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The sun was sinking toward the horizon, flooding Lord Hightower's chambers with liquid gold, but Ormund paid it no mind. He stood at the table, his fists braced heavily against it, staring down at a map covered in markings that tracked the movements of enemy forces. The news from King's Landing had arrived an hour ago, and ever since, the air in the room had thickened into something close to the charged stillness of a storm-sky before the thunder breaks.
Daeron stood in the corner, as befitted a good squire, and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. He had learned that skill long ago — how to make himself invisible when his uncle was in such a state. All his attention was fixed on that broad back, on the rise and fall of those shoulders.
The silence rang like a struck bell.
Then Ormund straightened abruptly. His hand shot toward the goblet at the edge of the table — a heavy, golden thing studded with rubies. With a guttural, bestial snarl, he hurled it at the wall. The goblet crashed into the stonework with a deafening clang, leaving a deep dent, and rolled across the floor, spilling dark-red wine that looked horribly like blood.
Daeron flinched, his whole body jerking. His heart missed a beat, then lodged itself somewhere in his throat. It felt as if the echo of that crash was still reverberating inside his ribs.
"The Queen of Bastards!" Ormund's voice was low and terrible. He was not shouting, yet every word fell with the weight of a hammer-blow. "She has seized the Red Keep, and my dear cousin assisted her in every possible way!"
At that moment, the door cracked open, and a young servant — a boy even younger than Daeron — slipped in with a tray, sent to replace the candles. He froze on the threshold, taking in the sight of the enraged lord. That single heartbeat of hesitation was all it took. Ormund wheeled on him, his face twisting into a mask of pure fury.
"Get out!" he roared, so loudly that the candle flames shivered. "Out, before I break your legs!"
The servant went pale, dropped the tray with a clatter, and vanished through the door faster than a breath could leave his lungs. Daeron watched it all with his eyes wide open. He could feel his fingers trembling, and he squeezed them together behind his back with all his strength, trying to still the shaking. He hated these outbursts. They frightened him to the point of nausea, to the point of tears burning behind his eyes, because he never knew whether he would be the next target — whether Ormund's rage would turn upon him.
The room fell quiet again, but it was a different kind of silence — a ringing, dangerous one. The man wiped his palm across his face, let out a slow breath, and seemed, at last, to remember his nephew's presence. He turned around.
Daeron froze. Ormund was looking at him, and the anger in his eyes was slowly dying, replaced by something else — that expression which frightened the boy even more than the shouting. A heavy, grasping scrutiny. The man started toward him. His steps were slow and measured, yet to Daeron they seemed to shake the floor. With every step his uncle took, Daeron's own breathing grew shallower and more ragged.
"Forgive me, my boy," Ormund's voice had gone almost soft, but that softness raised goosebumps all along Daeron's skin. "These fools drive me to distraction. Don't be afraid."
He stopped directly in front of his squire, looming like a thunderhead, and Daeron had to crane his neck just to see his face. His uncle was a head and a half taller and twice as broad. The man invaded his space, robbing him of air, filling every inch of it with himself. And then he reached out a hand.
A wide palm, still hot from the recent burst of fury, came to rest on the prince's shoulder. Even through the fabric of his doublet, Daeron felt that heat, and his muscles tensed involuntarily. He did not know what to expect. A shove of anger? A strangling grip? Or...
Ormund's fingers slid higher, up along his neck, and stopped at his chin, holding it firmly in place. The Lord of Hightower leaned down, forcing the boy to meet his eyes — that cold blue, still rippling with the aftershocks of the storm. A thumb swept across his cheekbone, the touch almost possessive. Ormund studied his face, noting every detail: the pupils blown wide with fear, the damp gleam in his eyes, the lips bitten bloody.
"You're trembling," he stated, and Daeron caught in his voice a strange, twisted satisfaction. "My sweet, innocent boy. Do I truly frighten you so much?"
Daeron wanted to shake his head, to say no, to offer the familiar lie that was expected of him. But the words stuck in his throat. Because his uncle chose that moment to cradle his face in both hands — carefully, almost tenderly, yet so firmly that escape was impossible. His palms were rough from constant training; Daeron could feel the calluses on the pads of his fingers, scratching lightly at his skin, leaving faint traces. He could feel the pulse hammering in his temples, Ormund's uneven breath against his face, and the smell of him — steel, leather, and sour wine.
