. Mine."
"No," Ormund cut him off, and his voice hardened. "You should be here. Alive. Free. Safe. That is the only thing that matters."
"But he—"
"He did his duty, as you are doing yours." Ormund ran his thumb along the youth's cheek. "And when all this is over, he will receive his reward. His family will receive their reward. I will see to it."
Something—whether the exhaustion that had washed over him after hours of tension, or a need deeper than the carnal—made him move differently. Slowly, carefully, he bent his head and laid it on the youth's knees.
Daeron froze. He had not expected this. In all the years he had known this man—since as long as he could remember, from his earliest childhood memories of strong hands tossing him into the air, to that night by the hearth when everything changed—he had never, not once, seen his uncle like this. Vulnerable.
Ormund lay with his head on his knees, and his face seemed ten years older. Wrinkles Daeron had not noticed before furrowed his brow and the corners of his mouth. Deep shadows had settled beneath his eyes, and his half-closed lids trembled—whether from weariness or from something else the youth could not name.
"Uncle..." Daeron whispered.
"Be quiet," Ormund answered. But there was no command in his voice. Only a quiet, almost humble plea. "Just... just let me stay like this. A little while."
Daeron looked down at him, and his heart was torn by conflicting feelings. This man had just sold another youth, given him to Daemon to be ravaged, traded someone else's life and someone else's body for safety—Daeron's safety. This man had sat and watched as a stranger raped the one he thought was his nephew, and had not lifted a finger. This man was cruel, calculating, merciless—with everyone but him.
For him, he was ready to do anything.
And that thought, terrifying and intoxicating all at once, made Daeron's fingers tremble. He raised his hand and carefully, almost shyly, touched his uncle's hair. The youth let the dark, coarse strands, already touched with grey at the temples, slip through his fingers—slowly, tenderly—and Ormund made a sound like a sigh. Not a groan. Not a word. Just an exhale, long and ragged, in which the tension of many hours dissolved.