"Look at yourself," Ormund whispered, and his thumb traced the line of Daeron's cheekbone, almost gently. "Targaryen blood runs in your veins. Cursed blood."
Daeron went still. His heart clenched with a familiar, well-learned pain. He had heard this before, but each time his uncle's words drove deeper, finding the one wound in his soul that would never fully heal. It felt as though he could physically sense something inside him cracking, like a brittle twig under a heavy boot.
"You know what they were like, don't you?" Ormund continued, not releasing his face, forcing him to hold his gaze. "Your ancestors perished in their own madness, devouring themselves from within. That rot is in your blood, Daeron. You feel it, don't you? You are afraid of yourself."
Daeron exhaled shakily. His lips trembled. He wanted to scream that it wasn't true, wanted to tear himself free, but he could not. He did not dare. Because somewhere deep inside, in that dark corner of his soul he so hated, he believed every word. Believed that he was tainted. That he was dangerous. That he needed to be saved. And that belief pressed down on his chest like a slab of stone.
"And your mother?" Ormund's voice hardened, and his fingers tightened slightly on the boy's face. "Alicent betrayed your brother. Betrayed Aegon. She chose the Usurper over her own blood. She is corrupt, Daeron. Everything she touches, she ruins. And you are her son. You carry her weakness within you. Her sin."
The tears broke free at last. Hot and searing, they spilled down Daeron's pale cheeks, and he could not stop them. They flowed without pause, gathering at his chin, dripping onto the collar of his doublet. A sob tore from his throat — quiet and pitiful, like the whimper of a beaten pup. It hurt — not his body, but something far, far deeper. As though his uncle had reached into his chest, pulled out his heart, and was squeezing it in his fist.
Ormund fell silent, gazing down at him. His eyes gleamed — not with anger, no. With something darker and more dangerous. His chest rose and fell more rapidly; his breathing deepened, as though the sight of those tears, of that brokenness, nourished something in him, filled him with an intoxicating sense of power. A dark, forbidden arousal spread through his body in a thick, hot wave. Yes. This. This was how he wanted the boy always. Broken. Trembling. Needing him and only him.
"But I will save you," Ormund whispered, and his voice turned soft and enveloping, like velvet wrapped around a sharp blade. "I will cleanse you of this filth. You understand that, don't you, Daeron? Only I can."
Daeron sobbed again. The truth and the lie in his uncle's words had tangled so tightly together that he could no longer tell one from the other. He felt as though he were drowning — and the only hand reaching for him in the darkness was Ormund's. He knew that hand could strike. He knew it dealt out pain. But there was no other salvation. Ormund was the only one who had always been there for him. Not his father, rotting alive and forgetful of his very existence. Not his mother, mired in courtly intrigues. Only his uncle.
And in that moment, looking up through the veil of tears at the hard, commanding face of the Lord of Hightower, he suddenly felt a wild, desperate longing kindle inside him. Not merely to accept the touch — but to return it. To lift his own hand and brush that rough cheek, to feel the warmth of skin and the scrape of stubble beneath his fingers. To prove to himself that tenderness was possible. That if he were good enough, obedient enough, he might one day receive not wrath but approval. Not a blow but a touch akin to a father's. The very touch Ormund gave his own sons. His fingers twitched, still clasped behind his back — he imagined it so vividly that it hurt. A physical ache born of impossibility, of the chasm between longing and deed.
Ormund noticed. His lips curved into a knowing smile, almost tender, almost kind, but triumph danced in his eyes. He lingered only a moment, savoring that tipping point — the moment the boy stopped resisting and began reaching toward his tormentor. And then he gave in to the impulse.
He leaned down, and their foreheads touched. Skin to skin. Their heated breath mingled. Daeron went still, holding his breath, and his heart — which had only just been clenching with pain — skipped a beat, then began pounding with renewed force. This contact was what he had been craving without realizing it. A simple touch that held neither rage nor threat. Only warmth. Only closeness. And his consent, his silent capitulation, was sweeter to Ormund than any victory.
Slowly, giving Daeron time to fully understand what was happening, to feel every heartbeat echoing in his temples, Ormund closed the final distance and pressed their lips together. Lightly at first — almost weightlessly, merely tasting, merely gliding across the surface of his mouth. The boy's lips were warm and soft, salted with shed tears, and that flavor — bitterness and surrender — Ormund drank in with a greed he had not expected of himself. Daeron shuddered from head to toe, his breath catching on a convulsive sob. His fingers, still locked behind his back, went white with strain. He could feel the heat from Ormund's lips spreading through his body — down his neck, into his chest, into his belly — and the sensation was so alien, so wrong, that his head began to spin.
The fear returned abruptly — thick and suffocating — and Daeron exhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes flying open. He jerked backward, planting his palms against his uncle's chest, pouring all his meager strength into the motion. The fabric of the doublet under his fingers was coarse and warm, and he could feel Ormund's heart beating beneath it — strong, measured blows. He tried to pull away, to break a contact that was wrong and terrifying. But the man did not allow it. His hands, still cradling Daeron's face, tightened their grip — not roughly, but inexorably — fixing the boy's head in place. His thumbs rested on his cheekbones; the rest of his fingers curved around his jaw and the back of his skull, forming a cage with no exit.
"Shhh," he breathed directly against Daeron's lips, and the sound was almost soothing, almost tender. His breath — hot, mingled with the boy's own — settled on his skin in a damp warmth. "Don't run from me. Not now."
And before Daeron could protest, before he could even begin to comprehend what was happening, Ormund tilted his head to a more favorable angle and deepened the kiss.
His tongue — hot, commanding — slid along the boy's sealed lips. Not demanding. Insisting. He traced them once, twice, smearing away the remnants of tears. Daeron's lips trembled, still resisting, still pressed into a thin line, but Ormund was patient. He ran his tongue over them once more, more insistently, nudging into the seam between them, and at last they yielded — not because the boy wanted it, but because he had no strength left to resist. And then Ormund's tongue slid inside, filling his mouth.
Daeron gasped for air. The sensation was overwhelming — a hot, wet invasion that took up all the space, pushing out all the air, all thought. His uncle's tongue moved slowly, exploring. It swept over his teeth first, then went deeper — to the soft, sensitive palate — and when it made contact, a shiver coursed through Daeron's body. It was something new. Something he had no name for. He felt warmth pooling low in his belly, against his will, against his fear, and that terrified him even more.
Ormund tasted Daeron — his tears, his fear, his weakness — and that taste was more intoxicating than any wine. Every movement was deliberate, possessive. The warmth of Daeron's mouth, its wetness, its pliancy — Ormund absorbed every detail, and his breathing grew heavier, faster. He felt arousal — dark, burning — spreading through him, concentrating in his groin. And, yielding to an inner impulse, he rocked his hips forward — not hard, but quite unmistakably — letting the boy feel his desire.
Daeron choked. His fingers, still pressed against his uncle's chest, twisted the fabric of the doublet in a desperate, helpless grip. He could not breathe — only through his nose, pulling in air in panicked bursts, air that was saturated with Ormund's scent. He could not think — his thoughts scattered like startled birds. His entire being had narrowed to that single point of contact — the wet, hot, devastating invasion that felt at once like a punishment and a reward. His head was spinning. And when Ormund's tongue slid particularly deep, brushing a sensitive spot at the very back of his throat, while his fingers simultaneously stroked the boy's cheekbones in an almost tender caress, a sound escaped Daeron's lips. A quiet, choked moan — unexpected even to himself — that was swallowed up directly into his uncle's mouth.
Ormund heard it. He felt that moan vibrate through their joined mouths. And his eyes, which had been watching the boy's face all this while with a frightening, predatory intensity, darkened with pleasure. He swallowed that moan, drawing it into himself, and rewarded Daeron for that involuntary response with an especially deep, lingering stroke of his tongue, one that left no doubt — he would not stop until the boy forgot that he had ever tried to pull away. Until he understood that there was nowhere to run. That he already belonged to him — entirely, utterly, down to the very last, choked breath.